Story: Punchline - Kidnapped

Part of the Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building.

 

Aarav’s Journal Entry – Voice Dictation to Alexa

“Alexa, start journal entry. Title it… Another Day of Excellence.

They say confidence is earned. Cute. I was born with it. Came out of the womb with a jawline sharper than most men’s careers and a trust fund fat enough to buy your opinion. Rich? Obviously. Good-looking? Undeniably. This body? Sculpted, not in a gym, God no, but by elite trainers and genetic lottery tickets most people can’t afford to dream about. I walk into a room, and time stutters. People stare. They should. Every man wants to be me. Every woman wants to test drive me. Half the men too, and frankly, I don’t blame them. Labels are for bottled water and insecure people. I don’t do limits. I do pleasure. I do power. And I do them both hard. My penthouse sits above the city like it’s judging it. Sleek glass walls, imported leather furniture that probably costs more than your car, lighting soft enough to make anyone look good, though I need none of it. Shirt halfway unbuttoned, as always. I poured a double of that 30-year-old Scotch, the one peasants pretend to appreciate on Instagram. Caught my reflection in the balcony glass. Smirking. Cocky bastard. Can’t blame him. I raised the glass and toasted myself. ‘To the king,’ I said. And damn right I meant it.

Alexa, end entry. Archive it under Perfection in Progress.”

 

Aarav sank into the leather chair like it had been made just for him, because, of course, it had. Italian craftsmanship, customized to his exact posture. Everything in his penthouse was curated, expensive, and rare. Just like him. He lifted the glass of Scotch to his lips, savoring the way the liquid rolled across his tongue, smoky, deep, confident, just like his voice. Just like him. He let it burn slow as he swallowed, eyes half lidded with pleasure, basking in the golden hour light that framed his body like a painting. His free hand drifted down his torso, fingers gliding across smooth, hairless skin. He admired the lines of his abs, sharp, defined, earned by money more than effort. Trainers, chefs, surgeons… all tools in the construction of the flawless sculpture he now stroked with lazy appreciation.

“Gods, I look good”

He muttered to himself, lips curling in that trademark smirk. The kind that had ruined careers and marriages. His fingers traced the subtle V just above his hips, the skin there taut and warm from the liquor and the spotlight of his own attention. He let his hand linger at the waistband of his designer slacks. The tension there made him pause, hovering at the edge, savoring the moment. He could explore more. He wanted to. He deserved to. But for now, he just sat there. Admiring. Wanting. Knowing that no one, no thing, could match the thrill of being him. The king didn’t need anyone else. Not when the mirror gave him everything. Aarav let out a soft exhale as he settled deeper into the sleek leather, the warmth of the scotch humming in his chest, the city glowing below like a worshipping mass of ants. He didn't see them. He didn't need to. To be honest, he really didn't want to either. His gaze was locked on the real prize, his own reflection. The glass doors leading to the balcony shimmered with his image, caught in the golden kiss of recessed lighting. His skin seemed to glow with perfection, muscles carved beneath it like a living statue. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, not the kind one gave to others, but the kind reserved for oneself. The kind that said, Look at you, you beautiful bastard. You've peaked. He tilted his hips forward, shifting slightly in the chair. The movement made his abs flex just enough to catch the shadows and etch them deeper. His hand slid back down his body, gliding over the subtle rise and fall of his stomach. He relished every dip, every groove, fingertips tracing like an artist studying his own masterpiece.

Then lower.

Just beneath the waistband.

The pads of his fingers slipped under the silk band of his designer slacks. Just an inch. Just enough. Skin to skin. A teasing glide downward, daring himself to go a little further. He bit his lip as a quiet sigh escaped him, his hips relaxing as pleasure bloomed low in his belly. He was loving him, in the most literal way possible. Yet... he didn’t notice the flicker. Didn't notice the way the pendant lights over the marble bar blinked, ever so briefly, like uncertain eyes. He didn’t notice the faint hiss of displaced air behind him. Not the cool, hard, sharp air, the kind of air that didn't belong in a sealed penthouse sixty floors above the street. He didn’t notice the curtain to his right lift in a ripple, as if stirred by an invisible breath. The breeze was too soft, too strange. Not from a vent. Not from design. Nor did he notice that one of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, previously shut tight, now stood ever so slightly ajar. Just enough to let something in. Or someone. Aarav’s eyes remained on his reflection, mesmerized. Entranced. Fingers moving again. Lower. Slower. His world was skin and glass and ego.

