The Summoner of Legends

He had no idea what was happening. Today was supposed to be a normal day, filled with the same routine as always.

Though he sometimes hated how boring and repetitive it all was, that monotony was his refuge. It was his life, his world. In that space, everything was under control. And what he couldn't handle, he could at least avoid or ignore. But this… this wasn't supposed to be happening.

It didn't make sense. Nothing should have changed. None of this could be real. It was impossible.

Despite being completely in shock, his hands and feet began to move instinctively, inching him away from the horrifying scene before his eyes. His body was acting on its own, trying to protect him from whatever it was that was triggering such primal fear.

When his back hit the base of the bed, the impact jolted him out of the trance that had held him captive. The entire room was silent. The birds he usually heard through the window, the faint hum of the refrigerator from the living room… everything was gone. There was only him, the corpse, and the steady undercurrent of fear coursing through his body like an electric current.

He shut his eyes tightly, gritting his teeth.

—Stay calm... it'll all pass. It'll all pass… —he whispered aloud, more to convince himself than for any other reason. The words tumbled out quickly, almost desperately, as though he were trying to contain the fear before it completely overwhelmed him. Little by little, his breathing began to slow.

After a few moments, he dared to open his eyes. And he instantly wished he hadn't.

In front of him was the corpse of a man, barely recognizable. His body was twisted into a grotesque position, as if he had died on his knees. The man's arms lay on either side of him, severed from the torso as though sliced cleanly by impossibly sharp blades. His neck—what was left of it—was severed with precision, and his lifeless head had rolled to the corner of the bed, where it rested like a macabre witness to the scene.

The air in the room was thick with the metallic scent of iron and something else: a faint trace of sweat and the early stages of decay mingling in the atmosphere. He swallowed hard, feeling his stomach churn. He wanted to look away, but something inside him—something he couldn't explain—forced him to keep staring.

He didn't know why, but he felt he needed to look closer. That irrational, unsettling thought drove him to crawl a bit nearer to the body, even though every instinct in him screamed to stop.

The blood had pooled around the corpse, forming a wide, dark puddle that covered the floor nearby. It still looked fresh, with a viscous sheen reflecting the dim light filtering through the window. That could only mean the man hadn't been dead for long. However, what caught his attention most were two long marks on the floor, just in front of the body.

Acting on instinct, he reached a hand toward the marks, though he stopped just short of touching them.

—Something sharp… —he murmured, barely aware that he had spoken aloud.

The marks looked like they had been made by dragging two large blades across the floor. Likely the same blades that had severed the man's arms and head. The cuts were so clean there were no signs of struggle. Someone—or something—had wielded those weapons with terrifying precision.

For a moment, he imagined the final blow, the one that must have separated the man's head from his body and sent it rolling to his bed. The mental image made him shudder.

"This doesn't make sense," he thought, analyzing the scene. Then a terrible idea struck him: this man had come into his room to do something. Something that probably would have ended his life.

"Who was this guy? And what was he doing here?"

He tried to calm himself, but his thoughts were racing. His mind, trained to think logically and analytically, began working through the situation, though clumsily and chaotically because of the panic.

But what truly terrified him was the realization of something far worse: someone had been in his room. Someone who carried two bladed weapons sharp enough to kill him at any moment.

—It could've been me… —he murmured, his voice trembling as he glanced back at the corpse.

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He clenched his fists. All of this was too much. It didn't make any sense. None of it. But he couldn't afford to lose control now. The questions started flooding his mind, one after another, like waves crashing against a rock. Why would someone with weapons like that be in my apartment? Why is there a man I don't know, dismembered, in my room? And why didn't the person who killed him kill me too?

The logic he relied on so heavily was betraying him. The questions had no answers, and the more he thought about them, the closer he got to outright panic.

Finally, his body acted before his mind could completely collapse. He shot up to his feet, stumbling slightly, and ran to the bathroom. Once there, he yanked open the mirror cabinet with trembling hands and grabbed a bottle of pills. He fumbled with the cap, and two pills spilled into his palm. He swallowed them in one motion, using water from the faucet to help them down.

He took a deep breath, gripping the edges of the sink as his body continued to shake. "Calm down. Focus. Everything is under control."

It had been years since he'd finished treatment for his panic attacks. His psychologist had said he didn't need the pills anymore, but he had never gotten rid of them. He'd always thought it was better to be prepared for anything, though he never imagined he'd face something like this.

