Marshall's eyes shot open, clueless about what had just happened. Regaining his senses, he lifted his head and looked up: his arms were clamped in a vice, chained to the ceiling. His attention was caught by a light bulb, too dim to illuminate the room properly. The result was a dark, claustrophobic atmosphere, just bright enough for him to realize he was only a few square meters large in a cube-shaped room. The place stank of mold, probably because there were no windows. Scanning the room, he saw a table laden with sharp spikes, chains with hooks, knives, whips, belts, and braziers. No doubt about it; he was in a torture chamber.
Marshall began to sweat bullets. He'd been screwed over by an unsuspecting worker and dumped in this hellhole. Could it be that Bill and Jones had goons all over the city? What were the odds Marshall would run into a collaborator of those criminals?
"Let me go, you pieces of shit!" Marshall screamed, pulling at the vice that bound his arms. It was no use; no human could break free from such a chain. He kicked and wriggled; bile rose in his throat, and his breathing became ragged. His mind was already preparing for the impending horror, but he wasn't going to let them treat him like a pig ready for slaughter.
"I won't even give these scumbags the satisfaction of hearing me moan!"
Jones burst in, kicking the door open with the sole of his shiny shoe, making a resounding slam. Marshall's heart rate spiked at the sight of the loan shark's murderous grin. Bill was right behind him, his usual emotionless demeanor masking the demon within.
"Ay, Marshasshole!" Jones began, lunging at Marshall and grabbing his throat. Marshall felt like he was being strangled by a vice grip. He coughed, his face turning purple, feeling suffocated.
“You think you can mess with us? We come to talk to you friendly-like, and what do you do? Bill, can you believe what he did?”
"He threw gravel at us," Bill replied, unfazed.
"Exactly! Is that how you treat friends, huh, Marshall? Is it?!" Jones screamed, his face inches from Marshall's.
Marshall was struggling to breathe due to Jones's grip on his throat. He knew he had to answer, or things would only get worse. Gathering what little strength he had, he tried to muster a reply.
“N-no, it’s n-not,” Marshall whispered.
“That’s right! It’s not!” Jones screamed, reaching a high decibel. He released his grip and stepped back, allowing Marshall to breathe and regain some color. Jones kicked a chair with all the fury in his body; it shattered against the wall. Jones was definitely on edge.
“Apologize, now!” Jones yelled again.
Marshall hesitated for a moment. This only infuriated Jones further. In a swift motion, he lunged at Marshall, delivering a powerful backhand slap across his face. Blood pooled in Marshall's mouth; he had no choice but to swallow it.
"I didn't hear you." Jones continued, his eyes filled with malice. Marshall remembered what he'd promised himself: he would never beg. He looked Jones squarely in the eyes, defiant.
“Go fuck yourself.” Marshall retorted. It was one thing to acknowledge the gravel issue, another to apologize to these devils. He knew well he’d pay the consequences, but Marshall had some dignity as a human being and as a soldier.
Two years earlier, when he'd turned eighteen, Marshall had been sent to the front lines. He'd distinguished himself on the battlefield with his tenacity, awareness, and sheer willpower. The war between the Wyolands and Novgovia had long since become a trench warfare situation. Forces clashed in a complex network of underground trenches and bunkers used to protect valuable troops and resources. The conflict was deeply rooted in the mountain range of the Wyolands, a small nation of ten million people.
Soldier Merson was known among his peers for his ability to stay calm and collected even in the most stressful situations. Within a year, he'd been recognized as a highly talented cadet, earning high regard from his superiors. His military career had been promising until his father, the sole provider for the family, committed suicide due to work-related stress. Marshall was discharged and forced to take care of his broken family—a disabled mother and four siblings—with Marshall as the eldest, and without a steady job. He then found himself doing all sorts of odd jobs. After a year, he'd fallen prey to gambling. All he wanted was a chance to uplift his social status and put his family back on their feet.
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Deep down, Marshall knew the problem lay with the two loan sharks and the system. Consequently, he would never apologize to them. Not even under torture or threat.
“Not close to good enough,” Jones said, throwing his hands up. “Look, Marshall, we can’t forget what you’ve done for the country. Discharged soldier trying to save his family. What a hero!” Jones glanced at the torture instruments on the table. “Too bad you turned into a fucking gambling addict. Bill, remind me how much this loser owes us?”
