One year later…
Terry was leaving school like any other day, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie up.
He wore a dark gray jacket — old, but well-kept — over a red sweatshirt, worn-out jeans, and sneakers patched up with black duct tape.
Walking beside him was a boy his age, though far too scrawny and short to look fourteen. He moved with a twitchy, uncertain step, like he was afraid of being left behind.
He wore a vest three sizes too big, zipped up to the neck as if he were trying to hide inside it — like a turtle in its shell.
"You working today too?" he asked.
"What do you think, Milo?"
"Dude... come on. Just take a day off, for once. Let's hit the holo room, run a few rounds of PulseShot. I need the practice if I don't wanna lose my spot on the school solo team."
Terry couldn't help but glance at him, noticing how his whole demeanor shifted the moment he mentioned PulseShot — gesturing like he had a weapon in hand, scanning the surroundings with mock precision. Nothing like the kid who got eaten alive by bullies.
Shaking his head, Terry replied with dry sarcasm, wrapped in apathy:
"No one cares about solo mode. Your spot's safe."
"I know, okay?! You didn't have to say it out loud!" Milo kicked at the ground, mock-offended.
Hands in his pockets, head lowered in feigned pity, he added, lacing sarcasm over something more real underneath: "It's the only reason I even have a spot... with this majestic, statuesque physique I was blessed with."
Milo looked up slightly, checking if the act had landed. But Terry wasn't playing along. He shot him down flat:
"Forget it, choom. I've got no cash."
Dropping the act, Milo sighed. "You make it really hard to be your friend, you know that?"
Terry raised an eyebrow, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "You're the one tagging along, aren't you?"
"That's only 'cause I owe you."
Terry shook his head again, like he didn't owe anyone anything. Truth was, he'd only helped Milo because the kid's small frame reminded him of his little brother.
After a short silence, Milo gave it one more try:
"Come on... my treat."
Terry didn't bother to answer. Milo lowered his voice then, as if about to talk about something he wished he hadn't seen—or known.
"I did some digging online…"
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"You're the youngest ever PulseShot champion in Neo-Gotham's junior league. If we team up, we could snag a spot in the doubles bracket. And if we do well…" —he added, a spark of hope lighting up his eyes— "Who knows? Maybe they'd bump us up to the star division. Five-on-five."
Milo's insistence—and the thought of what else he might have uncovered in his "research"—brought Terry to a dead stop. Without another excuse, he met Milo's gaze squarely. His voice, flat and cold enough to intimidate, cut through the air:
"I don't play that anymore. Ever. Forget it."
The silence that followed grew thick. But before it turned awkward…
"Give it up, Milo," —came a voice behind them— "You can't plan anything with him."
It was a girl their age, her face calm and soft. Her hair was as black as her eyes, her lips painted to match.
"Hey, Maya," Milo murmured, shoulders sagging in defeat.
She offered a faint smile, without looking away from Terry, who just rolled his eyes and kept walking toward the bus stop.
Having known him since grade school—and having witnessed the change firsthand, from a cheerful, laughing boy to the indifferent, hollow young man before her—Maya Tan asked:
"How's your brother?"
"He's fine," Terry replied.
"And your father?"
Terry hesitated. Drinking himself to death, Drunker than ever. In the end, he settled on something vaguer: "Still alive."
The three kept talking until, just a few meters from the bus station, Terry suddenly stopped.
He'd heard laughter drifting out of an alley they were about to cross.
Seeing him frozen there, staring into the gap between the buildings, Milo spoke up, drawing Maya's attention too.
"What is it?"
When the two of them stepped closer and followed his gaze, they saw it.
Four sixteen-year-old teens had cornered a hunched homeless man, draped in filthy rags, his eyes dull and empty.
"Come on, old man! Do something for the donations!" The one speaking was filming him straight through his Kiyoshi implants, embedded in his eyes. His tone was mocking, self-satisfied—like someone convinced they were making history.
"'MeatFactory69' in the chat says we should make him dance," added another, reading aloud the comments floating across his Idn interface.*
(* IDneural: A microchip implanted in the cerebral cortex. Its primary use is as a universal ID, passport, and, if licensed, a driver's permit.
But it goes far beyond that. The Idn lets users:
Browse the net.
Watch videos, shows, or livestreams projected in their field of vision.
Access social media and apps.
Read, send messages, and make calls to other IDns.
And link to their bank accounts to make payments.)
"Haha, what a legend 'D3ntalCrush,'" chimed in a third. "Just dropped 300 bits so we can make him kiss our sneakers. Thanks, D3ntal—yours goes first."
