Danny always thought pain was something you could power through. That if you were strong enough, you could push past it, outlast it.

Michael Cornors was about to teach him otherwise.

The night was cold, but Danny barely felt it. His body was still running hot from the workout, muscles thrumming with the dull ache of effort. He liked that feeling—the proof that he was in control. Strength was everything. Strength made him untouchable.

The alley behind the gym was empty, the usual stench of piss and garbage clinging to the air. His boots splashed through a shallow puddle, distorting the neon reflection of a flickering bar sign.

Then—

A hand clamped over his mouth. The sharp sting of a needle in his neck.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Danny woke to pain.

It wasn't sharp, not yet. Just a dull, aching stiffness in his limbs. He tried to move, but his wrists and ankles were bound—tight, unforgiving. Something tugged against his skin, and when he strained, he realized what it was.

Resistance bands.

The irony almost made him laugh.

A chair scraped against the concrete floor. A figure moved in the shadows, stepping closer, slow and deliberate.

Michael.

Danny's breath came short, sharp. "What the fuck is this?"

Michael tilted his head, almost amused. "Ever had your muscles pushed past their breaking point, Danny?" His voice was calm. Conversational. "Not like in a gym. I mean really past it."

Danny pulled against the restraints, but the bands held firm, biting into his flesh.

Michael smiled. "Let's find out."

The first snap came quick—a sharp yank of Danny's fingers, hyperextending them back until the tendons tore with a sickening pop. Danny howled.

Michael took his time. One by one, each finger was forced beyond its limit, bones grinding, ligaments shredding.

Then, he moved to the arms.

Resistance bands wrapped around Danny's biceps and calves, twisted tighter and tighter until the circulation cut off. His limbs swelled grotesquely, skin stretched thin over bulging muscle.

Hours passed. Pain blurred into something new—something unbearable. His breath came in ragged sobs, body trembling, spent. His legs were dead weight. His arms, once sculpted from years of training, hung uselessly at his sides.

Michael stepped back, admiring his work.

Then, a gunshot.

The bullet tore through Danny's forehead, splitting skin, cracking bone. Strength left him in an instant. His body slumped. A mercy.

But Michael wasn't done.

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Danny's corpse was dragged back to the alley where he had once walked so confidently. His body was propped up like a grotesque training dummy, bound with the very bands that had built him.

His jaw was pried open, dislocated with a sickening pop. A dumbbell was shoved inside, shattering teeth, locking his mouth in a silent, eternal scream.

A coin was placed beneath his tongue.

By the time they found him, the message was clear:

Strength does not dictate authority.

Elias Carter woke up to agony.

His body was locked in place, limbs spread, something wet pooling beneath him. Blood. His blood.

The pain sharpened.

Spikes had been driven through his wrists, elbows, knees, ankles—nailing him to the chair, pinning him in place. Every slight movement sent fire through his nerves, each shift of his weight a fresh reminder of his helplessness.

A chair scraped against the floor.

Michael Cornors sat across from him, casually spinning a hammer in his hand. "You used to be a voice, Elias. A loud one." His tone was almost nostalgic. "But then you got comfortable, didn't you?"

Elias's mouth opened, but no words came. His throat was dry, raw.

Michael lifted something between his fingers. A dark, shriveled piece of flesh.

His tongue.

Elias's stomach lurched. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse, broken wheeze.

Michael's smile widened. "You spent years preaching about justice. And now, look at you. No voice. No power. No one to listen."

A needle pierced the delicate skin of Elias's eyelids. Thread followed. Looping through. Stitching them open.

He would never look away again.

His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps. Michael took his time, tracing letters into his chest with a knife, slow and deliberate.

LISTEN.

The final blow came last—a brutal severing of his spine. Not enough to kill. Just enough to take everything else.

When they found him, he was still there.

Hands nailed down. Eyes forced open. The word carved deep into his skin.

A coin beneath his tongue.

A warning: Those who stop speaking will be made to listen.

Gregory Wallace had seen it coming.

He had smelled it in the air, felt it in the way his hands trembled when he signed his name to things that weren't his. But knowing something is coming doesn't mean you can stop it.

He woke in his own office.

But the desk was different now. The contracts, the figures, the paper empire he had built—gone. The weight of real wealth, of true value, sat heavy in Michael Cornors' palm.

A single gold coin, rolling between his fingers.

Gregory's jaw ached, forced wide by a metal clamp. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth, mixing with the blood already dripping down his chin.

Michael sat across from him, watching. Calm. Too calm.

"Before we start," he said, voice smooth, deliberate. "I'll make you an offer. For the old times."

Gregory's breathing hitched.

Michael leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the coin still turning between his fingers. The weight of the moment pressed down like an unseen hand.

"Where is the child?"

Gregory's pupils blew wide. His heartbeat stuttered. He knew.

Michael had already known the answer.

But he needed to hear it.

Gregory tried to speak, but the clamp turned his words into a garbled mess. Michael reached forward, fingers gripping his jaw, forcing it open just a little wider.

"Say it," Michael murmured.

The words spilled out, wet and broken.

"He… he was eight months." A pained wheeze. "Stillborn. We gave him to a doctor… someone who… experimented…"

Silence.

Michael didn't move. Didn't speak.

For the first time, he felt something shift inside him. Not rage. Not pain. Something deeper. Colder.

The city's lights burned through the glass behind him, neon streaks casting long, distorted shadows across Gregory's bloated, trembling face. The hum of distant traffic, the distant wail of a siren—none of it reached Michael.

All he heard was the word.

Stillborn.

A life that never had the chance to begin. A future that had been stolen, traded, discarded like a thing.

Michael's fingers tightened around the coin. The edges bit into his palm, sharp enough to draw blood.

Then—

He exhaled.

The shift was imperceptible, but Gregory felt it. A subtle change in the air. The moment when a predator decides there is no longer any need for the chase.

Michael picked up the first coin.

And forced it into Gregory's mouth.

The first few went down with a choking gag. The next took effort. The ones after that scraped, cut, tore.

More.

Gregory convulsed, body rejecting the wealth he had once worshipped. His lungs burned. His ribs heaved. But Michael kept going.

By the time Gregory stopped moving, his stomach was swollen with metal, his jaw broken from the sheer weight of it.

A single word was scrawled across his last contract in ink:

WORTHLESS.

A coin beneath his tongue.

A punishment: You cannot take wealth where you are going.

---

The City Breathes

The neon hums. The streets do not care.

A cigarette burns in the dark.

Michael Cornors watches the skyline, smoke curling from his lips.

The hunt is over.

And yet—

The rot remains.