Dark World: Wrong Place, Wrong time....

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.

 

Rain pelted the cracked concrete like it was trying to scrub away the rot, to wash the blood, piss, and pain down the storm drains. But it failed, it always did. The rain wasn’t strong enough to cleanse this city, let alone the alley behind the Rust Nail. It just pushed the filth around, moved it from one corner of hell to another. It was Dark City after all, and this part of Dark City wasn’t just forgotten. No, It had been exiled. Hope didn’t come here. Neither did mercy, or luck, or light. The alley was a graveyard of broken things, crushed bottles, twisted needles, rusted metal, and darker, softer piles you didn’t want to look at too long. Even the rats, veterans of survival, steered clear. Whatever was in this place was worse than hunger. Worse than death. The brick walls leaned inward like they were trying to crush the alley shut, tired of witnessing what happened here. Black water ran down them in long streaks, leaking from cracked drain pipes and unknown holes above. The graffiti on the walls, once full of fury and youth, was now faded, chipped, bleeding into the grime like memories too painful to hold on to.

Overhead, one flickering neon sign clung to the last of its life, buzzing in and out like a dying insect. It sputtered in dull red bursts, casting warped shadows across the walls and bodies below. The letters were half gone, the words meaningless now, just ghost syllables in a forgotten language of liquor and failure.

A single dented dumpster, tagged and burned, hunched like a silent witness. Its lid hung off one hinge, reeking of rot and old sins. Broken glass glittered in a puddle nearby, catching the weak light like teeth. The water was slick with motor oil, blood, or maybe something darker... it was stinking like a mixture of iron, gasoline, and old sweat. No one ever asked what those puddles were. They just stepped around them if they could. Or over them. Or through them, as if they didn’t care anymore. And truly? They didn't care anymore. This alley was a wound in the city, one of far to many, and one that was still festering. Open. Pulsing. You didn’t come here unless you wanted to disappear.

It was for the insane.
The dumb.
The desperate.
And those with a death wish.

So naturally, every broken soul in Dark City eventually drifted here, like flies to a rotting carcass, drawn not by hope, but by the certainty of pain. Junkies, ex-cons, runaways, burned-out fighters, ghosts in denim and leather. Yeah, they all came. Not to be saved. But to bleed, or bleed someone else. To find a way to live for one more miserable thoughtless day. Or to final die, to leave this hell hole. Some, even came to feel something, anything, even if it hurt. A glass bottle shattered somewhere deeper in the alley, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot. It was followed by a low, guttural noise, half grunt, half growl. Could’ve been pain. Could’ve been rage. Could’ve been both. Didn’t matter. Fights broke out back here every night, sometimes more than once. No one called the cops, why bother? Hell, half the time, they stood around and watched taking bets and filming to watch later.

Sometimes these fights were for money, various backroom bets and crumpled bills exchanged in greasy palms. Sometimes they were for pride, or revenge. Most of the time, though, they were for no reason at all. Just because someone looked at someone else too long. Or breathed wrong. Or didn’t move fast enough. This was a place without rules. There were none, and never any referees, any corners or crew, no whistles. No safety net. Only outcomes, where you won or you didn’t walk out. The air was thick with the stench of humanity at its worst. It hung in the air like heat, mixing with the blood and the breath of violence. 

 

Tonight the source of blood would be a man named Mike, staggering backwards, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His breath came shallow and ragged, sides already bruised and aching, each desperate inhale a knife twisting deep inside his chest. His bulky frame, usually solid and unyielding, now trembled under the weight of the assault. What he done, or thought done, didn't matter. This wasn't about an insult, this was about a message, and a come back. Comhraic, having finally recovered from his attack by Coach. He was still sporting a pair of glasses to help is vision, but he was back up and running. A powerhouse once more. Now with Mike, and he wanted to restore his name. To prove it.

Now outside, in the ally where they could have some nice private time, Comhraic advanced again, a dark storm of rage and raw power. His fists were steel hammers, eyes blazing with merciless fury. The first and second hit where brutal, without mercy, the kind Comhraic was known for, and would be know for again. The force blew out the air inside of Mike, also having him stumble into the outside wall of the bar.