Aarav’s hand moved with deliberate indulgence now, no shame, no hesitation. He was the audience and the star, the art and the artist. His other hand dropped to the armrest, scotch glass still in his fingers, half-forgotten, amber liquid warming his palm. He shifted again, hips rolling ever so slightly, his breath deepening. No lights, no sounds, no world outside of the one reflected in that towering pane of glass. He let out a deep moan, then—

 

Hands.

Not his own.

From behind.

Cold, rough hands that didn’t belong to a lover or a hired companion. No perfume, no soft voice. No warning. Just grip.One wrapped around his bare chest, pinning him back against the leather. The other clamped down on his wrist and twisted. His scotch glass flew from his hand, shattering against the polished stone floor in a burst of gold and glass.

“What the—!” Aarav choked, body flailing, trying to rise from the chair. “Who the hell do you think you are?! You dare—you dare—touch me?! In my home?!”

He threw an elbow back, trained, rehearsed, one of a dozen moves he had been taught by elite instructors flown in from all corners of the world. It didn’t connect, or if it did it had absolutely no effect. He tried again. A palm strike to the ribs, a twist of his torso to break the hold, a kick, barefoot but sharp—toward what he imagined was a shin. None of it worked. None of it even mattered. The hands behind him were patient. Not sloppy. Not angry. Just... steady. Experienced. Panic flickered like a faulty lightbulb in Aarav’s chest. Had all his trainers ever let him win? The thought came and went like a crack of thunder. Had they just played along for the paycheck? Had he ever fought anyone who actually hit back? He didn’t have time to finish the thought. A fist, low and brutal, slammed into his stomach. A deep shot, no nice, not a slap or a warning. A real, solid, punishing blow that plowed through the layers of pampered flesh and dormant muscle with practiced cruelty. The air shot out of him in a strangled wheeze. The strength in his legs vanished. His limbs went watery. His vision flared white at the edges. Aarav dropped hard to his knees, hands instinctively cradling his middle, a sound halfway between a gasp and a curse breaking from his lips. The once golden god now knelt in a pile of shattered glass and his own ego, breath shallow, body trembling.

Aarav coughed, still on his knees, eyes wide and disbelieving. His stomach throbbed, deep, pulsing pain radiating from the spot that took the hit. It wasn't supposed to feel like this. Pain like that was something other people felt. Lesser people. Simple nothing people, not him. Not a God!

"No" he hissed, trying to push himself up. "No. This is a joke. A test. You're just another hired thug. I’ve trained with the best. You’re nothing. I—"

He surged upward with a snarl, trying to plant his feet. His knees wobbled, but adrenaline surged, driven by pride and fury. He raised his fists, shaky but defiant. It was a half remembered stance. Chin tucked. Hands up. Elbows tight. He was ready to bring the pa-

WHUMP.

Another punch drove into his gut. A clean, knuckled blow that landed just above his navel, sinking deep and folding him forward with a guttural “Huhhhhf!” His hands dropped for just a second. Just long enough—

THUD.

A second blow, lower this time, right into the soft wall just below his six-pack. His hips jerked back. He stumbled, catching himself on trembling legs, spit bubbling at the corner of his lips.

CRACK.

The third hit came from a different angle, angled upward. It smashing into the pit of his stomach like a battering ram. Aarav’s back arched violently as he staggered backward with a cry of pain, his breath stealing away like a thief in the night. He threw a wild punch of his own, desperate, clumsy. Stupid. The kind you would expect from some skinny nerd. It hit nothing.

WHUMP.

Another shot. Right into the same sore spot as before. He bent forward, arms instinctively clutching his midsection, but it didn't matter.

THUD. CRUNCH. WHAP.

Three more landed in rapid succession, three more cut into his body like it was nothing. One to the center of his abs, another lower, one angled from the side that made his entire torso twist awkwardly. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a raspy choke, something wet and ugly behind his teeth.