"You heard him, old man. Start with mine," said the one filming, shoving his foot toward the man's face.
The homeless man, defeated, leaned in. His weather-worn face trembled as he drew closer to the sole. But just before touching it, he stopped.
"What's wrong? Didn't you say you'd do anything?" the teen sneered, tossing a couple of crumpled bills onto the ground. "Here—twenty Eddies. Come on, old man. Donations aren't optional."
The man swallowed hard, hesitating before picking up the money. Then, after taking it, he bent forward again—slowly.
The chat didn't take long to react:
@Diddy'soilsmugler:[LOL he's actually gonna do it]
@CabraBOOM:[WAYTOODANK]
@D3ntalCrush:[Haha, disgusting. Best 300 bits I've ever spent.]
@Pizza_devourer:[Next, make him lick the dumpster.]
@Saburo'shemorrhoid:[WAYTOODANK WAYTOODANK WAYTOODANK WAYTOODANK…]
@Demigod_666:[Chat, how much would it take for you guys? I wouldn't even think about it for less than 500 Eddies.]
@BlueChimp: [WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? LEAVE HIM ALONE!]
At least there was someone willing to call out what they were seeing.
"BlueChimp, if you don't like it, don't watch, bro," scoffed the fourth kid, like some wannabe stream mod.
Then, just as the homeless man's cracked lips were about to touch the synthetic sole…
"Ugh… fuck, gross. He probably has something," said the kid filming with his Kiroshi, jerking his leg back sharply.
His foot slammed into the man's face, knocking him sideways. A thin line of blood trickled from his bruised nose.
Instead of apologizing, the teen threw his hands up in mock horror, overacting stupidly:
"Did you see that, chat? Shit, I actually touched him… hope I didn't catch anything. I feel dirty now!"
His friends' laughter quickly fueled the chat's, who followed like a flock:
@jaeger350: [hahahaha]
@Goonerking: [Omg! He was actually gonna do it!]
@MeatFactory69: [Pathetic]
@BlueChimp: [YOU SHOULD BE FUCKING ASHAMED! I'm calling the cops!]
@D3ntalCrush: [FUCK OFF, MORAL POLICE! NO ONE'S FORCING HIM!]
@Pizza_devourer: [If you don't like it, they already told you—just leave… Some people can't stop lecturing others.]
Then, a shiny notification popped up, highlighted above the rest, grabbing everyone's attention:
@Diddy'soilsmugler donated 500 bits:"Make him eat some trash now."
"Oh! Thanks, Diddy!" one of the boys exclaimed, his smile greedy. "Viewer's always right—especially when they pay. Come on, let's see who can find the nastiest shit for him to eat."
"Gross… I love it," said another, prying open the rusted lid of the nearest dumpster.
Before they could pull out the first garbage bag, a tired voice—yet one that still carried weight—finally spoke:
"Leave him alone."
The four of them turned. Looked at him. And burst out laughing.
"And who the hell are you? Union rep for the homeless?"
"You're asking for a beating, kid. Get lost before you tank our viewer count," sneered the one filming, pointing his Kiroshi lenses for the first time at the hooded figure standing at the mouth of the alley.
@BlueChimp:[Finally someone—Wait a kid?!]
@Demigod_666:[Oh, this just got better!]
@UrbanSavage99:[Fight, fight, fight…]
@SweetKarnage: [For real? LOL]
@EchoVomit:[Blood in 3… 2… 1]
"Terry, let's go. This isn't our problem," Maya urged, tugging at his sleeve, her voice strained and barely steady.
"Yeah! L-let's not get involved," Milo stammered, tense as a wire about to snap.
"Listen to them, Terry," mocked another of the teens. "Get out of here before you regret trying to play hero."
Because his hood still hid his face, hearing that name made someone in the chat react too:
@BlueChimp:[Terry!?]
Shaking his head in disdain at that misinterpretation of his actions, Terry pointed at the homeless man:
"I couldn't care less about that guy. If he's sunk so low he'll kiss your feet for a handful of Eddies… that's on him."
He said it with a steady voice—but not with cruelty. His father had "taught" him how a person could degrade themselves over time, and the kind of tragedy that pushed them there.
"But you lot humiliating him for a fucking stream—for donations and views… That's what's pathetic."
@Diddy'soilsmugler: [This brat's about to get his ass kicked in 16K.]
@MrDonuts:[if you think about it, he's kinda right. Still fun to watch though.]
@Demigod_666: [hahahaha, yeah, I gotta agree with @MrDonuts]
It wasn't Terry's words that pissed the teens off. It was the laughter in the chat, the first comments turning against them.
