Part of the dark world series. Dark world is the collection of stories that are far more violent then the other stories and often have brutal beat downs, sadistic fights and unforgiving knock outs. Great for your looking for a fight with more gritty tones. All stories take place in the same world.
Co-written by author The Unbroken
Dirty water streamed off rusted fire escapes and splattered in the cracked concrete of the alley. It mixed with long since dried blood and bile from previous... Interactions. The rain continued to came down, never to clean or wash away the old, no it came as judgements. No matter what waters come, blessed or natural, this city would never be clean. It was cold, hard, relentless, the kind you should only see in cheap cheesy disaster movies. No one in their right mind should have been here, but this was Dark City, sanity had long since stopped being a factor here.
Comhraic was already waiting, alone this time as Ben was on another job. Comhraic wasn't worried, nor was their any reason to be, business had been good, easy, this would just be another job. This Coach, as everyone called him, would just be another easy sorry target. Some idiot who pissed off someone with money. And so Comhraic stood there, shirt discarded, skin soaked to the bone, lean muscle coiled tight under rain-slicked tattoos. His chest rose and fell steady, the hair across it plastered flat. He didn’t shiver. He didn’t blink. Just stood there, knuckles flexing, jaw set. Coach stepped in from the other end of the alley. Bigger, bulkier—built like a brick wall and just as unforgiving. His skin gleamed smooth and dark under the rain, water tracking down his arms like sweat. He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on Comhraic, and nothing else in the world mattered. No greetings. No insults. That part was long over. A job was given, a price was paid. Everything that needed to be said would be written in the blood and bruises left behind in this exchange.
Comhraic struck first, he always did. It was cheap, it was unhonorable, but here? Who the hell cared. It started with a low kick to the knee, a sick crunch that was either pain or broken bone. If that wasn't bad enough, then a swift knee to the groin. No man, no matter how strong, could tank that. But he didn't stop. Comhraic was aggressive, fast, sharp, without a single care given. A blur of fists next came in the rain. His knuckles cracked against Coach’s cheek, then again in the gut. Coach grunted, but didn’t fall. Comhraic kept pressing, one to the ribs, another to the jaw. Again to the body. Rain made it harder, but he moved like a man who didn’t care if he slipped, only if he landed each Gods damn punch.
Another blow came again, then again, then again. Coach reeled from the last blow, Comhraic’s fist had landed clean across his cheekbone, snapping his head to the side with a crack like a dry branch breaking. For a second, everything tilted. His boots scuffed against the wet pavement, staggering backward, one hand grazing the wall for balance. Rain sluiced down his face, mixing with the dark red now leaking from the corner of his mouth. Coach would swing wild against the storm, slamming against chin, rib and chest. Adrenaline pumped blood flow like water, the fight was on.
Coach swung with a mad uppercut, intent on breaking more than just bone. But the rain was fierce, and footing was far from secure. He slipped, Comhraic didn’t wait. Didn't give mercy, for no resident of Dark City would ever know or experience the word. He moved in like a predator that had tasted blood, tattooed arms a blur, shoulders coiled. Another punch slammed into Coach’s temple—an arcing right hook that snapped his head to the other side. Coach grunted, jaw tightening, eyes blinking slow and heavy. The taste of blood bloomed iron sharp across his tongue, coppery and hot, as if he were biting down on a coin. He cursed, he resented, he tried to square up.
Coach, again desperately and needy, threw a uppercut that should have blasted the skull off any man, but Comhraic was ready, waiting, he dodged. A left, a right, two more jabs, six, all missed. The world tilted again, slow this time. Distant. The buildings leaned in close like they were watching. Coach was feeling like he wanted to throw up. Previous hits I did the damage he was nauseous he was dizzy he was stupid. Coach swung again wild, Comhraic side stepped and drove another fist forward. With a sick thud and crack of bone, this one landed straight to the nose. Coach’s head jerked back, blood spraying from both nostrils, warm and thick down his upper lip. A right hook came right after. Then left, then right, then jab jab jab. Blood and spit sprayed on wall and body alike.