His designer pants were sliding low on his hips, his body slick with sweat. The air in the penthouse, once cool and still, now felt suffocating.

BOOM.

A final, devastating shot landed just below his sternum. He hit the wall behind him with a grunt, back slamming into the cold glass. The impact jarred the breath from his lungs again. He sagged against it, arms hanging, knees bent, his reflection looking back at him, ruined, disheveled, mortal. He couldn’t see his attacker. His eyes were glassing over far to much for that. But despite this, he knew they were still there. And for the first time in his perfect life… Aarav had no idea what to do next.

 

Aarav gasped, his back pinned to the cold wall, his hands clutching his belly, trying, failing, to shield the damage. Anytime his hands and arms would try to stay, to guard, they would be pushed aside like nothing. His hair was damp with sweat, his expensive shirt half hanging, wrinkled, useless. The city lights outside blinked like distant stars, uncaring, unreachable. What.... what the hell was going on!

THUD.

The first punch landed high, just under his ribs. His body jumped on instinct, a startled cry bursting from his throat.

WHAM.

The next one came center mass, flat and deep, pushing into the core of him like it was trying to rearrange his insides. His mouth opened in a voiceless scream. His arms dropped. The pain was too much to even hold onto defense.

THUMP. THUD. CRACK.

Three more followed, machine-like in rhythm, brutal in execution. One low, one angled to the left, one high again. Each hit robbed him of thought, of air, of pride. His legs gave a warning tremble, but the wall kept him upright. Barely. He tried to speak again, maybe to beg, maybe to rage, but his breath was gone. His abs, once admired and photographed, were a swelling mess of muscle and failure.

WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.

The blows rained in, relentless. There was no pattern, no mercy. A symphony of punishment, echoing off the walls of his penthouse like applause for his downfall. Each impact drove him deeper into the wall, into himself. There was no room for thought. No time for fear. No pride left to cling to.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

His knees buckled again, but still the hits kept coming. His head sagged forward. Spit dribbled from his lip. His arms hung limp at his sides now, twitching with every gut-wrenching impact. The wall behind him smeared with sweat and skin. Then—

CRACK.

A final blow, lower than the rest, buried itself in the softest part of his gut. Aarav’s entire body jolted forward, his mouth opening in a dry, cracked gasp. And then everything just—

Stopped.

No more pain.

No more sound.

No more self.

The lights of the penthouse swirled, dimmed, and vanished as darkness swept in like a velvet curtain. Aarav collapsed, folding down the wall like a broken sculpture, his body crumpling to the floor with a dull, defeated thud. 

 

Aarav came to with a slow, sick lurch of awareness, like surfacing from a nightmare only to find himself still inside one. His head throbbed. His stomach… Gods, his stomach was on fire. Every breath was shallow, tentative, a test to see what hurt less. The answer he found, one that was most depressing, was that the answer was nothing. The air around him was damp and cold, thick with mildew and the faint metallic tang of rust. It stank of concrete rot and wet wood. He blinked, squinting into the dark. There was no light source, no window, no skyline. Just the slow drip of water from somewhere and the sound of his own ragged breathing. Basement, he guessed. Had to be. Probably in some ghetto crap hole! Would the insults never end?

Annoyed, he shifted, or at least tried to.

Chains clinked above him. His arms were stretched over his head, wrists locked in something tight and unyielding. His feet barely touched the ground, toes scraping the concrete with each sway of his weight. Every tug sent fresh pain stabbing through his shoulders, down his spine, and into his gut, still bruised and throbbing. This was intolerable! How could he, he the most amazing prime alpha man out there, be hanging like this!

Hanging?

He was hanging...

Like a slab of meat.

Like a punching bag.

 

The thought made his blood run colder than the room already was.

“No. No, no this isn’t happening” he muttered, his voice hoarse and cracked. “This is a mistake. I’m not I’m not supposed to be here!”

He yanked at the restraints, panic flaring fast, his muscles screaming. Then he heard them. Did he? Wait yes! He did! Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy boots on concrete, coming closer. Each step echoed through the basement like a countdown. Aarav froze, heart thundering, breath caught in his throat. He strained his eyes toward the dark corridor beyond the edge of his sight, but nothing emerged. Not yet. But someone was coming. And they already knew exactly where he was.

