They didn't scream for long.
The three men who once danced on Damian's ribs with steel-toed boots now bled into the concrete behind the run-down factory.
One had his jaw dislocated, teeth scattered like dice.
Another twitched, his kneecaps shattered, arms broken in reverse.
The third tried to crawl, but Damian calmly stepped on his spine until he stopped moving.
He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
Only one of them was still conscious, barely.
Damian crouched next to him. "Remember me?"
The guy whimpered.
"You don't?" Damian leaned in, crimson eyes glowing beneath the dim light. "Then let's make a new memory."
The man's scream echoed as Damian drove a rusted metal pipe into his thigh, twisting until the bone crunched like a bag of chips.
---
It didn't take long for word to spread. A gangster's underling heard about the beatdown and came looking.
"Yo," he had said, slicked-back hair, gold chain, smug face. "You think you're hot shit now? You know who's my boss? Let's see you swing on ten of us."
Damian didn't answer. He just watched.
When the punch connected with his jaw, Damian dropped.
Eyes wide open one second, then closed.
Dead silence.
"…He's out?" one of the men said.
The man laughed. "Cheap punk. Told you. He folded after one punch."
He didn't notice the faint smirk twitching at the corner of Damian's lips before it vanished again.
---
Damian came to, tied to a metal chair.
The stench hit first—sweat, blood, piss, cheap cigars.
A low, underground murmur echoed around him.
Cheers. Screams. Laughter.
And the sound of fists pounding flesh like meat in a butcher shop.
They'd stripped him to pants and left his upper body bare to humiliate him
Despite never having trained a day in his life, Damian's physique had transformed.
Lean muscle carved his frame, dense and sharp like he'd been sculpted for violence.
Not oversized—just right. Functional.
Built for killing.
Sand covered the floor—a makeshift arena no bigger than a public restroom, under a red light bulb that buzzed like a dying insect.
An announcer yelled through a speaker:
"Tonight's lesson in humility! Another deadbeat, another piece of trash who thinks the rules don't apply to him!"
The crowd, drunken and manic, roared.
They removed the gag.
Damian looked up.
Across the small pit stood a man twice his size, shirtless, muscles rippling with years of training.
Scars ran across his torso. His hands were wrapped in cracked leather—old but deadly.
Boxer. Ten years in underground fights. Once broke a guy's jaw with a body shot.
Now he cracked his neck and smiled.
"Don't take it personal, kid," he said, bouncing on his heels. "I just do what I'm paid for."
Damian blinked slowly. "Sure."
They rang the bell.
The boxer charged in, throwing a jab to test the waters. It never landed.
Damian tilted his head and caught the man's wrist mid-punch. There was a snapping sound—subtle, almost tender.
The boxer screamed.
"Oh," Damian said, tilting his head. "Was that important?"
He twisted the broken wrist, slammed the man's elbow into his own knee with a sickening crack, then shoved him face-first into the sand.
"Come on," Damian whispered, crouching by his head. "You're the big man, right? Hit me."
The boxer rolled and threw a wild hook with his good hand.
Damian didn't dodge. He caught the fist, then drove his knuckles into the man's eye socket like a spike.
The eye swelled immediately.
Gasps echoed from the crowd.
Damian leaned in. "What's your name?"
The man coughed blood.
"No?" Damian whispered, punching him in the liver so hard he convulsed. "You don't matter anyway."
He didn't just beat him.
He played with him.
Every punch was surgical.
A nerve. A tendon. A joint. He cracked ribs, twisted muscles, dug into pressure points until the boxer's hands stopped clenching and his breath came out in sobs.
And Damian smiled through it all.
He whispered things between hits:
"Still think you're a fighter?"
"Think they'll cheer louder when you piss yourself?"
"You're not a man. You're meat."
The boxer cried. Loudly. Damian didn't stop.
Eventually, the bell rang, not to stop the fight—but because the audience couldn't take it anymore.
Even the thug who brought him in looked pale.
Damian stood above the broken, twitching heap, blood staining his hands and forearms.
Then he turned toward the crowd, eyes blazing red.
"You have more of these?" he asked, voice low, slow. "Or was this the best you had?"
No one answered.
He flicked blood off his knuckles, still smiling faintly.
---
The ring stank of copper and spit.
Blood soaked the sand like ink in water.
Damian stood alone at its center, shirtless, a cigarette between his lips, blood dripping from his knuckles like sweat.
The boxer—ten years of training, a name in the underground—lay twitching on the floor.
His mouth hung open, teeth shattered like porcelain, eyes rolling in and out of consciousness.