Without pause, Comhraic’s third punch slammed into Mike’s stomach, low and angled, knuckles burying deep, so deep it felt like the fist was trying to tunnel through him. The sound was sickening: a wet, crunching thud followed by Mike’s breathless gasp, spit flying as his eyes rolled back. His abs, once tight and proud, now fluttered and twitched in trauma, bruises blossoming across his torso like poison. Then came the fourth, a monstrous, driving uppercut that landed just beneath the ribs. Something gave way. The sound was subtle, but unmistakable: a crack, a snap, like branches underfoot. Mike’s mouth dropped open in a soundless scream, body lurching forward only to meet Comhraic’s shoulder as the larger man shoved him upright again, refusing to let him fall.

“Stand up,” Comhraic growled. “I'm not done yet.”

 The next strike came fast and cruel. A left hook to the side, blunt, ruthless, and deep. Mike’s obliques bunched on instinct but couldn’t withstand the force. The punch sank in, ribs buckling inward. Mike gagged, vomit threatening, but nothing came. Only pain. Sharp, all-consuming pain that made the edges of his vision pulse with static. Another punch, straight in, center mass, drove the air from his lungs and bent him in half. Comhraic caught him by the shoulder, yanked him up again, and delivered a blow so devastatingly focused, it seemed designed to collapse his entire abdominal wall. The skin buckled inward like softened clay, muscle fibers trembling then seizing. Mike could feel things inside shifting, tearing. Not just bruising now, but real damage. Internal. Lasting.

Still, Comhraic didn’t stop.

Another barrage, another careless disregard for life and safety. Fist after fist, rained into Mike’s gut with machine-like rhythm. One slammed under the sternum, another into the soft pit above his navel. One thundered just below his ribs and something inside popped, sharp, shooting agony lancing through his torso. By the end, Mike’s body was limp but upright only because Comhraic held him there, a broken man sagging on a brutal man’s arm. His abs were wrecked, purple, red, and heaving in disfigured spasms. Each breath was a choking struggle. Every twitch a scream beneath the skin.

Unfortunately, the message wasn't done sending...

With a roar, deep from the deaths of hell, or maybe somewhere worse, it began again. Each subsequent punch was a cruel, surgical repetition of torment, delivered with the precision of a sadist and the weight of a piledriver. Comhraic struck like a machine possessed, his fists crashing into Mike’s midsection with unholy rhythm, each impact forcing fresh howls from Mike’s shredded insides. His abs, once iron-wrought, now looked wrecked, veins bulging across bruised and torn muscle, their definition lost in swelling and damage. With every hit, a different part of his core seemed to rupture, shift, or fail.

Mike’s vision swam, spots flickering in and out like distant stars dying. His knees buckled, legs twitching with a life of their own, rubbery and useless beneath him. He no longer tried to block the blows. His arms simply hung there, swaying dumbly, bloodied and limp, his mind disconnected from the failing limbs. His body was a ruined vessel now, barely holding together under the storm. Then came a fist so savage it punched into the space just below his sternum, grinding knuckles into the solar plexus with sickening pressure. His body jolted with a loud, wet grunt, his diaphragm clenching in revolt. His spine arched from the pain, eyes rolling back. He collapsed forward, and was held up by the fist still lodged against his broken body.

Another hook came after. Left side, brutal, high under the ribs, and Mike felt something else shift. Something snap. The pain was so immediate and total, his jaw dropped open in a silent scream. His ribs, at least two now, were gone. He felt them bend unnaturally then shatter. The fragments grated against each other like gravel underfoot. The agony was no longer sharp, it was all-encompassing, crawling like fire across his nerves. He slumped, barely conscious, but Comhraic wasn’t done. A series of piston-like punches dug mercilessly into his gut, continued to destroy his gut, center mass, lower abs, just above the groin, each one landing with a thud that echoed off the alley walls and seemed to rattle the world. Mike, somewhere else yet still there, could barely feel the damage threading through him like knives, fibers ripping, internal bruising spreading like black ink. It was all to much, and all that kept going. He coughed, violently, painfully, spitting a glob of blood and bile down his own chest. It dribbled over the broken terrain of his torso, warm and thick. His mouth tasted like metal and acid.

