Death is coming

The camera fades in slowly, almost reluctantly, as if even the lens itself hesitates to intrude upon what lies ahead. A quiet farm stretches across the outskirts of Bratislava, Slovakia, wrapped in a blanket of pale morning fog that clings stubbornly to the earth. The horizon is muted, colors washed in gray and silver, as though the world itself has not yet decided whether it wishes to wake.

The distant hum of wind brushes through tall grass, bending it in slow, deliberate waves. Chickens wander aimlessly through the yard, pecking at the damp soil, unaware of the looming presence that dominates the space. Somewhere in the distance, a rusted gate creaks softly, swaying with the breeze.

And then—

THUNK... THUNK... THUNK...

The sound cuts through the stillness like a blade through flesh. Heavy. Violent. Unforgiving.

Each strike echoes across the land, reverberating through the fog, through the soil, through the bones of anyone who dares to listen.

Standing beside a massive, weathered chopping block is the monstrous figure of Damien "The Executioner" Kostich.

At seven-foot-six, he is not merely tall—he is overwhelming. His presence distorts the space around him, as though reality itself bends to accommodate his size. His pale skin is marred by scars that tell stories no one dares to ask about. His face, hardened and jagged, carries the weight of violence etched into every line. His piercing gray eyes are cold, distant—eyes that have seen too much and felt too little.

Sweat glistens across his bald head, rolling down the ridges of muscle that define his neck and shoulders. Each movement is deliberate, controlled, yet filled with an underlying brutality that threatens to erupt at any moment.

He raises the axe again.

THUNK.

The blade buries itself deep into another log, splitting it cleanly in two. The wood cracks apart as if surrendering, unable to withstand the force behind the strike.

Beside him stands his wife, Eliška Kostich.

In stark contrast to Damien’s monstrous presence, Eliška is composed, poised, and eerily calm. Her posture is straight, her expression unreadable. She does not flinch at the violence unfolding inches away from her. Instead, she watches with quiet understanding, as though she has long since accepted the nature of the man beside her.

Her eyes occasionally drift toward the camera, acknowledging its presence without fear.

Damien exhales slowly, his breath visible in the cold morning air.

Damien: "Smrť... prichádza pre všetkých..."

THUNK.

The axe falls again, splitting another piece of wood with brutal precision.

Eliška: "Death comes for everyone."

Her voice is calm, steady, almost soothing—yet the words carry a weight that lingers.

Damien pauses for a moment, gripping the axe handle tightly. His knuckles whiten as his fingers tighten around the wood. He tilts his head slightly, as if listening to something only he can hear.

Damien: "AWS... Monday Night Ward... číslo tristo šesťdesiat šesť... Taipei Death Match."

Without warning, he drops the axe and reaches down, grabbing a thick log with both hands. With a guttural growl, he tears it apart—splintering it down the middle with raw, unnatural strength. The pieces fall to the ground with a dull thud.

Eliška: "AWS Monday Night Ward, episode 366. A Taipei Death Match."

She steps slightly closer to the camera now, her presence becoming more prominent, though she never overshadows the towering figure behind her.

Damien rolls his shoulders, the muscles shifting beneath his skin like something alive. His breathing grows heavier, more deliberate.

Damien: "Jamal Payne... 'Freight Train.'"

He spits into the dirt, the gesture filled with disdain.

"Silný muž... áno. Strong man."

Eliška: "He admits you're powerful."

Damien lets out a low, humorless chuckle—a sound that feels foreign, unnatural coming from him.

Damien: "Ale... vlak..."

He slowly bends down, retrieving the axe once more. His movements are slower now, more calculated.

"Vlak môže... zastaviť."

Eliška: "But every train can be stopped."

Damien raises the axe high above his head. For a brief moment, everything seems to freeze—the wind, the fog, even the distant sounds of the farm.

CRACK!

The axe comes down with explosive force, obliterating another thick block of wood. Splinters scatter across the ground like shrapnel.

Damien doesn’t even glance down.

His eyes are locked forward now.

Damien: "Ty myslíš... že si nezastaviteľný. You run... smash... destroy."

He takes a slow step forward.

"Nie."

Another step.

"Ja... som Executioner."

Eliška: "You believe you're unstoppable. That you run through everyone in your path."

She turns fully toward the camera now, her gaze unwavering.

"But he isn't just another obstacle."

"He's The Executioner."

Behind her, Damien’s breathing grows louder. His chest rises and falls like a machine struggling to contain its own power. The calm exterior begins to fracture, revealing something darker beneath.

Damien: "Ja videl... šialenstvo."

His voice lowers, becoming more guttural.

"Vidím... strach."

He grips the axe tighter, the wood creaking under the pressure.

"A v tvojich očiach... Jamal... budem vidieť tiež."

Eliška: "He's lived through madness."

"He's stared fear in the face."

"And, Jamal... he'll see that same fear in your eyes."

Damien suddenly slams the axe into the chopping block with such force that the entire structure shudders violently. The handle vibrates, humming with residual energy.

The chickens scatter, startled by the sudden eruption.

Damien: "Taipei Death Match..."

"Sklo... krv... bolesť..."

He leans closer to the embedded axe, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

"Dobré."

Eliška: "Glass. Blood. Pain."

"He welcomes all of it."

She pauses, letting the words settle.

"He thrives in it."

Damien slowly pulls the axe free, the wood groaning as it releases its grip. He turns toward the camera, each step deliberate, heavy, shaking the ground beneath him.

As he approaches, his presence becomes overwhelming—filling the frame, suffocating it.

Damien: "Freight Train..."

A cruel, twisted grin spreads across his scarred face, revealing teeth clenched with anticipation.

"Ja... derailed."

"Raz... navždy."

Eliška: "Freight Train..."

"He says he'll derail you."

"Once."

"And for all."

Damien stops just inches from the camera now. His breath fogs the lens slightly, distorting his already monstrous features.

For a moment, there is silence.

Then—

With one massive hand, Damien grips the axe handle and the embedded chopping block beneath it. Muscles bulge, veins rising beneath his skin as he lifts both effortlessly off the ground.

With a roar, he hurls them aside.

The wooden block explodes upon impact, splintering into dozens of jagged fragments that scatter across the yard.

The sound echoes long after the pieces settle.

Damien stands motionless, staring directly into the camera.

There is no rage now.

No movement.

Only inevitability.

Damien: "Smrť čaká."

Eliška: "Death is waiting."

The wind picks up slightly, carrying with it the distant cawing of crows. The fog begins to thicken once more, slowly swallowing the farm, the yard, the broken wood, and the towering figure that stands at its center.

The camera lingers for a moment longer, capturing the stillness—the calm before something terrible.

Then, without warning, the screen cuts to black.

The sound of crows echoes into the void.