The footsteps stopped.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the steady drip of water and Aarav’s own ragged breathing. Then, movement. From the shadows at the far end of the basement, a figure emerged. Tall. Broad. Calm. He wore black from head to toe, simple, utilitarian clothing. Not tactical, not flashy. Just efficient. A mask covered his face entirely, matte and featureless except for two narrow eyeholes that hid whatever expression lay beneath Aarav’s breath hitched.

“Do you, do you know who I am?” he forced out, voice wavering, then hardening with all the arrogance he could still cling to.

“You think you can just hang me here like I’m some nobody? I will end you. I will bury you in

lawsuits, in fire. When I get out of here, I’ll have your life erased like it never even—”

The man laughed, not even a short chuckle. It was a full, open laugh. Deep. Mocking. Cold. Aarav froze again, spine tingling, the hairs on his neck rising. That laugh didn’t sound afraid. It didn’t even sound amused. It sounded amused at Aarav.

“Do you know who I am?” the masked man echoed in a syrupy, mocking tone. “Oh, sweetheart. I know exactly who you are.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re the rich boy who pays men to tell him he’s strong. The little prince of penthouses and mirrors. You’re the walking cologne ad who thinks abs are armor and that Instagram likes mean power.”

Aarav’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You thought money made you dangerous.” the voice went on, circling slowly now, boots scraping the concrete, voice just behind Aarav’s swaying form.

“You thought a few choreographed elbow strikes and private lessons with washed up fighters made you a man. But when the real hits came? When someone didn’t bow to your bullshit?”

He came around to Aarav’s front again, close now. The mask tilted ever so slightly.

“You crumpled like the pretty little package you are.”

Aarav’s jaw clenched, but his arms ached, his body hung low, and the fire in his gut hadn't faded.

“You think this scares me” he hissed.

“Not yet kid.” the man said, almost tenderly. “But it will.”

Then he raised a gloved hand and slowly, deliberately, cracked his knuckles. Aarav swallowed hard. He didn't like where this was about to go. The masked man didn’t say another word, why would he have too? He didn’t need to. He just stepped in close, taking position in front of the suspended, half slumped form of Aarav. The light above them flickered weakly, barely illuminating the sheen of sweat on Aarav’s skin, the red blotches already blooming across his bruised torso. Then—

WHUMP.

The first punch landed dead center, just above the navel. Aarav’s body jolted like a ragdoll, the chains above him creaking under the sudden swing. His mouth flew open, no sound coming out at first, just shock, a delayed realization of pain surging through him like an electric current.

CRACK.

A cross to his side. Sharp, fast, and cruel. Aarav’s body swung the other way, his arms tugging hard against the restraints, shoulder sockets screaming. His abs compressed under the blow, muscles convulsing without his permission.

THUD. THUD. THUMP.

Three more punches, hammering him like meat being tenderized. Left, right, center. It was a combo that repeated again, three times? Five? The masked man moved with rhythm, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying the feel of every blow connecting, feeling the resistance give way with each strike. Aarav's vision blurred. Each hit brought with it a new color of pain, a new depth. Not just soreness, damage. Something that couldn’t be ignored or bought away. His gut was fire. Not burning on the surface, burning from within. He was panting now, mouth wide, drool clinging to his lip, sweat dripping down his temple. His toned abs twitched with every blow, spasming involuntarily.

WHUMP. WHUMP. WHUMP.

He swung like a heavy bag, twisting helplessly on the chains. The blows chased him in midair, timed, positioned, merciless. Each one dug deeper, turning skin to welts, muscle to mush. And still they kept coming. Each strike rewrote his understanding of pain. He had known soreness. He had known strain. But this was something else. This was violation. This was pain as a message. A lesson. A punishment.

By the end, Aarav hung slack, his chin low, his chest heaving, his abs red and trembling, spit clinging to his bottom lip like shame. The masked man stepped back, finally giving Aarav a moment to just be. As he did, silence filled the room. Aarav’s breath wheezed out in ragged bursts, eyes barely open, his body gently swaying. Then, he coughed. Twice. Spat to the side. With the last stubborn breath in his lungs, he hissed through gritted teeth:

“If I was free… I’d break you in half.”