 

Another uppercut snapped his body back upright, just to be hit again.

And again.

And again.

Comhraic was absolutely relentless yet somehow still still. Comhraic was breath calm, showing no signs or hint of the extreme violence he was engaging in. Mike on the other hand was shattered and gasping. Mike’s stomach was no longer a target, it was an open wound. Yet still, Comhraic punched into it, his fists now making wet, sickening sounds as they landed, as though driving into meat instead of muscle. Into the organs instead of abs. Mike gave up somewhere in there. His mind let go. There was no fight. No resistance. Just the silent acceptance that this… this might be how it ends. Not with a bang, but with another fist digging into the place where his strength used to be. His eyes didn’t focus. He didn’t scream anymore. He couldn’t. He collapsed against Comhraic’s chest, barely upright only because the monster still held him by the collarbone with one brutal hand. His midsection twitched, convulsed, then stilled, like a dying engine stuttering to a halt. Comhraic drew back for another punch. Mike didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. His body was broken. His will, buried beneath the rubble of his destroyed core.

The message however, was still not fully sent...

With a low, guttural breath, Kevin reared back and drove his fist again into Mike’s obliterated stomach, it was almost like punching wet clay. The skin split with a sickening crack-pop, and blood sprayed out in short, dark arcs. Mike let out a pathetic croak, barely even human. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably.

Another punch.

Another.

Another.

Each one, each utterly devastating punch, now breaking the skin, rupturing the battered wall of flesh that had once been Mike's core. It was sicking, disgusting, just another day in Dark City. Now more blood poured from Mike’s abdomen, thick, dark, and constant, streaking down his thighs, splattering the concrete between them. Comhraic’s fists were slick with it, but he never lost his grip. His strikes became heavier, more primal. His arms swung like axes. Blunt trauma and laceration blurred into one.

Then came Mike's chest.

Comhraic’s knuckles hammered into the center of it, crunching against the bones beneath, some already cracked, others now snapping like twigs under a boot. Mike’s pecs convulsed , a useless flicker, before one last punch cratered them into his ribcage, ripping skin and flesh apart on impact. Blood gushed like water from a burst pipe. The skin on his chest peeled open in jagged, torn streaks, revealing muscle too bruised to function. Mike was gasping, bleeding, twitching, but alive, but barely.

His ribs, what was laughably left of them, offered no structure. Another savage body blow from Comhraic crushed into his side and was met with the unmistakable feel of even more bone giving way. Shards of rib stabbed inward, deeper, and Mike let out a grotesque, gurgling moan. Blood now dripped from his mouth in long, slow streams. His body was no longer his own, it was just a ruin. A red-soaked map of devastation. He didn’t stand anymore either, he just hung, barely held up by Comhraic’s relentless hands and a hungry for pain unending. A final punch now, deep into the gut, drew a jet of blood from Mike’s mouth, eyes wide, pupils blown out with pain and fading life.

And then, silence.

Well save for the sound of a bag of meat and broken bones splashing onto the ground. Comhraic stood over what remained of Mike. Mike didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He blinked slowly, tears leaking sideways into the grit, body spasming with each failed breath. He had nothing left. Not pain. Not resistance. Just the distant, numb awareness that this might be it. The cold night wrapped around him like a shroud.

The message, was finally sent.

Mike lay crumpled on the wet asphalt, body twisted, breath rattling in what shallow scraps he could manage. Blood, most certainly only his own, mingled with the rain, running in thin streams across the pavement, dark and almost black under the streetlight’s pale flicker. His chest barely moved. Bones fractured. Spirit shattered. The fight was gone. Everything was gone. Comhraic stood over him, body steaming in the cold rain, his knuckles raw, split open, dripping with blood that wasn’t entirely Mike’s anymore. The silence was heavier now. Not peace, not yet, just the absence of struggle that lasted far to long. 

 

And still… it wasn’t enough.

