Michael saw it coming, kinda expected it, but the flashing lights, blaring tunes, and his lack of street brawl skills damn near had him waving the white flag against the barrage of punches and kicks.

"Cut it out!" MK hollered, tray now MIA. It crashed to the floor, spewing drinks all over, baptizing shoes, threads, and Michael's mug.

"I ordered the Wonderland cocktail," he yelled, but it was lost in the chaos. No one knew if it was a wisecrack to cool Mason's rage or just Michael's crazy response to the big dude's itch to turn him into a punching bag.

"Chill, Mason, you'll send him to the afterlife."

Mason's crew, spotting Michael sprawled out, figured that was their cue to chill. Still, they only dropped verbal niceties to calm Mason down. The ruckus wasn't enough to pause the jams or summon the bouncers; it was confined to the radius from Michael's sneakers to his noggin. Plus, with him crouched low, it looked like just another Tuesday night shindig.

"Screw off," Mason spat, glancing down. "Tsk!" More pissed about the wasted grub and booze than Michael. Catching a waitress was tougher than finding a four-leaf clover tonight.

With the taste of iron in his mouth, something in Michael snapped. A barrage of thoughts and images surged from every bruise to his amygdala, triggering a level of rage usually reserved for special occasions.

"Screw you!" Michael grabbed onto Mason's leg. It couldn't finish like this.

"Son of a gun!" Unable to shake him off, Mason kicked with his other leg. Michael's grip slipped, and for a split second, he saw stars. He clung to consciousness at the cost of his sanity.

As the big dude Mason lost his cool, the commotion started drawing eyes. His buddies couldn't stay put. Some got up, ready to yank and separate Michael. Meanwhile, a new posse rushed to the scene.

MK, spooked by Mason's size and worried for Michael, bolted to fetch their friends.

"Outta the way!" Seeing Michael buried under a bunch of strangers, Mac and Eric dived into the mess. They weren't exactly Hulk-level strong, but the idea of Michael getting jumped messed with their heads.

In their surprise charge, Mac and Eric managed to shove Mason's trio off Michael.

"Let him go, or I'm dialing the cops!" Rika and Svet brandished their phones.

"Tell him to back off!" Only the threat of the law knocked some sense into Mason. His face darkened as he tried, once again, to shake off Michael, finally realizing the mess he'd stirred up. "Ouch! Damn! You bit me!"

Michael's teeth sank in deep, just above Mason's Achilles tendon, breaking skin even through denim. As their blood mingled in Michael's mouth, the metallic taste snapped him out of his frenzy.

'Damn it!' Disgusted by Mason's blood, Michael rolled away from the man, hunched on all fours, and spat.

"He needs a hospital!" MK told everyone, witnessing the beating. They all gathered around Michael. Despite wanting to reject the idea of a hospital, the pain in his chest and head was off the charts. He feared broken ribs and dislocated everything.

"Can you move?" A bouncer appeared, crouching before Michael. Without waiting for an answer, he hoisted Michael up, making him stand. "Yeah, you're alright… good enough to walk out." He glanced at Mac and Eric. "Get him to a hospital just in case. If he wants to press charges, do it tomorrow. Not sure what went down, but we're too busy dealing with this tonight."

The bouncer turned to Mason, who limped back to his seat, checking out the damage from the painful bite. After a lengthy chat with the other group, they sauntered out without stirring more trouble.

Michael and his crew got delayed by Rika, who snagged a bottle of sparkling water since the bar was tapped out. Outside.

"They split," Mac reported after scouting ahead to make sure Mason and his crew weren't lying in wait. Eric lent a hand to help Michael hobble. On their way out, MK spilled the beans about the brawl, leaving out the part about her locking lips with Michael.

"It's like some cliche bullshit story," Eric quipped. "Only, you're supposed to be the one knocking the other dude out, not the other way around..."

Michael winced. 'Damn cliches!' His life took a wild turn when he got his hands on the String, especially after locking lips with the stunning MK. 'That jerk showed up at the worst time, but the outcome flipped like a bad movie. Well... screw it and screw him!' This was reality, after all.

'String!' Recalling his secret superpower, Michael gasped painfully. 'Why... why can't I feel it?!' The shock hit so hard; his heart raced, threatening to burst in a sudden anxiety attack, a kind he'd never experienced before.

"Michael! Michael!" Eric, still his crutch, choked back a string of dumb questions, turning instead to the others. "Quick! Call a cab!"

Phones were already ringing, but as far as Michael was concerned, no amount of medical attention could fix this.

'It's gone! Where the hell is it?! Did I lose it?! I've lost...' He couldn't accept it, nor could he hold back the tears from the stress. This mental blow was the harshest he'd taken tonight. His left hand, searching his chest as if for a pendant, dropped, and he blacked out.

...

"I think you went a bit overboard tonight," Neil remarked, pressing an ice-wrapped popsicle to his cheek.

When Mac charged at him, Alexander and Roman, Michael's kick landed on his mug. Luckily, it wasn't his mouth that took the hit. A split lip or a loose tooth would've been a real pain to deal with.