The world was no longer right, steady, proper. The alley swam, worse than any over done effect in a Doctor Strange movie. Everything stuttered in and out of focus—rain, fists, breath. A buzzing filled his ears like a thousand angry wasps. He blinked hard, tried to plant his feet, but the ground felt like it shifted sideways beneath him. Still, Coach growled. Shook his head like a wounded bull and spat a thick gob of blood onto the concrete between them. Swung like a mad man in crack hoping to hit... Something.
"Not yet," he rasped, lips split and swelling. "Ain’t down yet."
Coach was still upright, but his stance had cracked. The numerous punches to his face had rung his bell, but what followed was worse.... Much worse.
Comhraic stepped in tight, inside the guard, and drove a short, savage hook into Coach’s ribs. It landed with a thud that was more felt than heard, a deep-meat punch that sucked the breath from Coach’s lungs. His thick torso folded inward, a grunt tearing from him as the pain shot like lightning through his gut. Before he could recover, another blow slammed into him. A curl first born of hate, came lower this time, just above the belt line. Another gasp for air, another shock of pain, then another. A brutal uppercut to the stomach that lifted him half an inch off the ground. His abs clenched hard, trying to brace, but Comhraic’s fist broke through like a hammer through drywall. Coach gasped, a sick wheeze escaping, body pitching forward. The rain washed over his shaved head, but he barely felt it anymore. All he felt was that fire spreading in his belly, white-hot and growing. Fire still burned, but damn he hurt. He caughed up blood and saliva, summoned up something and swung. Swung and missed by a mile, suffering another blow to his core for the trouble. A left hook dug in just under his floating ribs. Coach’s whole body jerked like it had been stabbed. Then a right hook came, same place. The left, then right, how many times this repeated Coach lost count.
His vision swam; bile rose in his throat, bitter and sharp. He staggered sideways, clutching at his side instinctively, breath coming in short, shallow bursts. His core was a tough thick slabs of muscle forged from years of grinding work, but even iron bends when you hit it right. And Comhraic knew how to hit it right.
And hit he did.
Coach dropped to one knee, trying to draw breath, trying to gather himself. A swift kick to the head ended that thought.... Comhraic didn't care if you fell, felt beaten, begged for mercy. Not in a fight like this. Not with a score this deep.
On the ground, defenselees and powerless, the first blow came fast, a sharp, driving knee straight into Coach’s gut. It landed with a wet, dull thud that echoed off the alley walls. Coach’s whole body lurched forward, mouth open in a silent choke. All the air he’d managed to claw back was ripped away again. His vision went white around the edges, and he tasted acid rising in his throat. Another punch followed. A tight, mean uppercut dug into the soft spot just below his ribcage, cruel and deliberate. Coach jerked again, a raw sound tearing from his throat, not quite a groan, not quite a scream. He keeled forward, one hand splayed on the pavement, trying to stop himself from folding completely. Then came the third. Comhraic's fist crashed in low and center, a drilling body shot that felt like it rattled Coach’s spine. His body convulsed, stomach locking up like a fist. He spit again, thick and red, strings of it trailing from his lips to the ground.
Coach swayed between this world and the next, body screaming for the end, his abdomen a pulsing knot of agony. Another shot came in this state, this one to the side, deep in the kidney. Coach's eyes flew wide, a breathless gasp escaping as pain lit through his back like lightning. His shoulder slammed against the brick wall beside him for support, teeth clenched so hard it felt like they’d crack.
"You done?" Comhraic growled, voice cold and laced with arrogance.
Coach’s answer was just a slow turn of his head. Blood on his lips. Eyes burning.
"No."
And he started to rise. He was shaking, he was wounded badly, but he was still in it. Still had life, power, could still be dangerous....
Coach had taken the hits, staggered many times, and now he was done. His fists came up. Slower, heavier, but still determined to do what needed to be done. And so, Coach rose slow, like something primal dragging itself out of the mud. His legs were trembling, core torn to shreds, blood in his mouth and fire in his gut—but he stood. Shoulders square. Head up. One eye already swelling shut. Comhraic moved in to finish it, too confident, too fast.