He raised his eyes to the mirror, its surface fogged from his labored breathing. His reflection stared back at him, wide-eyed, wearing the same expression of fear that he felt gripping his chest.

He couldn't keep going like this. He had to think. He had to act.

—This isn't real… it can't be real… —he muttered, as if saying it aloud would make it true.

But deep down, he knew it was real.

His life, his routine, his sense of calm… it had all changed forever.

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Several minutes passed before he was able to catch his breath and think with some clarity. His hands, still trembling slightly, gripped the edge of the sink as though it was the only thing keeping him anchored to reality.

In the mirror, his reflection stared back at him with an expression he didn't recognize. His face was pale, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual, and his messy hair made him look even more unkempt. But the worst part was his eyes—they reflected a mix of fear and exhaustion. This wasn't him. "I can't let myself fall apart."

Taking deep breaths to calm himself, he began to analyze the situation. "There's a corpse in my room." That was the inescapable reality. The first step was to deal with that problem before anything else. He thought about calling the police but dismissed the idea almost immediately.

—I can't do it… —he murmured, his voice barely audible.

The police would blame him. There was no way to explain what had happened without becoming the prime suspect. After all, someone had died in his apartment, and he had no evidence to support his story. Asleep? Unaware? No one would buy that, especially not in Gotham, where suspicion was practically second nature.

—Right… calling the police is off the table… —he said aloud, letting out a sigh as he turned his gaze away from the mirror.

The only option left was to handle the body himself. The thought made his stomach churn, but there was no other choice. It would be difficult, but not impossible. Fortunately—or unfortunately—living in Gotham came with a certain advantage in situations like this: there was so much death and violence that a dismembered body wouldn't raise too much suspicion if it was disposed of correctly.

He thought about the blood. That would be the first problem. He could clean it up with the right chemicals, though he'd have to be meticulous. And after that… well, the body had to disappear. The most logical solution would be to cut it into smaller pieces and put them in bags. Horrible, yes, but it was the only practical option. He could dump the bags in a dumpster far from his building. In this city, bodies ended up in alleys or dumpsters almost daily. One more wouldn't stand out.

"It's so twisted it's actually useful."

He tightened his grip on the sink, his fingers pressing hard against the porcelain. He needed to steel himself before leaving the bathroom to face that scene again. As horrifying as it was, he had to do it. It was either that or face far worse consequences.

He let out one final sigh, this one heavier, as though resigning himself to his fate.

—Time to clean up this mess…

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He was at his last stop: a small supply store he knew well. He had managed to gather almost everything he needed—chemicals to clean the blood, heavy-duty trash bags, and a few tools that might come in handy later. "This should be enough," he thought as he packed his purchases into a backpack.

As he walked home, he mentally rehearsed what he would have to do. The blood was the most urgent issue. If anyone saw it, the suspicion would immediately fall on him. Next would be disposing of the body. The thought still made him shudder, but he tried to focus on the practical side. He would do it at night, when the streets were emptier. He'd cut the body into smaller parts and dump them in different dumpsters across the city. It sounded grotesque, but he didn't have a choice. Gotham was so used to chaos that one more body in the trash wouldn't surprise anyone.

"That should make me feel better… but it doesn't," he thought bitterly.

As he walked down the street, his train of thought was interrupted by something in the window of an electronics store. It was a small shop, with modest televisions displayed behind the glass. Nothing high-end, of course. In a city like Gotham, displaying expensive merchandise was an open invitation for thieves.

But it wasn't the quality of the televisions that caught his attention—it was what they were showing. The news. Something no one in Gotham could afford to ignore. He stopped for a moment, just long enough to hear what they were saying.

A reporter, polished and professional in appearance, spoke in a serious yet smooth tone:

—We're back to you, Jake. What new information can you share, or what precautions should residents take when leaving their homes?

The screen cut to a journalist with gray hair and a tired face, holding a microphone bearing the logo of a local news station.

—I regret to say that this time, the news isn't good, Emma. For the past several months, the police have been searching for a dangerous individual responsible for multiple crimes. These include home invasions, assault, and first-degree murder. This person has committed these crimes in various locations across Gotham, and there appears to be a clear pattern: he enjoys breaking into people's homes to commit his atrocities.