The sound came low at first, a dry chuckle echoing across the basement walls. Then it built. It was stronger at first, in tone and intensity. Then it was mocking, daring to shatter both muscle and ego. Then. a full bodied laugh, both deep and Cruel. Savoring every wheezing breath that left Aarav’s swollen gut. The masked man stepped forward once more, boots clicking steadily against the concrete.

“You’re still mouthing off?” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “Still playing tough guy? Gods, you’re even dumber than you look.”

Aarav glared up through one eye, the other half lidded from sweat and pain. His chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. His pride still burned, somehow untouched even as the rest of him quivered. The masked man reached up, fingers finding the thick manacles that held Aarav suspended. With a harsh clang, one opened. Then the other. Aarav fell. His knees slammed to the floor, and for a moment he stayed there, collapsed, coughing, clutching his stomach. His arms were dead weight. His entire midsection throbbed like it had been hollowed out.

But even has he lay there, in misery and broken pride, the spark returned. Slowly, like a phoenix rising from ash, he pushed himself up. He staggered to his feet, bare chest heaving, pants hanging low on his hips, his body a red map of fresh bruises and darkening welts. He stared at the masked man with bloodshot eyes, rage hot in his veins.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he spat.

The masked man opened his arms.

“Show me then, come at me bro.”

Aarav didn’t hesitate, not even more a moment. With a defiant roar, he launched forward. His training surged to the surface, dozens of expensive hours spent with private instructors, dojo weekends, and luxury gym sparring sessions. He remembered every move. Every form. Every perfect combo. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself as the apex predator once more. Graceful. Deadly. Precise. His footwork snapped into place. He stepped in, threw a right jab, clean and fast.

Thwack.

Right into the masked man’s chest. A clean hit had been scored! Now he will-

Nothing.

The man didn’t move.

Aarav blinked, surprised, but immediately followed up with a left hook. Then a palm strike to the solar plexus. Then a snapping elbow toward the jaw.

Thwack. Whump. Thud.

Each hit landed. Technically perfect.... and utterly useless. The masked man didn’t flinch. He didn’t stumble. He just stood there, taking each shot like Aarav was swatting at him with a pillow. Then, horrifyingly, he leaned into it, letting Aarav’s fist sink into his abdomen. He held it there, looked down at it, then let out a slow, amused sigh.

“Is that it?” he asked softly. “That’s what all those hours bought you?”

Aarav stepped back, wild-eyed, sweat dripping from his hairline. He threw another punch. Then another. And another.

Crack. Thump. Crack.

Each one was fast, desperate, precise, and meaningless. The masked man let him throw them. Took them all with disgusting ease. And worse? He laughed. Each strike brought another mocking chuckle, like he was being tickled, not attacked.

“No power!” the man taunted. “No weight. No hate. You’re throwing textbook combos like this is a belt test. You don’t even know what a real fight feels like.”

Aarav screamed and launched a high knee, his signature strike. It thudded into the man’s ribs. And the masked man didn’t even blink. Aarav stumbled back, panting. His arms were lead. His core screamed in agony. His body betrayed him, again. The masked man took one slow, confident step forward.

Aarav took one shaky step back.

The illusion had shattered... and a price was going to be paid.

The masked man’s fist moved like a blur.

THWUMP.

Aarav’s eyes bulged as the renewed assault slammed into him, into his gut, lower this time, sharp and surgical. It buried itself just beneath his navel, cutting through his already-raw midsection like a blade. His body folded forward on instinct, a strangled grunt escaping his lips.

“Still think you’re the main event?” the masked man sneered, catching Aarav by the hair and yanking his head back up.

CRACK.

Another punch, this one to the solar plexus. Aarav’s whole body lurched back as he let out a sharp gasp, mouth open wide like a fish pulled from water. He stumbled, barely on his feet, arms swaying like he didn’t know what they were for anymore.

“Come on, golden boy. Show me that championship technique. Where’s all that expensive training now?”

THUMP. THUD. WHACK.