That creeping sense they were losing control of their own show.
A single look passed between them—and that was all it took to change the plan for the stream: teach this punk live on camera why you don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong.
When the four of them moved toward him, Terry didn't back away. His eyes flicked on their own, gauging the distance between them, the speed of their steps, and the narrow space of the alley.
And the answer he found wasn't to retreat. It was the opposite: take ground.
He surprised all four of them—and the entire chat—when, instead of running away, he shook off the hand gripping his sleeve and charged straight at them.
@Xx_PainDealer69_xX:[OHHHH the kid's got balls!]
@Hunter77:[Sweep incoming 💀💀💀]
Then, the first punches flew.
Terry had no real experience fighting—but he knew plenty about taking hits. Thanks, once again, to his father.
The first blows landed on his face, his stomach. Clumsy, badly aimed—but enough to knock him off balance.
Little by little, he started picking up the rhythm of their attacks. He began dodging, stepping back in quick hops, retreating over the same ground he'd gained.
Out of sheer common sense, he kept them from surrounding him, using his backpack as a makeshift shield—or a cape—to cushion the punches he couldn't avoid.
That stubborn resistance, that unexpected way of dragging the fight out… started to unsettle them.
@Hunter77: [Four on one and you still can't land a solid hit, bro.]
@NoScopeBambi:[Haha this is pathetic.]
@N3oVomit:[Literal secondhand embarrassment stream.]
The teen with the Kiyoshi implants, getting more and more pissed by the comments, crouched down without thinking. He grabbed a dusty brick from the ground and hurled it in frustration.
There was no time to dodge.
The brick slammed into Terry's forehead, and his left eyebrow split open with a dull, wet crack. Blood trickled down his cheek.
The dirty move disgusted some in the chat.
@MrDonuts: [DAMN… that was too much.]
@glitchteenz:[Bro… what the hell did you just do?]
The blow from the brick left him reeling—and that was the signal. The other three pounced like jackals, so hell-bent on paying Terry back for the humiliation that they forgot all about the chat and the stream.
They brought him down easily, slamming him against the asphalt, right in front of the alley's dumpster.
Terry curled up, shielding his head with his arms, tightening into himself as the kicks rained down without mercy: his ribs, his back, his legs. Every strike made him shrink a little more.
"Hey! That's enough! Stop, please!" Maya screamed from the alley entrance, her voice breaking, fists trembling helplessly at her sides.
"Y-yeah, guys… he's learned his lesson," added Milo, his voice shaking as much as his legs.
Maya stepped forward, but Milo instinctively grabbed her arm—without even looking at her—like stopping her was the only thing he could do, when he couldn't make himself move.
Barely a meter away, the homeless man cowered too. Afraid. Hiding behind the same dumpster, a silent witness as a vicious stomp crashed into Terry's face, splattering it with his own blood.
And then… when Terry tasted that metallic tang—the same as hers that rainy night—the homeless man saw it.
He saw the boy face split into two conflicting emotions.
His pupils, contracted and locked in trauma, stared ahead—at the charred remains of his mother's back, burnt down to the bone.
His nostrils filled with the same stench of scorched flesh and tissue.
And in that moment—trapped—something inside him seized the chance to break free.
It split Terry's face in two, carving a soft smile baring his white teeth, streaked with blood, tasting freedom for the first time.
And whatever it was… it wanted more. Taking over the rest of his body.
Like a wounded animal, Terry lunged, grabbed the nearest leg with both arms, threw his full weight on it—and let out a guttural, cathartic scream.
Releasing all the pain, all the guilt, the rage, the exhaustion… everything he'd bottled up for years.
And then—he twisted.
The crack of the dislocated bone rang out even over the teen's shrieks as he fell—Terry already waiting for him on the ground.
And when the boy's head reached his hands, Terry silenced him by slamming his face into the pavement.
The others didn't even have time to react. The chat exploded.
@Xx_PainDealer69_xX:[WHAT THE FUCK?!]
@Diddy'soilsmugler:[THE KID JUST LOST HIS SHIT!!]
@Hunter77:[Bro that was a Fatality 😭😭😭]
Taking advantage of the teenagers' stunned state, Terry locked onto the nearest weak point. When he found it, he bent his legs like coiled springs and launched himself off the ground—like a torpedo.
Driving his head straight into the nearest teen's testicles.
The boy collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his crotch, a high, dry wail erupting from his lungs.
Terry stood up slowly, grabbed his head by the sides—and without hesitation, guided the teen's face into his knee as it shot upward.
The crack was clean. The body dropped backward, unconscious.
