John slumped in the rickety wooden chair, his wrists bound tight with rusted chains that bit into his skin like dull teeth. A coarse burlap sack shrouded his face, reeking of mildew and old blood, muffling the world into a suffocating haze. The underground lair—once a forgotten sewage tunnel, now a makeshift den for the desperate—echoed with the drip of distant water and the faint scuttle of rats. Diego's fist slammed into John's gut like a sledgehammer, driving the air from his lungs in a guttural "Oof!" Pain exploded through his abdomen, sharp and unrelenting.
"The fuck, man?!" John gasped, his voice hoarse and strained beneath the fabric.
Benjamin loomed over him, his silhouette a menacing shadow in the dim flicker of a single hanging bulb. "Talk," he growled, his voice low and gravelly, laced with the bitterness of a man who'd seen too much suffering.
"Talk about what?" John wheezed, trying to steady his breathing.
Benjamin's response was swift—a clean punch across John's jaw that snapped his head sideways, stars bursting behind his eyelids. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.
"Don't bullshit me!" Benjamin snarled.
"Fuck!" John spat, the word muffled but defiant.
"Who are you, and why'd you give me this arm?" Benjamin demanded, flexing his prosthetic limb—a sleek, high-tech marvel that gleamed unnaturally in the grimy light.
"My name's John," he panted. "I hate the rich just like you..."
Benjamin scoffed, a harsh bark of disbelief. "Fuckin' hell, you still doing this?"
"Yeah, I know I've been working with the rich... But that doesn't mean I'm fucking with them! Just let me go. I promise I'm not like them..."
"Shut up," Benjamin cut him off coldly. "Boys, waste him."
"Oh fuck... please..." John's plea dissolved into a chorus of agony as Benjamin's crew descended upon him like a pack of feral dogs. Fists and boots rained down, each blow landing with sickening thuds against flesh and bone. Bruises bloomed across his ribs, cuts wept blood, and the world blurred into a red haze of pain. They finally relented, leaving him slumped and broken, as Benjamin barked orders to scavenge for food and scraps. The crew filed out, their footsteps echoing down the damp tunnels, leaving John alone in the stifling silence.
Blood soaked through the sack, warm and sticky, mingling with sweat and tears. His body screamed in protest—every breath a knife twist, every twitch a fresh wave of torment. He couldn't endure this much longer; death at the hands of those he'd tried to help, the poor he'd pitied and sought to uplift, felt like a cruel irony.
In the twisting labyrinth of the sewers, Benjamin's group trudged onward, weapons clutched tightly: rusty pipes that whistled faintly in the stale air, dented trash can lids serving as makeshift shields. The walls oozed with slime, and the fetid stench of decay clung to their ragged clothes.
"Mi hermano, Benjamin," Diego murmured, his voice echoing softly off the concrete. "What do you think of him?"
"We'll use him as bait," Benjamin replied flatly, his eyes scanning the shadows ahead.
Alfie Sr. frowned, his weathered face creased with confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I'll use him as bait," Benjamin repeated, irritation creeping in.
"Yeah, I know, but for what?"
For whatever wanders by. Rich patrols looking for him. Other poor with supplies. He's a magnet. Now shut it and move."
"Stop asking so many fucking questions," Benjamin snapped, his tone brooking no argument.
From the enveloping darkness ahead, another group stumbled into view—gaunt figures, hollow-eyed and trembling, their clothes hanging like shrouds on skeletal frames. Hunger and thirst had carved deep lines into their faces, but for a fleeting moment, spotting Benjamin's crew ignited a spark of desperate hope.
"Excuse me! Oh my god... someone's in here..." one rasped, a woman with matted hair and dirt-streaked skin.
"Please, do you have foo—" another began, a man reaching out with a trembling hand.
The crack of gunfire shattered the plea. Benjamin's pistol barked, and the woman crumpled, a bloom of red spreading across her chest. Panic erupted as the others turned to flee, but Benjamin was merciless, squeezing the trigger methodically, bodies dropping one by one in sprays of blood and echoes of screams.
"¡¿Qué estás haciendo?!" Diego shouted, his eyes wide with horror.
"Don't act surprised, Diego," Milo muttered, his voice steady but laced with resignation. "Cunt's always been like that."
"Lo sé, hombre," Diego replied, shaking his head. "It just surprises me every time."
"Shut your traps," Benjamin ordered, holstering his weapon. "Carry them."
