Callligan awoke to a shower of ice cold water being dumped over his head. Everything was still blurry and looked dark. Straining, he could just barely make out figures standing around him, but each of them was indistinct.

Calligan tried to raise a hand to wipe the water and coagulated blood that glued his eyes shut, but he found that he couldn’t. He was bound and strapped to a chair, unable to move.

“Wipe his eyes.” One of the figures said suddenly. His voice was deep and coarse, and there was no sign of friendliness in it. “I want him to see what’s about to happen.”

Calligan winced as a coarse cloth was scrubbed against his eyes, but his vision was cleared; and he could now see around him. Judging by the vast empty space and the tall brick walls, Calligan guessed that he was in an abandoned warehouse. He couldn’t see the door, but he could hear the faint lapping of water in the distance.

The men surrounding him were a motley crew of about ten people. Some of them were tall, some were short, and each of them were covered in blood soaked bandages. In spite of that, they all looked relaxed, some of them even smiled as though they were eager for what was about to happen.

“What’s going on?” Calligan whispered through swollen lips.

The man with the deep voice laughed before bending to look him square in the eyes.

“Detective Calligan, my name’s Sean Donahue. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure to meet in person, but I’ve heard so much about you.” Donahue reached out a hand as though to shake, but then he pretended to only just now remember Calligan’s position. He laughed again, a deep and almost manic laugh.

“Did you know that Mac was working for me?” He asked. “I was paying him a lot of money, and I was worried it was too much money. Though I must admit, it paid off in the end. That wretched Syndicate thought they could make this town their own, but we can see where that’s gotten them. We won. And that includes you, too. It was Mac’s job to ensure that all of those traitors at the station were dead, but it seems he just couldn’t pull through.” Donahue shook his head, his voice despondent. “But at least you were there to clean up his mess, and make sure that last piece of scum was dealt with.”

Calligan didn’t react as Donahue said this, gazing piercingly into Calligan’s eyes, a smug grin on his face. Then, a slow grin crossed Calligan’s face and he spat into Donahue’s eyes. The crime lord reeled away, wiping his face in disgust. Then he slammed his fist into Calligan, knocking him to the floor, chair and all.

“Pick him up.” Donahue ordered his men, and they rapidly set Calligan upright. “As much as I should be thanking you and making this quick,” He continued, “My associates and I have decided that we want to celebrate our victory over the Syndicate. And what better fun can we have than getting rid of a no good worthless detective, and taking our time doing it. One of you, hold him still. This is going to get messy.”

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With that, he reached into his coat and retrieved a pair of brass knuckles. Slipping them onto each hand, he began to lay into Calligan. Again and again he hit him, rocking him with shockwaves of pain and the cracking of bones with every blow.

Donahue’s thugs cheered as he was beaten, reveling in the brutality of every blow. They cheered with each cut that was made, and each tooth was lost. Several called to be the next in line, begging to add their own signature to his torment. This only gave Donahue more momentum, fueling his frenzy. It seemed as though he might kill Calligan, until a sudden voice brought him grinding to a halt.

“Hello?” It cried, echoing throughout the warehouse. It was loud, painfully so, and strained, carrying with it an immense amount of fear, and pain. Donahue and his men whipped around looking for the source, but no one could find it.

“Is anyone in there?” The voice asked, trembling and frantic. “Can anyone help me? Can anyone make it stop?”

Nobody moved, and no one made a sound. They all just stood there staring at each other, as though asking each other what to do. The only noise came from Calligan’s soft moans of agony, and the pleading of the mysterious voice.

“Please, I know someone’s in there. Make it stop. Make the pain stop, please!” It cried piteously.

“Check the main entrance.” Donahue said to his men. His voice was low, as though he didn’t want to be overheard. “If he’s there, go and give him what he wants.”

He pointed at two of his men. One was big and burly, and the other was narrow and tall. They both nodded and began stalking toward the door, with one pulling a revolver from an inner pocket of his suit.

The entrance to the warehouse was to Calligan’s back, but he could hear the noise of the large doors opening. He heard a moment of dead air, before a gun went off and a scream rent the air.

“WHY!” The voice cried, filling the building. It was followed by a piercing, sorrowful wail that was filled with agony. The men in the warehouse clutched their ears as it hit them, wincing in pain and discomfort. Underneath it, there was more wailing; the wailing of two men in just as much agony.

Calligan was oblivious to most of this; he could feel his consciousness slipping away once again. As the figures in front of him grew dim, he could see them flitting about frantically, even as their desperate yelling blurred intangibly together. Several muffled gunshots somehow heard through the fog of blood and pain. Calligan saw a new figure move into his line of sight to meet the culprits.

It was a man, or at least that’s how he looked to Calligan in his fading vision. Moving slowly, as though every move pained it, yet the bullets that thudded into it like rain seemed to have no effect on his advance.

Calligan watched it advance on another figure. It made a motion, but Calligan couldn’t clearly make it out, as he slipped further and further out of consciousness. All he could clearly make out were the screams of agony that joined the chorus of pain, and the monster in the shape of a man moved on to another. The last thing Calligan saw was the man approaching a figure with a build similar to Donahue’s, who cowered before the man. He heard a weak plea for mercy, before watching, dimly, as he was torn apart. Then Calligan succumbed to the dark.