Two to the obliques, one dead center. Aarav staggered sideways, boots scraping helplessly against the gritty basement floor. His limbs flailed, trying to find balance, but it was useless. He looked drunk. Dazed. Like someone tossed into a fight he never wanted to be part of. He doubled over, gasping.

The masked man let him. Then forced him up. Then stepped in again.

BOOM.

A hook to the liver. Aarav let out a deep, raw groan from someplace deep in his gut, the sound of a man completely out of breath and dignity. His knees bent. His spine curled.

“That one should feel familiar. Trainer ever teach you how to protect that fancy little organ?”

Aarav dropped to one knee, one hand weakly planted on the floor.

CRACK.

A clean uppercut to the abs rocked him back onto his heels. He sprawled against a support beam, using it to stay upright, if you could call that upright. His chest rose and fell with desperate, short breaths. His stomach now a pulsing mess of welts, the definition fading under layers of punishment.

“You’re not a fighter” the masked man growled, circling again. “You’re a product. Glossy packaging. A name brand. And now?”

WHUMP.

Another deep blow. Aarav’s back hit the wall again, arms dangling, mouth slack.

“Now you’re just a jobber boy. A warm-up round. A practice dummy.”

Aarav shook his head weakly. “No… I’m not…”

“Not what?” the man chuckled. “Not the guy who used to stare at his reflection and flex like the world owed him something?”

He moved in again.

THUD. THUD. THUMP.

Left. Right. Straight down the middle. Aarav stumbled forward, body jerking with each hit, eyes glassy. His hands twitched at his sides like he still wanted to fight, try to fight, but they didn’t rise. Couldn’t.

“Face it, pretty boy” the voice hissed, leaning in close to his ear. “You were always the kind of man who looked best when he was getting his ass kicked.”

CRACK.

One final punch sent Aarav spinning. He collapsed face-first onto the floor. Moaning. Gasping.

Humiliated. And absolutely nothing like the man he once thought he was.

Aarav groaned on the cold concrete floor, the sound weak, wet, and barely human. His limbs twitched as if his body was trying to curl into itself, but there was nowhere safe to go. No corner to hide in. No exit. Then fingers coiled into his hair, tight, brutal, unforgiving.

“On your feet, golden boy” the masked man growled.

Aarav yelped as he was yanked upward by his hair, pain flaring through his scalp and neck. His boots scraped against the ground, barely finding traction before his back was slammed against the wall like a broken mannequin. His head whiplashed against the concrete. His arms dangled limp. He barely had time to register what was happening. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to just-

THWUMP.

It landed low and deep. It didn’t just hurt, it changed something inside of him. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes wide with disbelief and pain. This, this was to much! This could lead to-

“Nnnhhh—n-no—wait—!”

CRACK.

Another shot drove up into the upper abs, crushing the breath out of him. He sagged, chin falling to his chest, eyes fluttering. The pain didn’t fade. It lingered, radiating outward like hot metal under his skin.

The masked man pinned him there with one hand on his shoulder, and the other kept swinging.

WHUMP. THUD. CRUNCH.

Each punch sank in deeper than the last. Aarav’s abs were failing, completely. The picture perfect wall of muscle had no resistance left. Every blow now sank in, knuckles vanishing into softening flesh like punching a pillow filled with nerve endings. He screamed this time. High-pitched. Unrestrained. Real.

No more bravado. No more posturing. Just pain. Fear bloomed in his eyes, real fear, raw, wide, and undeniable. He tried to twist, to turn away, to raise his arms, but they wouldn’t respond. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching.

BOOM.

Another hit, another one so brutal, so without care or concern, struck just beneath his ribs and stayed there, the masked man grinding his fist in before pulling it back. Aarav’s knees buckled, but the man kept him pinned. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The pain wasn’t just sharp anymore. It was deep.

Lingering. Sickening. Aarav could feel something inside him was wrong now. Not just soreness. Not bruises. Real damage. His mouth trembled as he sobbed in air through clenched teeth. Drool slipped down his chin. His vision blurred, not from tears, but from pressure, from panic. He looked up into the black mask in front of him, seeing no eyes. No humanity. Just a shape. A force. And for the first time in his life, Aarav wanted to beg. Truly beg for his life. But he couldn’t speak. His mouth opened… and nothing came out. Just one thought repeated behind his eyes...

