||London - Midnight||

It's been 3 years. 3 fucking years since Tom has heard from Tord. His body remained clean, not a single etch of ink on his body. He wanted nothing to do with Tord, but Tord's absence pissed Tom off. He began to dive into a spiral of depression and anger, heavily relying on alcohol and painkillers. Cuts littered his arms, something he knew Tord could care less about. He slept around, usually with skanks that could be found in the local bars.

It was midnight when he jerked up from his bed. The sounds of the cities alarm were loud in the air, rattling inside his mind. He rubbed his eyes, hastily getting out of the bed.

"WE ARE ON LOCKDOWN - THIS IS NOT A DRILL. WE ARE ON LOCKDOWN - THIS IS NOT A DRILL. WE ARE ON LOCKDOWN - THIS IS NOT A DRILL."

Sirens could be heard down the straights, screams heard from below. Tom stared out the window to see what looked like Hell below. Homes and shops were on fire, rubble littering the streets. People were scampering around, either being shot or tripping over dead bodies. Soldiers wearing red turtlenecks and blue trench coats were seen marching down the streets, shooting any rivaling soldiers down.

Tom backed away from the window, covering his mouth. He had to get out of here - But how? If he went out there he'd surely be shot down but if he stayed in the building he could risk getting caught in a fire. Taking a deep breath, Tom came to a solid conclusion.

There was no hope for him and the citizens of London, but he'd be damned if he went down without a good fight. He spent the last 5 miserable years doing absolutely nothing but rot in self-pity and darkness, he could at least redeem himself just a bit in his last moments. Shrugging on some black skinny jeans, he laced up his checkered van. He peeled his blue hoodie and grey shirt off of his body before buttoning up a dark-blue buttoned up and slipping a black vest over it. He was tired of looking like shit, so he might as well dress nice for his own damn funeral. Rustling through the drawers, he pulled out a gun that was buried at the very bottom before grabbing some ammo and shoving a handful of ammo into his pocket.

Making his way down the stairs, he loaded his gun. Hiding behind a car, he waited for the right moment before he opened fire. When he saw a small group come close, he sprung out from his hiding spot and opened fire. The deaths of the soldiers caught the attention of the comrades as a handful of them began to aim and shoot at Tom.

He took in a deep breath, slumping behind the car to reload his gun. Taking shelter behind the car, he peered out and took out the soldiers he deemed most dangerous. He must've racked a body count of 16 until he took a hit in his right shoulder.

Letting out a scream of pain, he looked at the wound before applying pressure with his palm. Taking a raspy breath, he grabbed his gun with his left hand getting ready to fight again. When he looked up, his face was drained of color when he saw what looked like a bomb head his way. He scrambled to his knees to get away from the deadly item, but he had only gotten away so far. He made the big mistake of looking over his shoulder as the bomb went off. He was blown back a good 12 feet, an agonizing scream leaving his mouth as his eyes burned. His vision was becoming blurry, patches of red and black filled his line of sight. He was fighting through the agony to stay alive before his world turned black.

---------

Tom let out choked breaths, gasping for air as he shot up. He was in a large grey room with only one candle from above to provide light. He looked around, examining his location. The place was empty, only the absolute needs could be sighted. Letting out a soft grunt, he looked down at himself. His blue hoodie had been placed back on him, but the attire he wore before was still on. Sliding his hand towards his shoulder, he examined the bullet wound. Surprisingly, he had a white bandage over it. He made the movement to move when he heard a soothing Norwegian voice purr to him.

"Don't put too much pressure on yourself Tom - You need your rest if you're ever going to get better."

That voice... That voice-

A chuckle came from the speaker as he stepped into the light. He looked ghastly, half of his face was scorched with scars. His hair came up like two devil horns, his good silver eye glistening with the fire of the candle. His mouth curved up into a smile, showing off his sharp canine.

"Welcome home, min eskelde."

A/N: Ahhh, this is the end. RIP. Don't worry, I'll give you guys an epilog. I mean I suck, but I'm not THAT sucky.

I'm so sorry about the way the book is turning out - It was doing great the first chapter. And then I fucked up :^)

It's like that one hot kid in middle school who goes through puberty but instead of getting more hotter they get ugly .<.

It's like this book. It was good, and then it turned aWFUL.

So sorry though - Maybe one day I'll rewrite this :^)