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Gut-churning fetishes that'd make a corpse gag—militants shoving fists elbow-deep into slick, torn pussies until they squelch and fart blood; cramming throbbing shafts down throats till eyes bulge and vomit sprays in hot, chunky arcs; carving initials into quivering tits with rusty blades while rutting like rabid dogs, painting the walls with crimson splatter and jizz; forcing these cum-dumpsters to lap up piss from overflowing buckets, or worse, shitting on their faces and grinding it in like filthy war paint before skull-fucking them into oblivion.
Gore-drenched orgies where limbs get hacked mid-thrust, entrails used as lube for double-anal invasions that rip assholes into gaping, prolapsed craters—nothing's off-limits in this hellhole of depraved kink-fulfillment.
And the starvation? These pathetic fuck-toys are force-fed nothing but watery slop-soup—thin, piss-warm broth laced with scraps of rot—and lumpy gruel that sticks to their cracked lips like cum-glue, barely enough to keep their emaciated bodies twitching for the next gangbang.
If slaving under Tiger means a grinding existence of spit-soaked degradation and bone-deep agony—at least with full bellies from his scraps and limits to his cruelty, never plunging into the abyss of his underlings' necro-fetish nightmares—then rotting in the Henhouse is a fate worse than being a lifeless, cum-crusted sex-doll, endlessly inflated and defiled in an ocean of mutilated lust, every hole a perpetual fountain of filth, pain, and shattered screams.
Compared to that, serving Tiger was mercy. With him, at least there was food, and perhaps the occasional moment of safety. The thought alone was enough to break anyone's mind.
Tiger's expression hardened, the warmth gone from his voice. His eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto Elisa. "You dare disobey?" His tone was icy now. He showed Ethan respect, but toward a woman — a thing in his eyes — he was merciless.
Elisa trembled violently, tears spilling down her cheeks. She turned back toward Ethan, desperation overcoming her pride. "I'm sorry, master! I'm sorry! Please, let me serve you! I'll do anything you say! I can satisfy any need you have, please just let me stay! Don't send me there!"
Her trembling hands gripped his leg, her body pressed close as she wept, her soft form shaking against him. Ethan's face darkened — not with desire, but fury. This was what the world had become. A place where women begged to be slaves, where humanity itself had decayed long before the zombies arrived.
Tiger snapped his fingers.
"Enough," he said coldly. "Take her away."
Two militants stepped forward, their boots thudding heavily on the floor. Both were armed with Type 79 submachine guns, old military relics still deadly in capable hands. Their eyes, however, gleamed with hunger — not for food, but for flesh. One of them licked his lips as he reached toward Elisa.
Ethan's hand twitched — instinct, not decision. His mind worked fast, weighing choices. He could act, strike, stop this before it happened. But if he did, Tiger would take it as an insult — and this fragile balance of power would shatter. He needed to think two steps ahead, not one.
The world was already dead; rashness only buried it deeper.
His eyes sharpened, and behind that calm façade was the silent hum of calculation — the mind of someone who refused to play by the script of despair.
The most beautiful women had long been claimed — divided like trophies between Tiger, Lei Chen, Chen Yan, and Zhang Xiang. Those left behind were sent to the henhouse, where the average and the forgotten were made to serve. True beauties like Elisa were rare, rarer still to remain untouched by the madness of the Z-Age.
In that cursed den, the henhouse, even the most stunning faces had been twisted by despair. Under constant abuse, starvation, and humiliation, their once radiant features had dulled into lifeless masks. The screams, the torture, and the endless cycle of degradation stripped away not just their beauty but their very humanity. For the militants, a woman like Elisa entering that place was nothing more than an opportunity for new "entertainment."
"Don't! Please!" Elisa's voice broke as she clung to Ethan's leg, her fingers trembling. "Master, I'm willing to do anything! Please—help me! You can do whatever you want with me, just help me!" Her words spilled out like shattered glass, desperate, wild, pleading for mercy that rarely existed in this world.
Ethan looked down at her — at the tears glistening on her cheeks, at the sheer terror in her eyes — and a wave of quiet fury surged through him. His fists tightened so hard his knuckles cracked, his jaw tensing as he restrained himself from grinding his teeth. He understood exactly what Tiger was doing. This wasn't about Elisa; it was about testing him — about seeing if Ethan could be manipulated, if his morals could be bent.
After a long moment of silence, Ethan exhaled slowly and turned toward Tiger. His expression was calm, unreadable.
"Wait a minute," he said evenly. "Boss Tiger, I'll accept Elisa."
Tiger's face lit up instantly, a wolfish grin stretching across his face. With a wave of his hand, the two militants who had been ready to drag Elisa away halted. Their eyes dimmed with disappointment as they reluctantly stepped back, their fingers still brushing the cold steel of their Type 79 submachine guns.
