Consciousness nudges at me, a slow, creeping awareness. My head feels heavy, like it's stuffed with cotton, and there's a throbbing pain right at the base of my skull. I try to move, but something's holding me back. Ropes, maybe? I can feel them biting into my wrists, rough and unyielding. My eyes flutter open, but it's an effort. Everything's blurry, shapes and shadows dancing in my vision.

I'm in a room, I think. It's dim, the kind of dimness that comes from one flickering light bulb struggling to stay alive. There are sounds, voices. They're muffled, like I'm hearing them underwater. I try to focus, try to make sense of the words, but it's hard.

"...don't get it, Aaron," one voice says. It's deep, but with a hint of youth. Pumice, maybe? "The Sixers had it. They were leading and then just... poof. Gone. Like they forgot how to play."

Aaron's voice is unmistakable. It's rough, edged with that cocky arrogance that I've come to loathe. "You think too much about it, man. It's just a game. Besides, they've been slacking all season. No discipline."

I try to lift my head, but it's like lifting a ten-pound weight with my neck. Everything hurts. I blink, trying to clear the fog in my head. The room swims into slightly clearer focus. There's a table, cluttered with… stuff. I can't make it out. I'm still in a t-shirt and boxers. My entire body screams in pain. They bandaged up my hand, which was… nice of them?

Pumice laughs, a short, barking sound. "No discipline? Man, you sound like my old coach. They've got talent. Just need the right direction."

Aaron snorts. "Direction, right. What they need is a good kick in the ass. Wake 'em up."

I squint, trying to locate them. My vision is still blurry, but I can make out two figures. One's leaning against a wall, arms crossed. Aaron, probably. The other's sitting on what looks like a crate, animatedly gesturing. Pumice.

"Their defense is all over the place," Pumice continues. "You see that game last Thursday? It was like watching kids chase a ball in the park."

Aaron's voice drips with sarcasm. "Oh, enlighten me, coach. What would you have done differently?"

There's a clinking sound, metal on metal. I try to turn my head, curious despite the situation. It's painful, a sharp stab that shoots through my neck, but I catch a glimpse of something. Tools, maybe? It sends a shiver down my spine.

Pumice seems unfazed by Aaron's tone. "For starters, I wouldn't have benched Simmons in the last quarter. Guy was on fire."

Aaron laughs, a harsh, grating sound. "Simmons? Please. Guy's overrated. All flash, no substance."

I try to focus on their conversation, but it's hard. My mind feels sluggish, thoughts drifting like leaves in a stream. I'm vaguely aware that they're talking about basketball, but it feels distant, unimportant.

"What they need is a new coach," Pumice says, adamant. "Someone who actually understands the game."

Aaron's reply is scornful. "And you think you're that someone, huh? You barely out of diapers and already think you know everything."

There's a tension in the room, palpable even through my dazed state. I can sense the animosity between them, a thread of hostility that runs beneath the banter.

I try to shift, to ease the discomfort, but the ropes dig in deeper. It's futile. I'm stuck here, at the mercy of these… people. My captors.

Pumice's voice rises, defensive. "Hey, I know enough. More than some street thug who thinks he's a big shot."

Aaron's laugh is cold. "Street thug, huh? Look who's talking. Mr. Rock-for-Brains."

I close my eyes, trying to block them out. It's too much, the pain, the voices, the cold seeping into my bones. I just want to sleep, to escape this nightmare.

But sleep is elusive, a distant dream that I can't quite reach. The voices continue, a constant, nagging presence in the background of my consciousness.

"You're just pissed because the Sixers are doing better than your precious Flyers," Pumice shoots back.

Aaron's reply is a growl. "Don't you dare bring hockey into this. You don't know shit about it."

I try to speak, but my throat's dry, and it comes out as a rasp. "You two done comparing sports teams, or should I come back later?" I regret it instantly, my head throbbing in protest, but I can't help it. Mouthy, that's me.

Pumice chuckles, a sound like gravel rolling down a hill. "She's got spirit, Aaron. Gotta give her that."

Aaron doesn't look amused. He walks over, looming over me. The closeness is suffocating. "Spirit's gonna be the death of you, kid."

I want to retort, but my brain's still playing catch-up, every thought sluggish and painful. Instead, I focus on the room, trying to piece together where I am, how I got here. It's all hazy, memories slipping through my fingers like water.

Pumice stands, stretching, his movements sending tiny flecks of stone skittering across the floor. "Look, we gonna talk Sixers all day or we gonna get to why we're here?"

Aaron's eyes narrow, and he turns his attention back to Pumice. "We'll get there. Just waiting on the others." He says it casually, like we're waiting for guests at a party.

I try to shift, but I'm tied up too tight, my wrists bound perfectly tight to the cold metal of a fold-out chair. Panic flares up, sharp and bitter. I test the ropes discreetly, but there's no give. Their conversation fades into the background as I assess my situation. The ropes are rough against my skin, every twist and pull sending stinging sensations up my arms. The chair's unforgiving, every edge and surface pressing into me, reminding me of my helplessness.