That one won’t stop hurting… not tonight… maybe not ever.

Aarav’s head lolled forward, chin to chest, drool trailing from his lip. His abs pulsed with a raw, sick heat, each breath a struggle, each exhale a shallow tremor of pain. His legs buckled again. It was like everything was on repeat. A punch, the pain, the red, the soreness, the pain, the punch, the sinking feeling in his gut. It just came, and kept coming, but the masked man didn’t stop.

THWUMP.

Another punch drove deep into the meat of his belly, right below the sternum. Aarav choked on his own breath, lips peeling back in a wordless, agonized hiss.

WHUMP.

Low again, just above the beltline. A nauseating punch that made him feel like he was going to throw up something he hadn’t eaten yet.

CRACK.

Center mass. The masked man planted his feet and dug in, letting his fist sink past resistance and into something softer than it should be. Aarav jolted forward, tried to double over, but a hand slammed him back against the wall.

“Up,” the masked man ordered. “You don’t get to crumple until I say so.”

THUMP. WHACK. CRUNCH.

THUMP. WHACK. CRUNCH.

THUMP. WHACK. CRUNCH.  

Three more. Six? No nine... nine more hits, all back to back. Each one to a different part of his gut, each with its own flavor of pain, sharp, dull, heavy, cutting, drilling, deep. His abs were no longer a wall. They were a door that had been kicked in, caved inward, and left hanging. His feet left the floor for a moment as he spasmed.

THWACK.

A new angle. The masked man stepped slightly to the side and smashed a hook into Aarav’s right ribcage. The sound was sick, not sharp, dull and wrong, like a wet stick cracking under pressure. Aarav screamed. High-pitched. Real.

WHUMP.

Another one. This time on the left. His body twisted, legs kicking weakly.

CRACK.

A final rib shot, this one low and to the back edge. The pain screamed through his chest and up into his spine, and for a split second, everything went white. A sharp pop echoed inside him, not loud, but distinct. Internal. Personal. He gasped. He knew that feeling. That wasn’t a bruise. That wasn’t sore. That was structural. His head lolled back against the wall. He tried to inhale and winced sharply as the pain shot across his side.

“A rib,” he thought, horrified. “He cracked a rib. He actually—”

The thought of a cracked rib had barely settled in Aarav’s mind before the next blow came. 

WHACK.

This one slammed into the opposite side, his left rib cage, just below the armpit. It wasn’t as sharp as the last one… at first. But the pain spread like fire, deep and grinding. His entire torso flared with white hot agony.

THUD.

Another hit to the same spot. Lower. The masked man was working his way across, painting bruises like an artist in violence. Aarav's breath caught, stayed, pained. He couldn’t breathe. He could only gasp in short, helpless stutters as the pressure grew unbearable.

CRUNCH.

The masked man threw a hook with deadly thoughtless, merciless weight behind it. It landed flat against the side of Aarav’s chest with a disgusting thump, like flesh on stone. Something in his side shifted again, another internal pop, a wrenching pinch of heat that radiated into his back and stole the last of his strength. Aarav's knees gave out again, but he didn’t fall. The masked man pinned him. Letting him hang there. Letting him feel it.

BOOM.

A punch to the center of his chest, high, just below the collarbone. Aarav grunted, spittle flying from his lips. The impact rattled his sternum, and the shock wave reverberated through his shoulders. It felt like someone had slammed a cinder block into his upper body. He wheezed, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage.

“Still with me?” the masked man whispered.

Aarav couldn’t answer. His mouth was open, his chest heaving in crooked, painful rhythm. The bruising now crept higher across his body. He could feel each breath scrape against angry ribs. Even the rise and fall of his chest came with punishment.

WHUMP.

Another hit to the center, harder. His spine kissed the wall behind him as the punch drove him back. His vision flared, sparks at the corners. He wasn’t screaming anymore. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. His body was too busy surviving. All he could do was hang there, ruined, his core a mess of collapsed defenses and trembling muscles, wondering how much more he could take… wondering if he was already way past that point. 

Aarav sobbed through cracked lips, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Please…”

Finally words came to him, finally he may have a chance to get out of this mess! Finally... another punch buried itself into his gut.