The journalist paused briefly, as though needing a moment to process his own words, then continued:

—So my main recommendation is this: until the police apprehend this criminal, residents should reinforce all possible entry points in their homes. Even those living on second or third floors are not exempt, as it's been confirmed that this individual is capable of scaling buildings with ease.

The words made his chest tighten. The sound of his heartbeat thudded in his ears, loud and insistent. "No… no, it can't be… right?"

The image on the screen changed again, this time showing a composite sketch of the suspect. It was well-drawn, detailed enough to recognize the person if you saw them. And what he saw froze him in place.

The journalist continued, but his voice barely registered.

—We're displaying a composite sketch of the suspect on-screen, along with key features. If anyone can identify him or knows of his whereabouts, please contact the police. It's worth noting that even Gotham's vigilante, Batman, is actively involved in the search.

The journalist's voice continued, but his words were nothing more than a distant echo in his mind. All he could do was stare at the face on the screen. There was something about it… something disturbingly familiar.

"What the hell is going on?"

That image was likely being broadcast to thousands of people across Gotham, but to him, it hit like a punch to the gut. Because, as if pulled straight from some dark, overused cliché, the man in the sketch was the same man whose head he had found that morning at the corner of his bed.

His heart seemed to stop for a moment, and a shiver ran down his spine.

—This has to be a joke… —he murmured to himself, his voice trembling.

Quickly, he pulled his phone from his pocket and, with slightly shaking hands, snapped a photo of the screen. He needed to be sure. He had to confirm it. Was it really the same man?

Without thinking twice, he turned on his heel and began sprinting back toward his apartment. The sound of his footsteps echoed against the pavement, while the words from the news broadcast repeated endlessly in his head: "Home invasions, assault, murder… wanted by Batman."

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It was him.

They were the same person. The same lifeless, cold head he had found that morning belonged to the criminal that the police—and even Batman—were hunting. He stared at the photo on his phone, then at the corpse. His mind was scrambling to connect the pieces, but none of it made sense.

—This can't be… this can't be happening… —he whispered through clenched teeth.

He sat on the edge of his bed, trying to calm himself while his mind continued analyzing the situation. Gotham was full of criminals, most of whom didn't attract anyone's attention. But there were always exceptions, and this guy was clearly one of them. He'd committed so many crimes that, despite the police's usual incompetence, he had managed to catch the attention not only of the media but also of Batman himself.

That only meant one thing: everything had just gotten much more complicated.

"Why did it have to be one of them? Why couldn't it have been some nobody like so many others?" He thought about how the body had ended up in his room. Who had killed him? Why? And why hadn't they killed him too?

The pressure in his chest grew heavier. If the police found any connection between him and the criminal, he would be the prime suspect. He had to act fast. He couldn't leave anything to chance.

Wasting no time, he began changing his clothes. He had bought cheap, disposable clothes specifically for situations like this. He slipped on a pair of gloves he'd picked up with the cleaning supplies and started gathering all the necessary materials. He knew he'd be skipping school for the first time in his life, but this problem was far more pressing. Two days wouldn't make a difference, especially since he was already ahead of his classmates.

—One less problem… —he muttered as he got to work.

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Midnight had arrived. He left his apartment carrying two large black trash bags in his hands. The weight of the bags was a constant reminder of what he was carrying inside. Each step he took made his heart race faster. The echo of his boots rang out on the empty streets, and with every corner he turned, he darted quick glances around, making sure no one was following him.

He knew how dangerous this was. If anyone saw him—if the police stopped him and checked the bags—his life would be over. Years of effort to keep a low profile would be meaningless. He would end up in prison, branded a murderer.

After walking nonstop for 30 minutes and taking several detours to throw off any potential followers, he reached an area he barely recognized. The streets were poorly lit, with flickering streetlamps casting uneven light. This place was even more dangerous than the neighborhood he lived in, and he knew it. The alleys were piled with trash, graffiti covered the walls, and rats scurried between the debris. If something happened to him here, no one would ever know.

A few steps ahead, he spotted what he was looking for: a pair of large dumpsters, far enough away from any houses or businesses to avoid drawing attention. With his anxiety reaching its peak, he hurried toward them.

Without overthinking it, he opened one of the dumpsters and tossed the first bag inside. Then he walked a few meters to another dumpster and dropped the second bag into it. He wanted to make sure they weren't together to avoid suspicion if someone found them.