Mason perched on a bench, inspecting the bite mark Michael had left. It still bled, and the tissue paper Neil snagged from the 7-Eleven wasn't doing squat.

"If you stuck around to lecture me, you can hit the road too," Mason grumbled.

The rest of the crew called it a night after some posturing and light squabbling, insisting they didn't need babysitters. Neil, Mason's roommate, stuck around.

"I ain't picking fights. It's not my problem if some guy's girl ditches him when you make a move. If they throw fists 'cause it hurts their pride or ego... again, not my problem, and not what I'm bitching about."

"I get it," still miffed, Mason admitted. "Things got out of hand. I don't know... the dude somehow rubbed me the wrong way more than I cared about his girl and the drinks," the bleeding finally slowed. He didn't fancy a trip to the hospital for a damn bite. He layered on more tissue, carefully squeezed his foot into his sock and shoe. It still hurt like hell, but he wasn't whining about it.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Maybe I knocked back too much," Neil said, getting up. He was the only one in their crew who could meet Mason eye to eye—Alexander was just plain towering, but second place wasn't bad.

They shared a grin.

"Can't believe you let a shrimp take you down, though that redhead was something else," Neil chuckled.

"That jerk could take a beating better than you, asshole—ugh!" Mason threw a jab and winced. Neil dodged, and the shift in weight jolted his injured leg, cranking up the pain.

"You good?" Neil caught him before he hit the bench.

"Yeah. Won't be shocked if that kid has a piece of my flesh stuck in his teeth."

Neil sighed. "He was messed up. Wildest guy I've seen. What the hell was he thinking... what the hell were we all thinking, letting it spiral like this... granted, we can be top-tier jerks, especially you and me, but usually, even when we're wasted, we can tell when it's worth it and when to throw in the towel and laugh it off."

"Maybe, for the first time, we drank too much."

"Or not enough..." Neil pondered. They rarely called it a night before sunrise, except when leaving for other endeavors...

Mason's face contorted. He could haul ass, head home with or without Neil. The pain was a damn inconvenience, nothing worse than what he'd felt when his cousin's lab nipped him at fifteen. "Done with your mug?"

"Here," Neil handed him the popsicle on the move. "Huh? Your face…"

"I'm feeling hot," Mason wiped his forehead, tore off the wrapper, and savored the lemony melt of the ice.

"You're red," Neil sized him up.

"Red?"

"Your neck… wait," Neil lifted his shirt, and then recoiled. "Dude, your stomach's blood-red. From the bite? Was that guy sick or something?"

Mason found Neil's behavior downright creepy. He wasn't feeling much besides the leg pain and an exhausting heat. As he glimpsed his crimson six-pack, his breaths turned heavy. Running his hands over it and checking his palms, no blood. Or was there? He couldn't tell. His palms matched the sweaty red of the rest of him, rapidly turning.

"Neil-"

"Back off!" Neil barked as blood started dripping from Mason's nose, ears, eyes, and mouth.

"Nie-" Mason choked, still moving forward.

The leg pain spiked. Something popped, and it vanished. Losing balance, he crashed onto Neil, another pop ringing out, followed by a "BANG."

His head exploded, too close to Neil's eyes… so close that a shard of skull shot like a bullet through Neil's right eye and lodged in the back of his head.

Silence. A pool of blood spread around them. The moonlight fought through clouds, but streetlights illuminated the scene.

A tiny, invisible ripple crossed the blood pool. Something minuscule and unseen.

The String struggled but was too feeble, barely making it thirty centimeters from where Mason's head used to be.

Abruptly, It halted as the blood churned in circles around It, and a familiar presence, the source of Its calm, manifested.

Without a sound, the String vanished. The blood pool reduced to a dried, dark stain. Two bodies lay still. The night was silent. A quarter of an uneaten lemon-flavored popsicle sat on the ground.

...

"Are you up?" Eric loomed over him the moment he opened his eyes.

"Where…" Michael recalled the last moments outside The Debinger as the word left his mouth. Instant stress built up, and his focus shifted to his chest, ignoring everything else. 'It's there!'

Relief overwhelmed him. In fact, the excitement made him huff and puff.

"Wait!" He grabbed Eric, who was rushing to call a nurse. "I… I'm fine."

"Are you, Michael? Let me call a nurse anyway-"

"No. I really do feel fine."

He genuinely did. The pain from the beating was non-existent, and he wondered if he'd lift the covers, would his torso still be there? It was, just like the String.

'Did I miss It because of the pain? Did It hide somewhere else in my body because I was getting hit in the chest?' He pondered deeply.

"Okay. But keep resting. Don't worry about the hospital bill. Mac and I got it… it's on us," remorse laced Eric's voice.

"I don't blame you, idiots," Michael rested his head on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. The corners of his lips curved and dropped. He didn't want Eric to see the smile and pry. 'Not gonna kiss and tell,' he hoped MK would, and say it was good.

