Story by Mariia Hlyten

Whenever someone said his name,

goose flesh filled with disgust and hatred soaked the skin of everyone who heard it. Even worse, his mug always made people wonder how anyone could have given such a bastard power. People usually elect "good" candidates for positions of public importance because that's how human psychology works, but not in totalitarian regimes. He behaved as if he was the god-damned master of the world, as if everyone owed him something.

Once, out of the hundreds of times he had already done so, he encroached on lands that had never belonged to him and would never belong. He simply did not believe that someone had more power than he did, that someone would cut his hands off.

Pretending to be awake (he hadn't been able to sleep for a long time because of the stress and the realization of defeat), he came out of his hiding place, which was far, far away on a mountain outside the city. What he saw made his veins swell with pressure, and his eyes felt as if they were being torn from the inside. All his imaginary kingdom, loot, and things built on grief and human suffering were burning with reddish fire. And although there was no actual fire, the empire was collapsing in his head. This is how the world responds to scum. Perhaps, as he was taking his last breaths, he did not have time to realize what a scumbag he was and what illusions he had been living in.

He was not even worthy of the truth.

Silence.