—Come on, hurry… hurry… —he muttered to himself, glancing nervously down both ends of the alley for any signs of movement. When he was certain he was alone, he turned and headed back.

This time, he ran. He ran as fast as he could, as though his life depended on it. The sound of his breathing mixed with the rapid pounding of his footsteps. He didn't want to spend a second longer than necessary in this part of the city, and he certainly didn't want to be anywhere near a corpse.

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When he got back to his apartment, he was drenched in sweat. He didn't even acknowledge the building's security guard as he passed. He climbed the stairs quickly, taking them two at a time, until he reached his door. Once inside, he shut it behind him and locked every single bolt with trembling hands.

His anxiety refused to subside. He checked every window, making sure they were shut tight, and this time, he added strings tied to empty cans at each entry point. He had learned his lesson. He wasn't going to let anyone enter again without him knowing.

When he finally finished, he stood still in the middle of his room, not moving a muscle. His eyes scanned every corner, searching for any detail he might have missed. He could still see the scene from that morning in his mind, as vivid as if it were happening all over again. Despite all the effort he'd put into cleaning, the memory wouldn't leave him.

He had scrubbed the wooden floor thoroughly, removing every trace of blood. He had even applied wood polish, restoring the original color and covering up any marks that might have been left behind. He had repaired the blade gouges in the floor, filling in the cracks and repainting everything just in case.

He had vacuumed the room five times and then gone back to clean it by hand another five. Nothing could be left behind. Nothing.

And yet, despite all his work, something inside him felt unsettled. He knew the room was spotless. It looked as normal as it always had. But that normalcy felt fake. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed—something irreversible.

He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes for a moment.

"This isn't over. Not yet."

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After standing motionless in his room for several minutes, he finally turned around and closed the door with a soft click. He could still feel the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders, but at least the most immediate problem was dealt with. Now, it was time to think about the next step.

He knew he had a lot of work to do the following day. "This can't happen again," he thought as his mind began planning how to further reinforce the security of his apartment. He needed to buy more locks for the windows, maybe even some metal bars to block them from the inside. No one would get in without his permission—not again. A bitter smile crossed his face. "One should always be prepared for anything, right?"

Luckily, he still had some money left. What his parents had left him was enough to cover these extra expenses without affecting his budget. His lips tightened as the thought passed through his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside. "Another problem for another day."

He slowly began undressing, letting his clothes fall onto an old chair by the door. Stripped down to his underwear, he let the cool air of the room brush against his skin. The silence was almost oppressive, but at the same time, it gave him a small sense of comfort. Everything was clean. Everything was under control.

With slow steps, he made his way to the bathroom. He needed one last shower before bed. He had to make sure that no trace remained—no evidence that could connect him to that criminal. "The blood… the sweat… everything has to go."

As soon as he stepped into the shower, hot water cascaded over his body. He closed his eyes, letting the heat relax his tense muscles. His fingers combed insistently through his hair, as though trying to remove something invisible. "Nothing will connect me to that guy," he repeated mentally, almost like a mantra. He scrubbed every inch of his skin with force, determined to leave no single particle out of place.

When he was done, he turned off the water and grabbed a towel. He dried himself quickly, letting the steam fill the small bathroom. The mirror was fogged up, but this time, he didn't stop to look at his reflection. He simply left and returned to his room.

There, he changed into clean clothes: a faded gray t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. Nothing special, but comfortable enough to sleep in. He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, letting out a long sigh.

—What a shitty day… —he muttered under his breath, as though saying it aloud could release some of the tension still coiled in his chest.

He slid under the covers, pulling them all the way up over himself. The sagging mattress and worn blankets offered a kind of comfort that, while far from perfect, at least made him feel safe. He closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him.

"It's over."

It had been an exhausting day, full of tension, fear, and difficult decisions, but in the end, everything had gone smoothly. No one would find out what had happened. No one would suspect him. The corpse was far away now, hidden somewhere in the alleys of Gotham, and any evidence that might have been left in his apartment was completely erased.

"Everything's under control. I can go back to my boring, monotonous life. Everything will be fine now."

Or so he wanted to believe.

But deep in the back of his mind, that same thought echoed, mocking him. A silent refrain that refused to let him rest: "Will everything really be fine?"

There was no way to know for sure. Not in Gotham.