Grimly, they hoisted the lifeless bodies onto their backs, the weight heavy and warm, blood trickling down their shoulders as they retraced their steps to the base.
Back in the lair, the silence pressed on John like a physical force, broken only by his ragged breaths. Then the door burst open with a metallic screech, jolting him upright in his chains. Heavy thuds echoed as bodies hit the floor, the metallic scent of fresh blood overwhelming the room.
"What's that...? Guys?" John's voice cracked with confusion and fear.
"None of your fucking business, mate," Benjamin snarled.
Rage surged through John, overriding the agony. "I GAVE YOU THAT FUCKING ARM!!! YOU WOULD'VE BEEN DEAD IF IT WASN'T FOR ME!!! YOU WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN ABLE TO DEFEND YOURSE—"
Benjamin's fist connected with John's face, the crunch of breaking bone reverberating through his skull. Blood poured from his shattered nose, soaking the sack further.
"Fuck!" John howled.
"Want me to pop you another one?" Benjamin taunted.
"Fuck..."
"You gonna answer me?"
John grunted, unable to clutch at his nose, his bound hands throbbing from the chains' relentless grip.
"Alright then," Benjamin said, drawing back for another blow.
"NO NO WAIT! Please don't..." John begged, his voice breaking.
"Right. So then shut your fucking mouth."
The crew exchanged uneasy glances, pity flickering in their eyes, but no one spoke. They kindled a meager fire in a rusted barrel, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. Knives flashed as they carved into the bodies, stripping flesh with grim efficiency. They rinsed the meat in murky water from a leaking pipe—knowing it courted disease, but starvation left no choices. The sizzle of cooking flesh filled the air, a grotesque parody of a meal.
John lay there, breaths coming in slow, labored heaves, blood dripping steadily. His arms ached from the chains, numbness creeping in. "If you wanna kill me... then just fucking do it. I can't do this shit no more..."
Silence met his words, broken only by the crackle of the fire. For a brief moment, Benjamin's hardened facade cracked, a flicker of regret in his eyes as he chewed mechanically. He sighed, pushing the feeling down.
John's sobs echoed softly. "Please..."
"Fuck..." Benjamin muttered.
"What should we do, hermano?" Diego asked quietly.
"Treat him," Benjamin decided.
"QUE?! Por qué?!" Diego protested.
"We can't use him as bait if he's dead now, can we?!" Benjamin shot back.
"Si si, hermano. Calmar."
"Jesus, you always gotta be asking so many questions."
High above the squalor, in the gleaming spire of HEX HQ, Sovereign stood like a statue in his vast chamber on the 200th floor. The entire level was his domain—a sprawling expanse of polished marble, holographic displays, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the glittering city below, a testament to his iron-fisted empire. The night sky reflected in the glass, stars mingling with the neon glow of his creation. He lifted a crystal wine glass, the deep red liquid swirling as he sipped, his expression cold and unreadable.
"Jacob," he intoned, addressing his personal AI assistant, its interface a subtle glow in the air.
"Right away, sir. She's on her way," Jacob responded seamlessly.
Moments later, the doors hissed open with a pneumatic whisper. Ashley entered, her heels clicking nervously on the floor, her face pale beneath meticulously applied makeup. Fear coiled in her gut like a live wire.
"You called me, sir," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
Sovereign remained silent, staring out at the city, the quiet amplifying her dread. She approached cautiously, standing beside him, facing his profile while he gazed outward.
"You called me, sir?" she repeated softly.
"Any news on John?" His tone was flat, emotionless.
"Yes, actually, uhh... He was taken by a group of poor."
"I know that, Ashley." The words were ice.
She gulped, sweat beading on her forehead, her breath shallow. "Right, I'm very very sorry, sir. I thought—"
"Stop wasting my time."
She stiffened, heart pounding. One misstep, and she'd be erased.
"Reports say that he's still alive and is held hostage. We don't know his exact location, but we do know he's in an underground base, in a sewage specifically."
Sovereign sipped his wine, silence stretching like a taut string.
"T-That's all, sir..."
He sighed, jaw clenching, and turned to her. Their eyes met; she dropped her gaze instantly, trembling.
"If that's all you have to say... then why the fuck are you still here?"
"You're right, sir. Sorry, sir." She fled, the doors hissing shut behind her as she descended to the 199th floor.