Coach surged.
Not clean, not pretty, just... violent. His fist shot up from low, a looping right hook that caught Comhraic across the jaw with the wet crack of knuckles on bone. Comhraic’s head snapped to the side, water flying off his beard in a halo. It didn’t drop him, but it rocked him. The second came faster, an uppercut from underneath, driven by every last thread of fury Coach had left in his core. It slammed into Comhraic’s chin and snapped his head back. His boots slid an inch across the pavement. That one left him blinking. Breath hitching. The rain couldn’t hide the stumble in his step.
Comhraic’s nostrils flared. He came back with a jab, but it was slower this time. Sloppy. Coach slipped it and answered with a left straight to the cheekbones, bone on bone, brutal and fast. The way it should be! Comhraic’s lip split open, red trailing down to his chin. He stepped back. Just half a step, but it was enough. His chest rose and fell heavier now. Shoulders sagged just a little. His arms, so fast, so crisp before, hung looser, weighed down by the effort. His eyes burned, not with rage this time, the big man was gassing out.
Coach acted. He saw the slip, the half-step back, the slack in Comhraic’s arms, and he pounced.
All the pain in his own gut, all the blood and broken breath, he turned it into violence. The first shot landed with a sickening thud, a straight right drilled into Comhraic’s solar plexus. His body jolted, eyes going wide as the air tore from his lungs. He doubled forward just slightly, and that was all the opening Coach needed. He buried a left hook into the ribs—hard, deep, like he was punching into wet cement. He felt something give under his knuckles, and Comhraic let out a guttural sound, a twisted grunt of pain he couldn’t swallow. Coach didn't care...
Coach didn’t stop.
Another body shot came, with all the hate and malice that existed in the world. Then another. He unloaded, he unleashed, he opened up the gates of hell. Fists came like sledgehammers, each blow hammering into Comhraic’s midsection. Left-right-left. Straight in. Tight hook. Another to the liver. Rain flew off both men in sheets now, steam rising from their skin like animals in a storm. Comhraic staggered backward, arms instinctively dropping to shield his torso—but Coach just adjusted. Dropped low, slammed a brutal uppercut into the center of his stomach. Comhraic bent in half, coughing wet, his breath coming in choked stutters.
"How’s that feel, huh?" Coach barked between strikes, voice hoarse, eyes wild. "Ain’t so nice when you’re takin’ it!"
He rammed another punch into Comhraic’s mid stomsch, twisting at the last second for maximum torque. The thud of flesh echoed off the alley walls. Comhraic gritted his teeth, face twisted in pain, trying to circle out, to save himself from this turn of events. No use, Coach was on him like a storm, chest to chest, fists crashing into his core like they were trying to tear him down from the inside out.
Coach didn’t give him space. Didn’t let him breathe.
He stepped back in with a snarl, slammed another shot straight into Comhraic’s navel. The sound was ugly, like the birth of a new violent God, and Comhraic folded forward again, arms slack, mouth open in a silent gasp. Coach caught him mid-drop with a hand on the shoulder and drove another hook into the same spot, pounding his fist into that shredded core like it owed him something. The abs that had once looked like armor now trembled with every hit. They were bruised, battered, softening under the abuse. Coach could feel it, the pure beauty and ecstasy of the breakdown. The involuntary flinch. The way Comhraic’s knees buckled every time a punch landed. Another right to the stomach. Then a quick left. Then another to the ribs, close enough that it felt like punching a brick under meat. Comhraic gasped, spit flying from his mouth, body folding, only for Coach to grab him and yank him upright again.
"Stay with me, tough guy," Coach growled, voice rasping like gravel. "Ain’t quittin’ till I dig my fist through you...fully"
He jammed another fist straight into Comhraic’s abs, right under the sternum. Comhraic grunted, loud, raw, human. His head lolled forward, chin nearly hitting his chest. Coach turned him and shoved him back, with extreme prejudice, into the soaked brick wall. Comhraic hit it with a dull smack, his spine arching as he sagged against the surface, legs trembling beneath him. The only thing keeping him upright now was Coach's hands, planted flat against his chest, holding him there.