Silence. Then a wave of cheers. No one knew what they were cheering for.
Victory? Violence? A monster in a man's skin?
Damian exhaled, the smoke rising around his face like a veil.
"Next," he whispered.
They sent in a thug with prison tattoos and a rusted blade.
Damian didn't move until the man was two steps from him, swinging.
Then—silence. Just one sickening snap of bone as Damian caught the man's wrist, turned it backwards, and shoved the blade into his throat.
The body collapsed like trash thrown away.
Another cheer.
Two came in next—one with a metal bat, the other bare-fisted and foaming at the mouth.
Damian didn't hesitate.
He threw himself forward like a shadow, ducking under the bat swing, grabbing the man's throat and slamming him to the ground.
The second got a punch in.
It made Damian grin.
He turned slowly, blood trailing from his lips—not his own—and kicked the man's leg at the knee.
Bone exploded through skin. The scream was music.
Damian followed with an elbow that caved in the man's temple. A twitch, a gurgle, silence.
He walked back to center, arms loose, movements calm.
Above, in the VIP balcony shrouded in smoke and gold light, men in black suits leaned forward.
"Who the fuck is that?" one asked.
"Don't know. Some candidate probably. They said he came in unconscious though. "
"He's smiling."
"I know."
One of them, a man with slicked-back hair and serpent eyes, lit a cigar with a golden lighter.
His underlings stood behind him like statues.
"Find out his name," the boss murmured. "And don't let him leave."
Back in the ring, Damian raised his hand.
"Hey," he said lazily, voice flat, "how many more?"
The announcer—a scrawny man covered in sweat—froze. "U-uh… next! Next challenger!"
They sent in a brute. Six-five. Muscles like sacks of cement. The kind of guy you hire to intimidate debtors.
Damian tilted his head. "You nervous?"
The brute said nothing.
Damian stepped closer. "You're shaking. Don't do that. It makes me excited."
The crowd laughed—nervously.
The brute swung a massive fist. Damian ducked, grabbed it mid-air, and twisted it at the wrist until something popped.
The scream was hoarse.
Damian didn't let go. He leaned in. "Tell me… what's it like knowing your strength means nothing?"
He kneed the man in the gut—once, twice, then brought an elbow down on the back of his neck.
The man dropped.
Damian stomped his face three times.
Then sat on his back and lit another cigarette.
He looked at the crowd. "That all you've got?"
They were silent.
Above, the boss leaned back in his leather seat.
"I like him," he said coldly. "Let's test how far he goes."
From the hallway, the iron gate creaked open again.
---
"Send in Enzo," Luis said, calmly, swirling scotch in a glass that cost more than most men's lives.
---
Enzo.
Towering. Hardened. Loyal only to Luis.
He'd torn out eyes for sport and once made a man eat his own fingers over unpaid debt.
The arena's lights dimmed. The crowd hushed.
Damian stood barefoot in the sand, shirtless now.
No scars. No bruises. No training—and yet, his physique had improved with terrifying speed.
Muscles packed tight and lean like wire under pressure.
Not a fighter's body, but something unnatural. Grown, not earned.
Enzo cracked his knuckles. Damian stared blankly, cigarette hanging from his lips.
They circled. One move. Damian struck first—a feint to the throat.
Enzo caught it mid-air and twisted his arm back with expert precision.
The crack echoed like a bone snapping under thunder.
Damian didn't scream.
Enzo grinned. "You're good, kid. But you're not ready."
Another punch—straight to Damian's ribs.
He staggered.
More blows came fast. Elbows. Knees.
Damian's usual tactics—pressure points, telegraphed feints, erratic footwork—none of them worked.
This one was trained for war.
And for a split second, Damian was losing.
That's when his eyes lit red.
Time slowed for him. Not in reality. Just in intent.
One moment.
He remembered the knife—half-buried in sand, tossed aside from a dead opponent.
His fingers twitched.
The blade shot into his hand as if it were summoned by fate itself.
Psychic force pulled it so fast that the edge screamed through the air.
In one fluid motion, he spun, accelerated his arm with invisible force, and slashed.
The knife tore through Enzo's neck.
Clean. No resistance. A red arc painted the air behind them.
Enzo's body dropped to its knees. His head rolled near the feet of the spectators.
Damian lit another cigarette with a shaky hand and stared at the corpse.
"…Didn't ask for your name," he muttered.
---
Luis laughed when he saw Damian's handiwork.
"I like you," he said, clapping as if applauding a twisted Broadway show. "You want a job?"
Damian nodded. "Bodyguard."
And just like that, he was in.