Back in the lair, John lay on a makeshift bed of flattened cardboard boxes, the rough material scratching his battered skin. Diego had administered crude painkillers—concoctions brewed from scavenged herbs and chemicals—that dulled the edges of his agony but left him groggy. Sleep eluded him, so he swallowed a sleeping pill, waiting for the heaviness to claim him. His eyelids drooped, the world fading to black.
Benjamin sat alone on a battered, rusty chair salvaged from the trash heaps, sipping bitter tea from a cracked mug. The lair was quiet save for the occasional drip. He rose, approaching a shard of broken glass propped against the wall like a mirror. His reflection stared back—scarred face, haunted eyes—and he examined the prosthetic arm, its mechanisms whirring faintly. Memories flooded in, unbidden.
His lips twitched in anger. He slammed his fist into the wall, the impact reverberating. The scene dissolved into the past: a fifteen-year-old Benjamin, scrawny and alone in the sewers, amid a sea of destitute souls. No parents, no allies—just endless hunger. He wandered, begging.
"Excuse me, mister, may I have a little of what you have?"
"Go away, kid. Find it yourself."
"Okay..."
Spotting a sodden piece of bread bobbing in filthy water, he dove for it, but a burly man snatched it, punching him away.
"Man..."
Then chaos erupted. The ceiling exploded inward, and superhumans—elite enforcers of the rich—descended like vengeful gods, their flight suits gleaming. Screams pierced the air as they tore through the crowd, bodies shredded by supersonic dives, blood painting the walls. Just as one zeroed in on Benjamin, a hand yanked him into the shadows.
"Follow us!" Liam urged, a sturdy man with kind eyes.
They fled through twisting passages to a hidden manhole. Inside, the hideout was a haven—rusty but organized, with makeshift beds and supplies.
"You were lucky I was there, kid," Liam said.
"Thank you so much, sir..." Benjamin's voice trembled.
"Don't mention it. I'm sorry I didn't save anyone else."
"That was totally not your fault—"
"I know, I know," Liam chuckled. "Well, if you're hungry—of course you are."
He offered fresh meat, introducing the group: Jack, Max, Jacob. They lit a stove, cooking with stolen seasonings. Benjamin devoured his share, shaking.
"Ben," Liam said gently. "You don't need to be scared anymore. You're safe with us. Okay?"
"Okay..."
Seven years later, at twenty-two, Benjamin joined midnight raids on rich trash bins. One night, a superhuman shrieked from above, slamming Liam against a wall with bone-crunching force.
"FUCK!" Liam cried.
They rushed to help, but the enforcer hoisted Liam by the leg, crushing his skull in a spray of gore. Shock froze them; the enforcer grinned, sonic-booming through the others, bodies exploding. Benjamin's arm took the brunt, bursting in agony. He played dead, blood-soaked, until the monster departed.
Limping back alone, arm gone, he collapsed in despair. Seven days later, he found the prosthetic—perfect fit—lying at the site.
The flashback shattered with Benjamin's fist on the glass. "Fookin' hell..."
He drained his tea and lay on his cardboard bed, ignoring John's muttered "Dad... Look out..." as sleep claimed him.
Morning light filtered through cracks. John's nightmares peaked—"Stop touching me! Stop... STOP!"—jerking him awake to staring faces.
"The fuck has gotten into you, mate?" Milo asked.
"Huh? Oh shit, sorry..."
"Shut the fuck up, we ain't friends," Milo sneered.
"Puta," Diego added.
"Right..."
"Tell me about yourself," Benjamin said abruptly.
"Me?"
"Who else?"
"You don't get it, man... I am one of the rich, but I'm not now, right?"
"Doesn't change who the fuck you are, mate. The only fucking reason you're here 'cause you made a mistake to betray those cunts."
"God dammit, man... I don't even have the energy to shout... I betrayed them on purpose. I wanna use my money for good..."
"You don't got none of that anymore."
"I do. I always have a solution... You know, I wasn't born rich. I was just like you all. Poor and weak. They set up a camp of poor people, executing them... like toys."
Shock rippled through the crew.
"I became rich 'cause of one thing... I was molested and sexually assaulted by my adoptive parents who 'saved my life'."
Alfie Sr. hesitated. "If you don't mind me asking... How did going through that make you rich?"
"I was given an 'opportunity'. An opportunity they say... Fucking bullshit."
Benjamin's expression softened momentarily, empathy flickering for the trauma John had endured.
