The warehouse lot stank of rust, piss, and dried blood. A single flickering sodium lamp buzzed overhead, painting everything in sickly orange. Akasha's voice cracked as he scrambled backward on his knees, gravel biting into his palms.
"W-what the actual fuck is going on?!"
Thirty-five shadows ringed him. Their laughter ricocheted off rusted shipping containers like hyena calls.
"Haha! Look at this wimp, boss!" One goon doubled over, clutching his belly with one hand while the other gripped a spiked bat. The steel head thunk-thunked against his boot in rhythm with his wheezing. Another goon—scarred lip, piggy eyes—swung two spiked bats, one in each fist.
"Guy's about to piss himself, boss. Smell that fear?"
Clang-clang. Sparks spat when the heads met.
Akasha's pulse hammered in his ears.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
'What the hell is this? I never offended anyone. Ever." His ribs throbbed from the first kick—he hadn't even seen it coming.
BANG!
"ENOUGH!" The word detonated. Silence slammed down so hard the crickets outside the fence seemed to choke. Akasha exhaled shakily and clawed back control.
'Finally. Some answers.' He thought as he raised his head to look in the direction of the voice.
The sound of boots could be heard across concrete as the mob parted. A mountain of a man strode forward. Russian jaw, sharp as broken glass. All black—leather trench, silk shirt, gloves that creaked when he flexed. Dark shades reflected Akasha's terrified face back at him. A cigar the size of a toddler's arm glowed between teeth that had never seen a dentist.
Pfffft.
Smoke curled from his nostrils like dragon breath, thick with Cuban tobacco and death. "Enough bullshit, little guy," the man said, voice gravel soaked in vodka.
"Any questions before your end?"
'M-my end?' Akasha thought as he swallowed the copper taste of blood. His lips then parted as he said.
"W-who the hell are you guys?"
The leader face-palmed with a meaty smack.
'What an idiot.' The leader thought he then dragged his hand down moving his glasses, revealing eyes cold as Siberian winter.
"I am Viktor Volkov, leader of the Obsidian Syndicate—biggest gang in America."
'Biggest gang? Why waste time on a nobody like me?' Akasha couldn't understand why the leader of such a big gang would come pay him a visit personally. Not just that he couldn't even understand why anyone was paying him any attention in the first place!
Viktor seemingly read the question in Akasha's eyes as he smirked. "Wondering why a man with private jets and blood diamonds bothers with a street rat, like yourself?"
"HAHAHA!"
"GOOD ONE, BOSS!"
The goons erupted again. One dropped his bat—CLANG!—and slapped his knee. Akasha's lip curled.
'Cheap actors.'
Viktor clapped slowly.
Clap… clap… clap.
"Let's end the comedy. You die tonight."
Hearing this Akasha's grin split wide as he finally dropped his miserable act of being bullied. His teeth showed and they were jagged, yellowed, one front tooth missing from an "accident."
'Haha! This day should've came sooner!' He thought as he couldn't even hide his smile anymore.
'Well, if this is the end, then let it be a loud one.' With that final thought. He rose on trembling legs. Knees popped like dry kindling. As he spoke with a bloody smile.
"Bring it on."
Viktor's brow arched. "Eh? What's cooking in that broken skull?"
Akasha ignored the man as he stepped forward. The sound of glass could be heard crunching under his boots as he spoke.
"I've lived a shit life," he said, voice gaining a bit of excitement with every word. "Beaten since I could walk. Starved. Spit on." He then took another step.
"Now, here you are some big bad guys. Coming to offer little old me an exit. How generous." His smile widened— almost manic. Eyes glittered feral. The goons shifted uneasily. Bats dipped an inch. Akasha stopped toe-to-chest with Viktor, craning his neck to meet the shades. Dirt-caked white hair fell across his face like a shroud.
"Why not greet death with something devastating?"
Viktor chuckled, low and dangerous. "Devastating? You? Today you die, fool."
'YES, THIS IS IT!' Akasha's fists clenched—two fingers missing from trouble times.
"Haha, if the big bad boss says so!"
THUMP.
Akasha's fist sank into the soft gut.
THUMP.
Again.
THUMP-THUMP.
Each punch a lifetime of rage. Akasha laughed—wet, wild, unhinged.
"WTF—?"
Viktor's shades cracked. The cigar tumbled, sparks scattering like dying stars. The world slowed. Goons' mouths formed perfect O's. Bats rose in syrupy arcs.
CRACK.
A spiked bat kissed the back of Akasha's skull. White-hot pain exploded. Blood poured warm down his neck.
THUD.
Cheek met cold concrete. His last sight being Viktor clutching his stomach, face purpling with rage and shock.
Then— Nothing
Just pure darkness.