The door creaks open, drawing Aaron and Pumice's attention away from their banter. Chrysalis steps in, her insect-like features casting eerie shadows across the room. She's followed closely by Deathgirl, who's practically vibrating with a mix of excitement and pent-up energy. Chrysalis' movements are deliberate, almost dainty. Deathgirl, on the other hand, exudes a wild aura, shaking with excitement. This is the first time I'm seeing her smiling, instead of scowling.

Aaron straightens up, a smirk playing on his lips. "Finally, the party's complete," he says, his voice dripping with a false cheerfulness that doesn't reach his eyes. He takes a couple of steps back, and shuts the door.

Chrysalis responds with a dismissive glance, her voice laced with contempt. "Let's just get this over with, Aaron. I have better things to do than watch you play tough guy."

Deathgirl grins with a mouth full of slightly crooked teeth, and I realize that her eyes are covered in a black blindfold. Do her powers ever turn off? She doesn't look like Chrysalis, Pumice, or me, so she must be on Aaron mode right now.

Aaron takes a step forward, assuming the role of the leader, his gaze fixed on me. "Alright, let's start the fun," he says, his tone clearly intended to intimidate.

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"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut.

Aaron reaches over to the table, and his hands linger over a claw hammer. Aaron picks up the claw hammer, his grip tight, eyes locked on mine. There's a glint in his eye, a kind of manic glee that sends shivers down my spine. I try to swallow, but my throat's too dry, fear knotting it tight.

"You know, Sam," he starts, his voice low and menacing, "my Papa taught me a lot about respect." He taps the hammer against his palm, a rhythmic thudding that echoes in the cramped room. "He believed in the old ways. Belt leather and hard lessons."

He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. The room's already stifling, but with him so close, it feels like I'm suffocating. "Papa used to say that the world's all about power. Who's got it, who doesn't."

He leans down, his breath hot against my face, and I can see his eyes. They're red. Brick red. "And power, Sammy, power's all about pain." The hammer's still in his hand, and he runs his thumb along its edge, almost lovingly. "People listen to Johnny Law not 'cause they respect him, but 'cause they fear the pain he can bring."

Pumice shifts uncomfortably, his stone body scraping against the floor. Even he seems disturbed by Aaron's intensity. Chrysalis looks away, her bug-eyes flickering with unease. Only Deathgirl seems unfazed, her grin widening as she listens to the scene unfold.

Aaron's eyes never leave mine. "Papa ruled with his belt. But now, Papa's dead, and I'm the one with the hammer." He lifts it, letting the light catch the metal. "And right now, I've got all the power."

The hammer hovers above my hand, and my heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. In my knuckles. "So, what's it gonna be, Sam? Gonna keep that spirit? Or are you gonna beg?"

I clench my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction. My mind races, trying to find some way out of this, but there's nothing. Just me, tied to a chair, at the mercy of a madman. I clench my teeth together. I don't even give him the satisfaction of an insult.

Aaron's smile is cruel, triumphant. "No begging, huh? Alright then." He positions the hammer just so, the claw edge of it pressed between my nailbed and the nail itself. He reaches down and grabs my hands like a manicurist. Gives the rope a little yank. He works the cold metal deeper and deeper, already making me grit my entire body together. I feel thick, dark pulses throughout my skin, like new, fresh heartbeats.

The handle is facing up. The wrong way for a hammer if you're smacking something with it.

The right way for pulling out a screw. Or a nail.

The pain, when it comes, is blinding. I can't hold back the scream, it rips from my throat, raw and ragged. Each nail feels like a new level of hell, pain stacking on pain until I can't think, can't breathe. My thumbnail goes first, cracking unevenly. A claw hammer isn't made for extracting this. What Aaron is doing just breaks each nail in half. My blood oozes out onto the chair. Then, my index finger nail.

Through it all, Aaron keeps talking, his voice a constant drone in the background. "See, it's all about pain, Sam. The person who can inflict the most pain, the most efficiently, they're the ones who rule the world. That's why the president's got the nuclear football. That's why I've got this hammer. Militaries have more guns than the average runt, but they don't got nukes. President over the military over the police over the average man."

His words blend together, a meaningless buzz against the backdrop of my agony. All I can focus on is the pain, and the desperate, clawing need to escape it. I thrash against my restraints, trying to wiggle out, but it's useless.

"And that's why you're here, tied to a chair. Because right now, I'm the one inflicting the pain. And that makes me the king of this little world."

The room spins, and I can feel myself slipping, consciousness fraying at the edges. My body twitches against my will. It doesn't take long before every nail on my right hand has been removed forcefully, and my fingertips burn and screech and send every wrong signal to my brain.

Aaron steps back, admiring his handiwork. "Papa would be proud, don't you think?" His laugh is cruel, echoing off the walls. "You want a go, P?"

"I'm good, chief. You do your serial killer shit," Pumice says, waving a hand nonchalantly.