A final, feral instinct crawled up Comhraic’s spine. He didn’t understand it, didn’t question it. He obeyed it. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the crunch of gravel underfoot loud against the soft hiss of rain. Then he raised one boot and planted it squarely on Mike’s chest, right over the ribs he enjoyed shattering moments ago. Mike didn’t scream. He couldn’t. Only a faint gurgle escaped his lips as his body shuddered under the weight. Comhraic stood there, towering, boot pressed into the ruin of the man beneath him, and flexed.

Then a laugh.

Muscles embraced in shadow bulged with tension, arms lifted slightly as he stared down at what was left. No words. No mercy. Just dominance. Complete, animal, undeniable. He wasn’t showing off. He was claiming something. Then, just as quickly as it happened, the moment was over. Like nothing happened, nothing of worth happened, Comhraic turned and walked away. Walked away like Mike's life wasn't worth a drop of notice.

Time passed... and the rain hadn’t stopped.

It fell in steady sheets now, like the sky itself was mourning what had happened in the alley. Or maybe it was just tired, like everything else in this city. Mike lay half-sitting, half-collapsed against the brick wall behind the Rust Nail, his back slick with blood and water. The fight was over. Comhraic was long gone. No footsteps, no threats, no gloating farewell. Just silence now, broken only by the hiss of rain on concrete and the buzz of that dying neon sign overhead. His body… wasn’t his anymore. It was meat. It was ruin. His abs were gone, just a swollen mass of bruised, torn tissue. His chest, cracked and bloodied, rose in shallow jerks like an old engine gasping through its last revolutions. The bones inside him felt shattered, wrong, floating in places they shouldn’t be. He couldn’t lift his arms. He couldn’t move his legs. He couldn’t even blink without pain chasing the movement like a pack of wild dogs.

There was no panic in him now. No fear. Just a heavy, empty quiet. The kind that comes when you know your blood is pooling faster than your heart can pump. The kind that comes right before the end. He thought of a lot of things, sitting there. A few faces. A few mistakes. A joke someone told him once in a locker room that made him laugh so hard his stomach ached, not like this, not the ripped-open mess it was now, but the good kind of ache. His head rolled to the side, eyes dull, catching the faint reflection of himself in a rain-slicked puddle. He thoughts then wondered to a boy he liked but never said anything too, never made a pass too.

“Damn,” he whispered, voice shredded and wet. “Guess I can't now.”

A cough wracked through him, wet, sharp, a mouthful of blood dribbling down his chin.

Then… a pause...... for the world stopped.

No thunder. No rain. No breath of wind curling through the alleys. Just stillness thick, and absolute. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath. Time itself hung suspended, frozen between heartbeats. Comhraic stood unmoving, steam rising from his heaving chest, the sound of his heartbeat echoing in that silence like a war drum muffled under flesh. Thump… thump… thump. Somewhere close, Mike’s body trembled once more, breath ragged, wet, the last of life draining slow and unwilling from his lungs.

But even that stopped.... 

A hush fell over the dark street, deeper than death, more ancient than violence. This was no longer a place. It was a moment, cut clean from the fabric of time. The city lights above dimmed into nothing. The dripping gutters stilled. A fly mid-air stopped its wings. Rain froze in the air like shattered glass. 

Was this fate? 

And in this breathless void, reality waited, not to act. No, to be chosen. For what came next? What would happen with Mike? Would Comhraic walk way? Finish the job? Not care? Such knowledge of events... that belonged not to Gods, nor monsters. But to the reader. To you. Yes you, who is reading this world now. It is you who gives the moment life, purpose, existence. It is you who decides if mercy rises, or if Death crushes what’s left.

Time waits, breath held.

Now.... choose.

 

Does Mike LIVE or does he DIE?  

 

 

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Epilogue - Bad

 

 

The rain continued to fall, heavier now, as if trying, one last time, to rinse the blood off the alley walls.

But it was too late, Mike didn’t move, nor had he for a while. The last breath he took never fully left his lungs. It just sat there, trapped somewhere inside the torn wreckage of his chest. His eyes stared forward, glassy and wide, no longer seeing the red flicker of the dying sign above him or the ripples cutting through the filthy puddles at his feet. There was no final gasp. No divine light. No hand reaching down.

Just stillness.