Comhraic’s breathing was broken glass, jagged and shallow. He soul wanting to leave his moral battered body behind. Rain streamed down his face, mixing with the blood running from his split lip, his nose, somewhere deeper. His abs were red and blotched, twitching with every breath, every movement. Coach leaned in, chest to chest, close enough that their breaths mixed in the space between.
"You feel that?" he said, voice low, almost a whisper. "That’s what payback tastes like."
Comhraic didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
He pressed his hand hard into Comhraic’s chest, pinning him to the wall like a trophy hung up to bleed. Comhraic’s arms twitched at his sides, trying to rise, trying to defend, but the punishment had dug too deep. His core was wreckage. His legs, jelly. The rest of his body, not even worth mentioning. Coach’s eyes burned, locked on his target. He took a moment to admire his work, since clearly the unbeatable Comhraic was finished.
Then he unloaded.
The first shot drove deep into Comhraic’s side, just under the ribs. The whole wall shook with the impact, Comhraic’s body jerking like a puppet with cut strings. Another to the belly. Straight in. Fist sinking into soft, brutalized flesh. Comhraic gagged, mouth hanging open, drool and blood dripping down his chin. Then came the combo, left, right, left, right, each punch precise, vicious, battering his abs like a drum in a war march. The thuds were wet and ugly, bone against battered muscle, the kind of hits that stole years from a man. Comhraic twitched under each one, spine arching, the fight leaving his body in broken pieces.
Coach smiled and beheld his work.
Comhraic lay slumped against the brick wall, his breath dragging in and out through bloodied lips, raw and ragged. His chest rose and fell in uneven shudders, every inhalation like dragging glass through his ribs. The rain beat down, soaking him to the bone, but he didn’t flinch. Couldn't. He was done, and he knew it. But Coach… Coach wasn’t finished. This had been a long time coming, and he was enjoying himself!
Comhraic raised his head just enough to meet his gaze. One eye swollen shut, the other barely focused. He didn’t speak. Didn’t beg. Just stared, defeated, defiant, and drained.
Coach stood beside him. Calm. Controlled.
"You’re gonna remember this," he said quietly, voice low but sharp as a blade. "Not just the pain. Not just the loss. You’re gonna carry this every damn day."
Then he grabbed Comhraic’s left wrist.
Even beaten, Comhraic jerked, instinct more than fight, but it was too late. It had been too late for to long now. Coach twisted the arm behind his back, planted his knee on the shoulder, and drove down with brutal force.
There was a sickening snap.
Comhraic arched off the wall with a strangled roar, a half-scream half-growl that echoed off the bricks. His body bucked and shook, then slumped again, shaking, twitching.
Coach moved to the other side.
"One arm’s a message," he muttered. "Two’s a warning."
He took Comhraic’s right arm, pinned it across his own thigh, and with a sudden jerk of his hips and a twist of his hands...
CRACK.
The scream was shorter this time. Choked. Guttural. Comhraic’s head dropped forward, breath spilling out in broken coughs, lips trembling. Both arms lay at his sides now, useless, ruined. Bent wrong. Coach stood over him again, looking down at the wreckage.
The message was sent, now it was time to end it.
Coach growled as he wound back one last time, stepped in and planted a short, compact hook right into Comhraic’s liver.
Utterly devastating.
The sound Comhraic made wasn’t human. His whole body buckled, but Coach caught him again, shoved him back against the wall like he was keeping him conscious just to finish it.
One beat.
One breath.
Then the right cross.
Clean.
Heavy.
Final.
It cracked across Comhraic’s face with the sound of stone breaking. His head snapped violently to the side, a burst of blood spraying from his mouth. His knees buckled, and this time, Coach let him go. Comhraic slumped down the wall like a sack of meat, crashing to the alley floor in a crumpled heap, arms limp, head lolling.
The rain kept falling.
Coach stood over him, chest heaving, blood and water pouring off him like baptism. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
The silence said everything.
It was over.
Comhraic was done.
And Coach was still standing.
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