Aaron chuckles, stepping aside as Daisy bounds forward, her hoodie bobbing. Her glee is palpable, a stark contrast to the heavy air of torment that fills the room. "Alright, kiddo, show us what you've got," he says, a mocking encouragement in his tone. Aaron’s twisted satisfaction is evident as he steps back, leaving me with my mangled right hand, each missing nail a throbbing reminder of the ordeal. I'm panting, trying to stay conscious, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Daisy’s excitement is palpable as she jumps at the chance to join in. Her blindfolded eyes don't see me, but she's grinning like it's some twisted game. She clumsily grabs the hammer from Aaron, her small hands barely fitting around the handle.

"You're gonna love this," she says, almost singing. She raises the hammer high, her small frame trembling with the effort and anticipation. She swings the hammer towards my left hand, but without the finesse or cruel precision of Aaron. It's just a wild, haphazard blow. Pain explodes in my hand, not the sharp, precise agony of nail removal, but a blunt, crushing pain. I hear something crack, feel the bones in my hand giving way under the impact.

Through the haze of pain, I hear Chrysalis's voice, laced with a cold disdain. "Really, Daisy? That's your idea of fun?" Her tone is sharp, dripping with contempt, not just for the act itself, but for the messy, unrefined way Daisy conducts it.

Pumice shifts again, his discomfort growing. Even in his laid-back demeanor, there's a line he's reluctant to cross. "Yo, this is messed up, man," he mutters, his voice low but carrying a weight of unease.

Aaron watches, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. "This is what happens, Sam. You play with fire, you get burned. Or in your case, hammered."

His eyes never leave my face. He's studying me, looking for any sign of weakness, any crack in my resolve.

I can't give him that. I can't let him see how much he's hurting me. So I bite down on my lip, taste blood, and focus on staying conscious, staying present.

Daisy's swinging the hammer again, but it's clumsy, lacking the cruel intentionality of Aaron's actions. It's just mindless violence, a child lashing out in a way she doesn't understand.

I'm trying to keep track of the conversation, trying to find something I can use. Anything to give me an edge, a way out. But it's hard to focus, hard to think past the pain. Aaron's voice cuts through again, his lecture resuming. "See, pain's a great teacher, Sam. It's primal, it's honest. It strips away all the bullshit and leaves you with nothing but the truth."

The pain is all-consuming, and Daisy's childish giggles only make it worse.

Aaron continues, his voice almost thoughtful now. "Papa used to say, 'The world respects the man who holds the whip.' And he was right."

Daisy finishes with my left hand, stepping back to admire her work. My hands are a mess, bloodied and mangled, every movement sending sharp stabs of pain up my arms.

Aaron nods approvingly at Daisy, then turns his attention back to me. "So, Sam, what have you learned?"

I want to spit in his face, to tell him where he can shove his lessons, but I can barely think, let alone speak. The room is spinning, my vision blurring with pain and tears.

I feel the chair underneath me, its cold metal biting into my skin, every small movement a reminder of my helplessness. Aaron's standing there, like he's some sort of philosopher king, spouting off about pain and truth. I want to roll my eyes, but that takes more effort than I can manage right now.

My left hand throbs in time with my heartbeat, each pulse a fresh wave of agony. Daisy's standing off to the side, her eyes wide with a mix of pride and something darker, something sadder. She's just a kid, really, but one that's been twisted and turned into something else.

Pumice is shuffling uncomfortably, his stone-like skin scraping against itself. He's not enjoying this, I can tell. But he's not stopping it either. Chrysalis is just watching, her bug eyes unblinking, her face a mask of disdain.

"You think this is bad, Daisy?" I grit through the pain, my voice a shaky taunt. "You're just a kid playing with toys. A real villain would have finished me off by now."

Daisy's face goes flush with anger, and a small spray of blood spurts from her nose, but she tries to hide it. She's just a kid, after all, a messed-up one. "Shut up, bitch," she hisses, her voice cracking.

Pumice shifts uncomfortably, glancing between us. "Yo, Daisy, don't listen to her. She's just trying to get in your head."

Chrysalis, her bug-eyes flickering with a mix of fear and fascination, adds, "Yeah, Daisy, she's nothing. Just ignore her."

I can't help but laugh, a painful, bitter sound. "Ignore me? That's the best you can do? Come on, Deathgirl, you can do better than that. Or did they only teach you how to throw tantrums in villain school?"

Daisy's knuckles whiten as she grips the hammer. "I'm not a kid!" she screams, her voice breaking.

Aaron, smirking, steps closer, enjoying the show. "Let her talk, Daisy. Words are all she's got left. You two, stay out of this."

I spit out a mouthful of blood, still grinning. "Words? Oh, I've got plenty. Like how original 'Deathgirl' is. Did you come up with that all by yourself, or did your mommy and daddy help you? Oh, wait, I forgot they sold you off to a bunch of lowlife criminals. When was the last time you got hugged?"

I feel bad. Believe me, I do. I know that what's happening is a tragedy, but pragmatism - my need to survive - is overwhelming my niceness circuits. I have a general vibe on how her power works.

Any second now, she's going to switch to me, and then I can bust out of here and let them deal with the aftermath.