THWUMP.

He screamed this time, openly, without held back. His body jolting forward, held up only by the masked man’s grip on his shoulder. The force of the blow rippled through his core like a tremor, spreading heat, nausea, and blinding agony.

“P-please… no more… I can’t… I can’t take—”

CRACK.

Another hit cut him off. There was no dignity left. No venom in his words. No mask of power. Only a man, just a man, begging not to be broken any further. But the punches kept coming.

WHUMP. THUD. CRUNCH.

He gasped with every hit, the sounds so small and pathetic. His legs buckled again, but the masked man didn’t let him fall. Not yet. Aarav sagged in the attacker’s grip, arms slack, head swaying.

“Don’t… kill me…” he croaked. “Please…”

He didn’t even feel the final punch that knocked him out. It landed flush in his midsection, driving so deep that it felt like the masked man had punched through the memory of his strength. Aarav’s eyes rolled back.

And then... darkness.

 

When he awoke, everything felt wrong.

Well more wrong.

He was lying on a mattress, old, stained, low to the ground. A thin blanket was draped by his side. His pants were still on, but barely. Torn, filthy, crusted with dried sweat and dust and something else he didn’t want to identify. The air was damp, still. Basement? He was still in the basement. There was no sign of the masked man. Aarav turned his head slowly, neck stiff and sore. Every part of his body screamed in protest. His abs, his most prized possession, were ruined. Swollen, mottled, bruised beyond recognition. He touched them with trembling fingers and winced. It hurt just to breathe.

His hair clung to his forehead. His mouth was dry. His entire body, once so carefully managed and sculpted, now felt like a collapsed monument, still vaguely shaped like greatness, but broken beneath the surface.

He looked down at himself.

Ruined.

Not just the pants.

Not just the body.

His ego. His legend. The man who toasted his own reflection and bragged about being untouchable had begged like a worm, wept like a child, passed out like prey. And now he lay alone.

Sweating. Trembling. Alive... but not whole.

“Is this it?” he whispered, staring up at the dim ceiling. “Is this… the end of me?”

The silence offered no answer. 

 

 

 

The skyline glittered beneath him, stretching wide and endless. Lights blinked across the glass like stars trying to apologize. The leather chair cradled his frame, though even the slightest shift made him wince beneath the surface. Aarav sat still, one arm draped across his midsection protectively, the other gently swirling a glass of aged whiskey. Not Scotch this time, something different. Something softer. He brought it to his lips and took a sip, slow and measured. His fingers trembled only slightly.

“Alexa...” he said, voice hoarse but calm, like nothing had ever happened. “Start new journal entry.”

A soft chime answered him.

“Recording…”

He exhaled and let the smirk settle back onto his face.

“So. I was attacked. Truly as astonishingly as it was, I was seriously attacked! Some masked idiot broke into my penthouse while I was relaxing. Took me off guard, managed to land a few cheap shots, got lucky. Real lucky. I played along, gave him a show. You know how it is, people think because they train in a basement gym and own a pair of gloves, they’re invincible. He thought he had me. But in the end? HA! How rich. He learned who he was messing with. I took the pain like a man, kept my head high, and when the time came? I turned the tables. I broke him. Let that be a lesson to anyone else who thinks I’m weak. I don’t lose. I recover. I rebuild. And I erase threats.”

He paused, sipped his drink again, and let the silence linger just long enough. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at the city. His jaw tightened. His abs still ached. Some mornings he couldn’t stand up straight. His ribs clicked when he breathed too deep. And sometimes, in the mirror, he thought he saw him, the mask, the shadow, the fist coming at him all over again. But no one would ever know.

"Oh” he added. “And as for the masked man? He’s not a problem anymore. I found out who he was.”

A beat passed.

“End entry.”

Another chime. The recording ended. Aarav leaned back slowly into his chair, wincing again as pressure settled into his side. His hand unconsciously moved across his gut, touching the scarred terrain hidden beneath the silk of his shirt. He closed his eyes. The lie was recorded. The pain was his alone. And somewhere, deep beneath it all, a part of him still feared that man would come back. But fear had no place in his story.

Not anymore.

 

 

 

 

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