The third one—no longer angry, just scared—wrapped his arms around Terry from behind, using his height to lift him off the ground. He was trying to hold him back, to pull him away from the limp bodies of his friends.
Trapped, Terry writhed without success. So he did what any cornered animal would do again: he bit down on the boy's arm.
The teen screamed—but didn't let go. Not until Terry tore a chunk out of his forearm and spat it into his face, following it up with a sharp elbow to the jaw.
That level of violence unsettled the regular users in the chat… but it thrilled the degenerates.
@noMorals777:[That kid belongs in a cage.]
@SojuQueen:[Okay, this isn't funny anymore.]
@xFleshmarketx:[More…]
The last one—the one recording, the brick one—forgot about the stream, about appearances, about his friends, about everything, and bolted.
Terry was too exhausted to chase him, so he bent down and picked up the same brick from the ground.
He raised it, panting, blood streaming from his brow, his nose, his mouth. And true to that #1 spot on PulseShot, he hurled it with everything he had left.
The brick flew. And just as the kid looked back to check if anyone was following him—
The stream cut out. Instantly. On impact.
But the chat kept going.
@Saburo'shemorrhoid:[Wait… was that real?]
@Samuraiwithnojob: [Jesus... that kid is seriously messed up.]
@SweetKarnage: [Has to be fake.]
@UrbanSavage99:[You think a bunch of kids could plan something like that?]
@Demigod_666:[Getting wrecked by a younger one? Nah, I doubt it.]
@Silverdick:[Haha. They had it coming.]
@Hunter77: [Anyone got a clip of when that dumb girl says the kid's name? I wanna check the Cyberspace archives.]
@Saburo'shemorrhoid:[Ahh! he will be probably in trouble for that. His name was Terry, I think, but I only clipped the bloodiest parts.]
@Silverdick:[Here; https://www.Twick.tv/Neoguys/clip/HyeQFtYG4NybPxU2]
@Hunter77:[Better not be a troll link…]
In the alley…
Maya and Milo looked at Terry in a completely different way.
For the first time, Maya thought she understood why her father had told her to stay away from him.It wasn't about his grades, or his broken family.
She figured it must've been that smile—the one that flickered across his face for just a moment.
Like he'd enjoyed hurting them.
And that scared her… enough to make her turn and run out of the alley.
It wasn't fear of Terry exactly— It was fear of that part of him she'd never seen before.
Milo, on the other hand, stayed frozen. Hypnotized by the sheer brutality, he saw the faces of his bullies in the ones Terry had taken down— and in him, a kind of a... Punisher.
The homeless man, fearing he might be next—even though Terry was doing nothing but breathing, heavy and ragged—stumbled back in panic.
"That boy… he's got the devil inside him!"
Trying to process those words, reason slowly returned to Terry's eyes— Dragging him out of the memories he'd been trapped in.
Back to the present—Uncertain of what had just happened.
But even bruised and bloodied, he felt… good.
Lighter, somehow.
As if he'd shed a weight he hadn't even known he'd been carrying all these years.
Still, just as the chat had warned…Neither Terry's identity nor the incident went unnoticed.
-
But before that…
A room steeped in shadow, lit only by the flickering glow of a screen.
Crumpled papers, half-finished blueprints, and open books were scattered across the floor and desk in complete disarray. On the walls, some old drawings—colorful, naïve, full of life—hung beneath a more recent layer: just as vibrant, but twisted, violent... troubling.
Sitting in front of the monitor, her short orange hair still growing out into a jagged bob, the young girl didn't blink. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen, now frozen on a single gray message:
[No connection]
Her hands still hovered over the keyboard—tense. Her account, @Bluechimp, still logged.
She had recorded the stream, planning to send it to her mother as proof.
She wanted to do something.
But she hadn't expected this.
"Hey, Sparky! I'm home," came a familiar voice from the doorway—loud, vibrant, like the echo of a lioness returning to her den. "I hope you took your meds. If not, Dad's gonna kill me… and then I'll kill you."
She had just come back from school, her black hair freshly cut—a hacked-off mane born from helplessness and empathy, after failing to protect her little sister from what they did to her.
The same wound had made her leave school, and choose to study on her own, at home—at least she had the mind for it.
The girl in front of the screen didn't respond. She only turned her head slowly, eyes still glued to the monitor as if—if she stared long enough—the scene might start moving again.
"Sis… you need to see this."
"Hmm?" Her brow furrowed; the seriousness in her sister's voice hit her like a low growl. She stepped closer, tension rising, her anger already slipping into her voice.
"What is it? Another threat?"
"No... just watch," Elie replied, hitting play.