The weapons glimmered under the faint light — relics from a bygone era, but still powerful enough to rip through flesh like paper. The metallic click as one of them disengaged the safety echoed faintly through the air before he slung it across his shoulder and stepped back.
For Elisa, it was like being yanked from the edge of the abyss. A moment ago, she had been staring into certain hell — and now, she'd been pulled back into fragile life. Her emotions swung like a pendulum between despair and trembling relief. Tears streamed freely as she knelt before Ethan, hands shaking as she began to massage his legs, careful and gentle, afraid that even breathing too loud might provoke anger.
Tiger's grin widened, watching the scene unfold. Seeing Ethan finally accept her seemed to satisfy him deeply. He clapped his hands once and spoke in a booming, animated voice.
"Ethan, you and I — we should work together! Look around you, brother. The world has changed. It's no longer about who you were before — it's about who's willing to rise now."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into something darker, almost philosophical.
"The world we once called civilization was nothing but a gilded cage, a meticulously engineered farce where the dice were loaded from the cradle. Those born into the velvet-lined wombs of privilege—swaddled in silks woven from the sweat of the forgotten—never knew the sting of want.
Their parents, those cunning architects of upheaval, toppled the ancient thrones not for liberty, but to crown themselves gods in a new pantheon of excess. And their spawn? Parasites engorged on inherited dominion, lounging in marble palaces that reeked of imported orchids and the musk of orgiastic indulgence.
Picture it: sprawling estates where champagne cascades like golden piss from crystal fountains, where heirloom Ferraris idle in garages vast as cathedrals, engines purring like the throats of rented courtesans. These heirs, soft-bellied and cocaine-dusted, host bacchanals that would shame Caligula—nights of writhing flesh in heated pools of caviar and cum, where imported models are bent over antique billiard tables, their designer gowns hiked to expose diamond-studded plugs winking in the chandelier light.
Servants—paid in crumbs and silence—mop up the aftermath: rivers of spilled Krug, smears of blood from "playful" knife games, and the sticky evidence of gangbangs that leave the Persian rugs crusty and reeking.
Their parents toppled the old world just to build a new one where they could sit at the top. They built palaces, drove cars worth more than a hundred lives, drank wine older than history — all while pretending to be civilized."
They sip vintages older than nations from goblets encrusted with emeralds, while private jets ferry them to islands where the only law is the thud of helicopter blades and the wet slap of paid flesh against marble.
Tax havens bloom like tumors in their portfolios; markets are marionettes dancing to the twitch of their manicured fingers. A billionaire's daughter might deep-throat a senator's son on a yacht decked in gold leaf, her throat bulging around his cock as drones film for private archives, while below deck, accountants launder billions through shell companies named after their childhood pets.
The law? A lapdog on a diamond leash, rolling over to bare its belly whenever they whistle.
And us? The rest of humanity, the calloused backbone of their empire, we claw through the dirt for crumbs. We hemorrhage decades into mortgages that chain us to fluorescent-lit cubicles, our spines curving like question marks under the weight of compound interest.
Miss one payment—one goddamn heartbeat in the machine—and the bailiffs descend like vultures, stripping homes, dignity, futures. Jail cells yawn open for the poor who dare falter, while the elite orchestrate market crashes from penthouse war rooms, emerging richer, fatter, their golden parachutes billowing like the silk sheets they fuck on.
They hoard water, land, medicine, data—every resource funneled upward until the planet itself is a sucked-orange husk. Media mouthpieces, bought and bent over mahogany desks, regurgitate their propaganda while we choke on debt and diesel fumes.
A single overdue bill can shatter a life; they torch economies and toast with 1945 Romanée-Conti, laughing as the ashes settle on our doorsteps."
Tiger's voice cracked like a whip through the smoke of burning barricades, raw with centuries of stolen breath. "Do you see the cosmic joke carved into the marrow of this world? One man hoards wealth enough to buy countries—stacked in offshore vaults, digital dragons guarding pixels of power—while another sells his blood plasma to keep the lights on.
One heir snorts lines off a supermodel's ass in a zero-gravity fuck-suite orbiting Earth, his cock serviced by lips paid in private islands, while a father skips meals so his child can taste protein once a week.
If the pauper defaults, the bank seizes his hovel and auctions his children's future. If the prince defaults, the bank kneels, renamed in his honor, its board fellating his legacy with bailouts measured in billions."
Tiger paused, his gaze drifting upward, lost for a moment in the flickering light of a half-broken bulb. "Tell me, Ethan," he murmured, voice heavy with scorn, "why does one man get to have so much that he couldn't spend it all even if he threw gold away every second — while another man can't afford to rest for a single day without risking his family's life?"