The warehouse was silent except for the creaking of rusted metal in the wind. Located far off in a forgotten part of town, it was the kind of place no one visited, where even the rats avoided nesting.
The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of oil and rust. A single overhead bulb swung slowly, its dim light casting twisted shadows across the room.
Donaldson was slumped in a metal chair, his arms and legs bound tightly with chains that scraped against his skin every time he moved.
His dirty blond hair was matted and wet, clinging to his wrinkled forehead. Though only thirty-five, the years had not been kind to him—substance abuse had hollowed him out, leaving behind an aged husk of a man.
His sunken eyes, jaundiced and glassy, barely stayed open. His beer belly strained against the stained fabric of his shirt, completing the image of a man long past redemption.
Suddenly, a splash of ice-cold water hit him full in the face.
He jolted upright with a choked gasp, coughing violently as water rushed up his nose and down his throat.
His eyes darted around in a panic, trying to make sense of where he was. He saw the chains. The concrete floor. The table next to him lined with unfamiliar, menacing tools—pliers, blades, clamps.
Then his eyes landed on a boy standing a few feet away—Ethan. Young, expressionless, but with an unsettling calm in his gaze.
Donaldson's mind, scrambled by fear and confusion, immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion.
"Please!" he blurted out, his voice cracking. "Give me more time! I swear I'll get Pablo his money! Just—just tell him I need a week!"
He didn't even stop to consider that Ethan was too young to be a debt collector—panic had replaced reason.
The only thing he knew was that he was chained, helpless, and facing someone with clear intent.
Ethan tilted his head slightly, unblinking. His voice was calm but heavy with suppressed rage.
"June 6th, 2006."
Donaldson froze. The name Pablo was gone from his mind now. "Wh-what?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Ethan took a step forward. "In an alley near Genesis Theatre. Do you remember what happened on that day?"
Donaldson blinked, confusion twisting his features. 2006? That was long before he got involved with Pablo.
Long before the gang life fully took over. What was this kid talking about?
Then, a sick realization began to creep into his mind. Why would a teenager be collecting money for Pablo?
Pablo had more than enough grown men to do that work. His confusion deepened… until the pit in his stomach turned to dread.
Ethan's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "I can see that you're distracted. Let me help you focus."
Without warning, Ethan grabbed the chain, yanked Donaldson from the chair, and dragged him across the concrete floor to the far corner of the warehouse.
There, a basin filled with murky water sat waiting. Floating inside were red pepper seeds—hundreds of them. A burning concoction for pain.
"This might jog your memory," Ethan said coldly.
Donaldson's eyes widened. "Wait—no, please—!"
His protest was silenced as Ethan shoved his head into the basin.
Water bubbled violently as Donaldson thrashed, the spicy mixture searing into his eyes and nose.
He struggled wildly, coughing and gagging. After twelve seconds, Ethan yanked him up.
Donaldson screamed. "My eyes! My eyes! They're burning—please—!"
"You're not trying hard enough to remember," Ethan replied, and pushed his head back in.
Again. And again.
Each time, Donaldson came out red-eyed, crying, coughing, mucus and tears streaming down his bloated face.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Donaldson broke.
"I remember!" he screamed. "I remember what happened!"
Ethan paused, standing over him, watching.
Donaldson sobbed, barely able to speak. His face was red and puffy, nose leaking, lips trembling. "It… it was supposed to be simple. Just a robbery. Scare a couple, take their money, that's all." he was struggling as he spoke.
"I found my targets so I followed them, and waited until they were alone… But it was my first time.
I was nervous. When the man stepped toward me, I panicked—I didn't mean to shoot, I swear I didn't mean to!"
He broke down in heavy sobs, guilt finally clawing at his chest. "I just… I just wanted to scare them…"
Ethan stared at him in silence, his voice low and cold. "Do you take me for a fool?"
Donaldson looked up, dazed. "What?"
"One bullet might be panic. But you didn't just shoot my father. You aimed and fired at my mother, too. You didn't run. You chose to finish the job."
Ethan stepped closer, shadows crawling across his face. "Don't lie to me."
Donaldson held his breath, frozen.
Ethan leaned in. "So unless you're ready to tell me why you really did it... I'll continue to make every single day of your life worse than death."
He grabbed Donaldson by the hair, dragging him back toward the basin.
"No—wait—please! You have to believe me—it was a mistake—I didn't want to kill them!"
But Ethan didn't respond. His grip tightened, and he shoved Donaldson's head into the burning water again. The muffled screams filled the warehouse, bubbling with every second.
The night had only just begun.
