BARGAIN SEALED IN BLOOD
Damien lay on the cold concrete floor, barely breathing, blood trickling down his chin. His legs—bent and crushed—twitched every now and then, useless now, like broken branches after a storm.
Every breath hurt. Every thought came slowly. But he was still conscious. Still clinging to something.
Across from him, Commandant Roland stood tall, arms crossed, lips twisted in a cruel smile.
"Well?" he asked, voice mocking. "Still playing the brave fool? Or will you finally sign like the nobody you are?"
Damien coughed, tasting blood. His lips trembled. His body wanted to give in, but somewhere in his eyes—faint but burning—there was still a spark.
"I... won't," he whispered.
The air stilled.
That quiet refusal echoed louder than any scream. Roland's expression darkened. He walked to the table in silence, took out his phone, and dialed.
Mr. Williams answered on the first ring.
"Well?" the voice snapped.
"He still won't sign," Roland said. "We've broken both his legs. He's half-dead. But he's asking for the money. Fifteen million. He says it's for his mother."
There was a pause. Then came the coldest reply.
"Give it to him."
Roland raised an eyebrow. "All of it?"
"Yes. Send your men to pick it up. Make him sign. After that... do whatever you want."
A chill ran through the room. The line went dead.
Less than an hour later, two officers returned with a heavy duffel bag. When unzipped, thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills shimmered under the ceiling light like something sacred.
Roland ran his fingers along the cash, then looked down at the man who was once a husband, once a son, now a shattered shadow.
"This is what you wanted?" he said, kicking the bag toward him. "Then sign."
Damien blinked through swollen eyes. The money was real. He could still save her. His mother. The only person who ever loved him. The thought alone gave him enough strength to lift his head.
Two officers held him up. A pen was shoved into his battered hand. He could barely hold it, but he gritted his teeth and scrawled his name.
The paper was signed.
It was over.
He dropped the pen. His vision blurred. He reached for the bag, cradling it to his chest like it was his last lifeline. A breath escaped him. Not relief. Something smaller. Something almost like peace.
But it didn't last.
A boot slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. The bag flew from his arms.
"What...?" he gasped.
Roland stepped forward, snatching the bag. "Where do you think you're going with this?"
Damien's heart raced. "You promised! I signed! That money's mine!"
Roland laughed. A cold, dead sound. "You? Walk out with this? You really thought you mattered?"
Another kick landed—right on the ribs. Damien cried out. The pain was sharp, bright, unbearable.
"Please..." he begged. "Please... I held up my end."
Roland gave no answer. He turned to the others. "Take him."
Two officers grabbed Damien by the arms, dragging him toward the door. His legs dragged behind, lifeless and bloodied. He didn't fight back.
He couldn't.
He was too tired. Too broken.
Roland followed slowly. "You've got a new destination, hero. Ever heard of the Doom Pit?"
Damien didn't respond. He didn't have to.
The room went quiet.
Everyone had heard of it.
The Doom Pit wasn't just a prison. It was a graveyard where the living were buried breathing. A place no one returned from. A pit for the forgotten. For the silenced.
Roland leaned down and whispered in Damien's ear. "No walls. No court. No hope. Welcome to the end of your story."