"But you pieces of shits..." John choked, tears welling. "God... I can't even fucking turn my head without it hurting..."
"Good," Benjamin said, mask slipping back.
"Someone, go to 1047 HEX Alley Street. I have a basement with hundreds of high-tech gears there you can use. There's also drugs and medicines and aid kits... The code is 3011892 under my chair that is in my room."
Benjamin's cruelty returned. "We ain't doing this to help you."
"Just... (coughs out blood) do whatever you want with that stuff..."
"Why'd you tell us?"
"I'm gonna die anyways, aren't I?"
"Right... Let's get moving, boys. We don't got much time."
"Leave the prosthetic arm behind; it'll be detected..."
They slunk through shadowed alleys, dodging drones' whirring scans and CCTV's unblinking eyes, slipping through fissures like ghosts. The street sign loomed: 1047 HEX Alley Street. John's mansion stood grand but hollowed, gutted by looters. Using the key John had painfully produced, they entered. The basement yielded treasures: stacks of cash, advanced tech, weapons, meds.
Back at the lair, John whispered, "Mark, you there?"
A mechanical hum stirred in his mind. "Yes, sir. At your service, sir."
"Holy fuck... I am so glad I implanted you straight into my brain..."
"I'm glad you did that too, sir."
"Cut the crap, Mark. I need your help, immediately. They might be coming back right now."
"Yes, sir. I will do my absolute best to help you."
"Observe the room, find anything, just anything that you can latch onto and control."
"Scanning..."
Mark zeroed in on the discarded prosthetic. "Perfect. I found one, sir. Transferring data..."
The arm twitched to life.
"Good news, sir. I have control over a prosthetic arm."
"Holy shit! Oh my god, I've been saved. Thank you so much, Mark."
"Always here for you, sir."
The arm crept to John, lifting the sack. Light stung his swollen eyes. It untied him deftly.
"My oh my, you look extremely injured, sir."
"I know..."
"I'll try to find resources to help you recover, sir. Keep holding on strong because if you black out, I'll shut down since I'm implanted into your brain."
"I know that, Mark. Do you think I don't know that?"
"My apologi—"
"Stop wasting time."
"Yes, sir."
The crew returned, laden with bags, bursting through the door to find John standing, the arm hovering.
"DON'T FUCKING MOVE!" John roared.
"Stay where you are, gentlemen," Mark intoned.
Benjamin scoffed. "Mate, you don't even have a gun."
"Sir, wear the prosthetic arm."
"What?"
"Do it, now."
John attached it. The crew charged, but Mark augmented his strikes. Fists flew in a chaotic brawl—Alfies downed, Benjamin landing blows, Diego countered. Aya dodged nimbly, distracting John. He fell, knocked out briefly.
Mark fought on, pummeling with mechanical precision until Diego grabbed him. A kick disoriented Mark, but John rose, delivering final blows. They subdued the crew.
As they stirred, unbound, John said, "Don't fucking move, man. I trust you guys; that's why I didn't hold you hostage."
Diego lunged, but Benjamin halted him. "Stop it, Diego. It's fine."
"Que, hermano!? Let's kill him right here right now! I told you we shouldn't have trusted him; the rich is the rich! Period point blank!"
"Shut your traps, mate. You don't even know what that means."
"Si, but por que? Why we spare him?"
"He trusts us; maybe we can trust him. I mean, the cunt could've killed us right here right now, but he ain't."
"Good choice, gentlemen," Mark said.
"You get your little AI shite out of my arm," Benjamin demanded.
"Mark..."
"Yes, sir."
The arm detached, scratched and broken.
"Fuck, man..."
"I can make one better, but my arm is broken, and I can barely even walk."
"You think I give a fuck?"
"You took everything in my house; surely you brought the aid kits."
"You're not gonna use it, prick."
John snapped. "What the fuck is your problem, dude?! Why don't you trust me yet?! I've done everything trustworthy for you; I even could've killed you, but guess what? You're still fucking breathing!"
Benjamin clenched his jaw, gaze sharpening. "Right..."
"Aya, you stay here and treat the lad. You lot come with me."
"Where to again, man?!" Alfie Jr. protested.
"The usual."
"Dude, we already got everything from his house!"
"Stop being such a cunt, junior."
"Let's just go, junior. See where he's taking us," Alfie Sr. said.
"You make no sense sometimes, mate. But oh well," Milo grumbled.