By morning, his body was slumped fully against the wall, jaw slack, arms limp. Blood had dried along his torso, mixing with alley grime, oil, and rain. No one came. Not the cops. Not the barflies. Not even the rats. He wasn’t even a curiosity. Just another discarded thing in a city that chewed people up and forgot their names. There would be no obituary, no mourning, not even a whisper. The alley behind the Rust Nail swallowed him up, like it had done so many before, and moved on. The rain kept falling. Dark City didn’t blink. Wouldn't. Mike was gone, hopefully at peace in what ever afterlife there was.

But here in Dark City, he was just another ghost no one would ever bother to remember.

Epilogue - Good

The rain didn’t let up.

It fell in thick, cold sheets now, pounding against the alley like it was trying to hammer the city into silence. It soaked everything, brick, bone, and blood. It soaked up long forgotten discarded bodies and new ones in the making. Mike didn’t notice really, he had stopped feeling things a while ago. His head leaned back against the cold wall behind the Rust Nail, mouth slightly open, a dark ribbon of blood trailing from the corner. His body was ruined, torn muscle, shattered ribs, purple and red bruises stretching across his abdomen and chest like thunderclouds. The alley was quiet now. Comhraic had long since disappeared, his fists finally sated. Some message, what ever that was, was apparently sent.

Mike waited.

Waited for the numbness to finish swallowing him. Waited for his heart to give up. Waited for his body to slip down fully to the ground, for the cold to finally take him. His eyes stared into the rain. He wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. He truly came to peace with what would happen. Didn't like it, but it was, what it was. Mike closed his eyes, the end would soon be here. But then,

Footsteps.

Soft. Hesitant. Wet shoes against cracked pavement. A shadow crossed his vision. A shape knelt in front of him. Gentle hands, warm even through the rain, cupped his bruised face. Mike blinked, slow, broken, what... what was going on?

“Mike?” a voice said, trembling. “Gods, Mike…”

That voice, Mike was sure he knew it. Knew it from his past, a past that had some hope, some chance at love even... but then darkness.... He woke up days later. A small miracle to say the least. Pain flooded his body the moment he stirred, but so did warmth. What was this? Clean sheets, A dim soft light overhead. A fan whirring softly. And… Sitting beside the bed, reading from a beat-up paperback, was him... was Jesse. The boy Mike had always watched from a distance. The only softness he ever let himself crave in a place like Dark City. Jesse, the quiet barback with tired eyes and a kind smile. The one Mike had protected more than once without saying a word. The one he never thought he deserve. What was going on? As if sensing the change, Jesse looked up, eyes wide with relief.

“You’re awake,” he whispered. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Mike tried to speak, but only a raspy grunt came out.

“Don’t,” Jesse said quickly, leaning forward, brushing hair from Mike’s forehead. “You’ve got a long way to go. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Recovery was slow. Some wounds would never fully heal, but the bruises would faded. The broken ribs would mended. His stomach would still fell like fire when Mike stretched too far. But it wasn't all that bad. Jesse was there for all of it. Helping him sit up. Feeding him soup. Reading to him when the pain meds knocked him loopy. Holding him when the nightmares hit. And one night, long after the worst had passed, Jesse whispered,

“When you’re ready… we’re leaving this place.”

Mike looked at him, hollowed out but alive. “You sure?”

“I should’ve left long ago,” Jesse said. “But I was waiting for something. Maybe someone.”

Mike didn’t answer. He just took Jesse’s hand in his. Mike was still unsure what he ever done to deserve this, to earn this. Was this a dream? Was he still dying in that ally, and all this was but a fever dream of a dying mind? No this was real, it had to be real. And you know what? It was? For once in this Gods damn dark world of bullshit, it was real! Because, they left three weeks later. No fanfare. No goodbye. Just a duffel bag each, some cash, and a worn-out car Jesse had fixed up over the years. They crossed the city limits just as the sun broke through the clouds, gold spilling across the cracked highway. Dark City faded in the rear view mirror, Mike didn't look back. He didn’t need to or want to. Because for the first time in his life, he was free of it all. Free of the violence, free of the gangs, free of the constant fight for his life. Most of all he was free of Comhraic, and he would be with Jesse.

Life... was finally good.