Turning on his side, his eyelids felt unusually heavy. Treating the String as a variable for any new physical and mental sensation since he got It, there was another point to consider, but not now.

"Hoped you messaged my parents in my name I'm sleeping at your place tonight," yawning, he fell asleep before Eric could answer.

"Ah… crap…"

...

At 05:45, two dark bags sagged beneath Detective Ilmar's eyes. He took the last swig of his black coffee, stepped out of his car, and tossed the disposable cup into a trash can near the crime scene.

"Sir," a rookie officer securing the area with yellow tape greeted him.

"Couldn't have a boring night shift, Gordon?"

"Afraid not, Sir," Officer Gordon pointed at one of the squad cars. "Still have a quarter of lukewarm coffee in my thermos. Looks like you need it," she offered.

"Might take you up on that," Detective Ilmar passed by Officer Gordon, heading into the crime scene.

His gaze flitted between the two male victims. A quick scan suggested they were young, maybe late twenties or early thirties. The head was missing from the body on top. 'Why the hell did they wake me for this?'

A quick rub to his eyes, and in his mind, he took note of the couple with the Siberian Husky. Mid to late twenties. They said a woman reported the two bodies. Boyfriend or husband? They were too far away to pinpoint their fingers for rings. Doesn't matter. Partner arrived fast. She called him fast.

Officer Gates patiently took statements, although it seemed challenging to get the woman to talk. Understandable. Fortunately, her partner appeared supportive and cooperative, a welcomed combination.

"Well?" Detective Ilmar asked the pair of forensic scientists attending the crime scene.

"Good morning to you, too!" Eilin lowered the camera, grouching. Detective Ilmar pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. "Yeah, Jane already offered. I'm good."

"That bad, eh?" He could tell from his survey without her needing to confirm.

"Officer Kendis collected their cellphones and wallets," Berman took samples of what appeared to be awful-smelling dried blood on the ground. "Can tell you the order of the victims' deaths, but not the how. Honestly, not sure we'll have the answer even after getting everything to the lab. I've seen horror movies less cryptic."

"Exploding heads aren't that common…" Detective Ilmar remarked.

"Nor deaths from human skull projectiles. Unlucky fellow," Eilin sighed. "There are traces of alcohol on the hem of the jeans of the upper victim. Scent is mixed. Several beverages. No bottles of any alcoholic drinks around."

"Two guys dress like that, what ten minutes' walk from the nearest club? Sergeant Benev."

"Lois," Sergeant Benev greeted Detective Ilmar back. "Meet Mason Nordoy and Neil Julian Lorik. Their phones are locked. Families are less likely to know where they've been than their last contacts. Until we unlock them, from what you said, you probably should start visiting bars and clubs-"

"Clubs," Detective Ilmar Lois insisted, short of explanation.

"Whichever. Miss Bernovicih isn't the only early bird, and this road is popular with joggers and dog walkers. Expect to hear about this case on the eight o'clock news. Before that, I hope to have something, anything, to say to the press other than, as I'm sure Berman told you, a cryptic response to a headless body with the head itself gathered from all over the vicinity…"

Detective Ilmar nodded. "What's the deal with the blood on Mr. Nordoy's pants? Also, his neck has no scorch marks or seems cut…"

"I intended to tell you," Berman rolled up Mason's pants. "No scorch marks or other visible residues of explosive on the neck, skull fragments, and scattered brain of victim No. 1, which is the main mystery. On the other side of his body, however, as you can see, human teeth mark. Pretty deep, despite biting through the jeans. Whoever did it was mad, to say the least. See in victim No. 1's sock… tissue paper to stop the bleeding, which from the stains appears to have been excessive even though there's no damage to the artery."

"For a big guy like Mr. Nordoy to have a human's bite mark on his leg, he must've put someone down... For his opponent to be so desperate to leave a bite like this, they should've suffered the brunt of the altercation. The nearest hospital is-"

"River Olsen's Center," Sergeant Benev intercepted Detective Ilmar's verbal line of thought. "Order Officers Kane and Shulla where to go and what to do and go already to find me something temporary…"

"Right," Detective Ilmar turned to leave.

"Oh, and Ilmar," Sergeant Benev said. "Officer Gordon-"

"I know."

…

06:30

"Are you really okay walking?"

"I am, preferably alone."

"Still angry? I swear to you, we only wanted-"

"I'm not angry… was, but not because of the fight. Doesn't matter anymore. I'm not working today, and it'd been a while since I had a breath of fresh morning air solely to enjoy myself."

"Then at least let me pay for breakfast. There's no point in telling your parents you stayed at my place to return this early. In thirty minutes-"

"I'm good, Eric. I'll deal with my parents. Talk to you later. Bye."

Outside River Olsen's Center, rubbing the back of his neck, Eric watched Michael departing and called a cab for himself. First thing first, it's strange… With his hands in his pockets, Michael focused on the String in his chest. Fifth day of training, it feels different. Let's see… He ran the String with a short and quick version of the training regime. It's length, five centimeters?