Chapter 5: The One Who Ran
Some people accept the Wheel.
Others try to outrun it.
It never works.
By the end of my fifth millennium, I'd been stabbed, shot, burned, drowned, crucified once. I've had my heart carved out and handed back to me. Still here. Still breathing. There are no loopholes. No secret exit doors.
But every so often, someone panics. And panic makes people foolish.
---
His name was Marcus Vale.
Favor granted: immunity from federal charges for wire fraud, conspiracy, and insider trading.
I made one phone call, and just like that, the FBI misfiled a folder, a key witness "disappeared," and the prosecution unraveled. Marcus walked free, smirking in a gray designer suit, thinking he had the universe in his back pocket.
That was seven years ago.
Now it was time to pay.
The contract buzzed on my phone at 6:12 AM.
Collection Due: March 25, 2025.
I stretched, finished the coffee I'd made twenty minutes before, and checked the address. Beverly Hills. Of course.
---
By noon, I was outside his estate.
Massive gates. Three-story mansion. Pool that could swallow a school bus. Guards. Cameras. Overcompensation.
I walked past it all.
The intercom chirped. "You lost, man?"
"Not at all," I said. "I'm here for Marcus."
"He ain't home."
"Tell him Tony Smitty says hello."
There was a pause.
Then the gates opened.
---
They tried to ambush me in the courtyard.
Twenty men. Suits. Tactical gear. Knives. Guns. Stun batons.
They thought numbers would help.
They thought I was just a man.
The first came at me fast, swinging a baton toward my skull.
I caught his wrist mid-swing and dislocated his shoulder with a twist. He screamed. I moved on.
The next pulled a knife.
I stepped into him, shattered his kneecap with my boot, and let him fall.
I've fought Roman legions. Mongol riders. Nazi special forces. These guys? They were loud. Sloppy.
One fired a shot.
It hit me dead in the chest. I staggered back.
He smiled. That smile vanished when I straightened up and pulled the bullet from my shirt.
"Guns don't work on me," I said.
His face drained.
I broke his nose.
---
Fifteen minutes later, they were all down.
Some unconscious. Some groaning. None dead. I never kill. That's not my role.
I walked into the house. Marcus wasn't there. Of course.
He was already running.
Smart. But not smart enough.
---
He took the highway east.
Private driver. Black Escalade. Bulletproof windows. He thought he was safe.
He didn't know I was in the back seat.
He was ranting on the phone.
"I don't care what it takes! He's a freak! Get the jet fueled now! I'll be at Van Nuys in twenty!"
I cleared my throat.
He froze. The phone slid from his hand.
I leaned forward, resting my arms on the seat.
"You broke contract, Marcus."
He turned slowly. Face pale. Eyes wide. Sweating.
"How did you—?"
"You knew the rules. One favor. One debt."
"Please, I can pay! Money! Anything!"
"It's not about money."
I pulled the Wheel from my satchel and set it on the armrest between us.
He backed into the door.
"Wait—I didn't agree to this."
I pulled a second page from the satchel. The contract. I tapped the line near the bottom.
If the bearer of the debt attempts to flee or resist collection, one additional spin shall be required.
"Clause 17-B. You signed it."
The Wheel began to spin.
Click. Click. Click.
He started sobbing.
It stopped.
Segment 6: Complete Hearing Loss. Permanent.
He grabbed his ears, wide-eyed, mouth forming words he couldn't hear.
I waited.
"Second spin," I reminded him.
He shook his head violently, trying to claw at the seatbelt, trying to run.
Too late.
The Wheel spun again.
Click. Click. Click.
It slowed.
Segment 10: Phantom Pain. Daily. Intensity: Extreme. No cure.
He collapsed sideways into the seat, hands twitching as invisible pain scorched through limbs that weren't broken.
The driver looked back, startled.
"Everything alright, sir?"
Marcus tried to answer, but no sound came. Only a silent scream.
I vanished before the driver turned around.
---
By the time I stepped off the sidewalk in Koreatown, Marcus Vale was a name tangled in pain and silence.
He would never hear music again.
Would wake every day to agony without a source.
That was the Wheel.
Not cruel.
Just honest.