****
It became routine. A dark, twisted ritual that Ethan performed with unwavering precision. Every day, he stepped into that desolate warehouse tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world.
For Donaldson, each day was a cycle of pain and despair. For Ethan, it was something close to therapy.
He didn't mind the screams—they were background noise, a symphony of guilt and anguish.
The smell of blood, sweat, and urine didn't bother him. If anything, it grounded him. Each flinch, each sob, each plea was another brushstroke on a canvas painted with retribution.
His seven years of searching hadn't been in vain. During that time, Ethan had studied anatomy, pain thresholds, and the psychology of suffering. If the CIA had ever witnessed the talent he honed, they'd have begged to recruit him.
For three long months, Ethan asked the same question, again and again:
"June 6th, 2006. An alley near Genesis Theatre. What happened that day?"
Donaldson always gave an answer. Ethan always called it a lie. Then the session would begin.
Today was no different—at least on the surface.
As Ethan entered the warehouse, the light flickered above, revealing the shell of a man chained to a chair.
Donaldson looked like death wrapped in skin—barely alive, barely human. Stripped to his boxers, his body was a grotesque canvas of brutality.
His skin was bloated with bruises, his limbs covered in lash marks. Some of his fingernails and toenails were gone.
His mouth, missing a few teeth, quivered at the sound of approaching steps. Branding iron scars across his body spelled the same word, over and over:
GUILTY.
Ethan walked in slowly, briefcase in hand, footsteps echoing across concrete. Donaldson didn't even lift his head. He had no strength left for fear.
The gag was yanked from his mouth with a harsh tug.
"Please…" Donaldson whispered, lips trembling. "Just kill me…"
But the plea fell on deaf ears.
Ethan's voice was cold. "June 6th, 2006. An alley near Genesis Theatre. Do you remember what happened that day?"
Donaldson flinched, the words digging into his brain like shards of glass. But something was different today. He didn't scream. He didn't panic.
His eyes, once wild, were now dim. There was no fear left—only bitterness.
"You sick bastard," he spat, surprising Ethan.
Ethan blinked. That was new.
Donaldson raised his head slowly, something twisted behind his pain—a smile. A smile Ethan had seen once before.
"What do you want to hear?" Donaldson hissed. "I told you already I killed your parents."
"And you know what? I enjoyed it."
That smile—the same cruel grin worn by the man who had slaughtered his family—stretched across Donaldson's bruised face.
"It gives me joy," Donaldson said. "Joy to know I dragged someone else down into the filth with me. That I made you fall as low as I did."
Ethan's hands clenched, trembling for a moment before he let out a breath and released them.
"So," he said calmly, "you finally decided to be honest."
Donaldson frowned.
"That smile," Ethan continued, stepping forward,
"was the same one you wore the night you killed them."
He set the suitcase on the table, flicking the clasps open with practiced ease.
"You didn't kill for money," Ethan said as he opened it. "That night, you were hunting something else."
"You were hunting for power because killing made you feel like a god."
From the briefcase, he pulled a file and tossed it onto Donaldson's lap. Pages spilled out—photos, reports, names.
"July 7th, 2005. Abigail Grace, 32. Schoolteacher. Found dead."
"March 20th, 2000. Mark Gabriel, 23. Delivery driver. Vanished."
"And May 20th, 1998…" Ethan's voice dropped. "Daniella Bright. Twelve. Her body was found in a gutter."
He stepped closer. "There are sixty-six more. Sixty-six."
Donaldson's smile vanished. His blood drained. He was exposed—completely naked under the weight of truth.
Ethan chuckled. "You didn't drag me down. I'm still human, but you're a monster beyond saving."
He reached into the case again. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out a pistol.
The same gun that had taken his parents from him.
Donaldson's eyes widened. "Wait… no. Please don't. Please—"
Ethan stared at him.
"I hope you burn in hell."
The gunshot rang out.
Donaldson's head snapped back, a hole between his eyes.
His lifeless body slumped in the chair. His face was twisted in pain, sorrow, and the realization that he'd thrown his life away for a fleeting sense of power.
Ethan placed the gun down on the table and stood there, breathing.
"What now?" he muttered to himself.
Revenge had been his reason to exist. And now that it was done… the silence was deafening.
Then, a voice echoed in his mind.
"You're perfect."
His vision blurred. The warehouse spun. And everything went dark.
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A/N: Wow I was so surprised to wake up and see 50 power stones so I had to deliver on my promise and release an extra chapter today but I will increase the thresh hold for the the nest bonus chapter.
I will release an extra chapter if I get 90 power stones or 30 Golden tickets.
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