“16000,” Bill answered curtly.
Jones grabbed the only whip on the table, a long strip of braided leather, as sharp as a razor. He cracked it on the ground. “Alright then, 16 lashes it is.” He smirked.
Marshall stared at the whip, taking a deep breath. He relaxed his muscles, bracing himself for the strikes. His spirit would not break. He wore only a short-sleeve shirt, offering no protection. He could only rely on his grit.
Jones prepared himself. He went behind Marshall, charged up, and delivered the first lash.
“One!”
SLAP!
Marshall winced. He tensed every muscle and felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head. Yet he kept his promise; not a single moan escaped his lips. Jones had left a perfect linear welt from Marshall’s right shoulder to his left hip. Marshall felt his flesh being torn away and wondered if he had ever experienced such pain in his life.
“Two!”
SLAP!
Jones didn't waste time, delivering the second lash, crossing the first welt, and forming an ‘X’ on Marshall’s back. Still, Marshall stood tall, unflinching, ready for more.
"You're tough, Marshasshole. Three!"
SLAP!
The third lash was horizontal. The pain escalated with each rip through the flesh. Yet, his spirit continued unbroken. In three lashes, Marshall hadn’t let out even the slightest moan. Jones couldn’t believe his eyes. It wasn’t his first time lashing a debtor; he had honed his technique and knew well that his blows hurt, hurt a lot. By the first or second lash, everyone howled like babies, even the self-proclaimed tough guys.
“Stop acting like a phenomenon! Four! Five! Six!”
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
Three consecutive lashes followed. Even a bull would have reacted to such pain. Not Marshall. He stoically endured, despite the grooves slowly forming a checkerboard pattern. Not no hint from Marshall. At that moment, Jones wanted to explode. He could not accept such humiliation; it was a blow to his ego. Had he forgotten how to use the whip? No, impossible. Rather, it was this boy who was truly abnormal. It was almost as if he did not feel the pain. What kind of training did he receive during his military service?
“WHAT THE HELL! DO YOU HAVE ADAMANTIUM SKIN OR WHAT?!” Jones unleashed the next ten lashes, all consecutive and with all the rage in his body. He didn’t hold back at all.
SLAP!
SLAP!
SLAP!
And Marshall, despite everything, continued to resist. In the most absolute way, he remained true to himself. He had endured like none before him. No one had ever managed to withstand three lashes without begging for mercy, and he had endured a whopping sixteen without even gasping.
Bill was so astonished that upon witnessing the scene, he removed his sunglasses to check if he was seeing it right.
“He's a tough one. I’ll give him that.” He interjected.
“Shut up! Whose side are you on?!” Jones shouted. He then started pacing back and forth nervously. Muttering words like “It’s not possible” or “There must be a mistake” were heard from his mouth. And through it all, Marshall remained conscious. He was suffering like hell, but seeing that damn Jones in such a state was priceless.
Jones stayed in that state for a while but then composed himself. If Marshall wanted to play tough, Jones would play tougher. It would be pointless to give him more lashes. He could go on until he killed him, and if he killed him, getting the money back would become much more complicated.
So, he sneered. Decided to play it smart.
“You're tough, Marshasshole. I admit it. But if you put it this way, you leave us no choice but to play harder than you. In a week, we’ll come back and it’ll be 32. The week after it’ll be 64, plus we’ll call our trusted doctor and maybe take something, I don’t know, a kidney, an eye, maybe even your dick. You know, it would start to get a bit difficult to pay us, and organs sell well on the black market. When we get to 128, we’ll come knocking at your home, and see if you have anything valuable to give us. Maybe your little sisters, who knows.”
At that moment, Marshall activated. He thought about his family, his two little sisters, his little brother, and his disabled mother. If Marshall didn’t do something, they would take everything. They would reduce the entire family to lifelong slaves. That would be the end.
“Enjoy your last week, Marshasshole! Bill, release him.”
Bill unlocked the chains. Marshall collapsed, spent but conscious. As Bill and Jones left, Marshall remained on the floor, alone in the dark room, broken but unbroken. A brave soldier reduced to the most pitiable of slaves.