Blood, Brick, and Justice

Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.

 

 

Anwar had always been about doing the right thing, even when it hurt. Ok, especially when it hurt. As a boy in Cairo, he never tolerated bullies, never liked it when the bigger meaner people picked on the weaker ones. He would fight for what was right, and would fight for them. Of course, that usually meant he was the one walking home with a bloody nose, a split lip, and a stubborn smile that said he had do it all again tomorrow. His attitude was kind, but definitely of a young man who would never learn a lesson. No was just a suggestion to him, especially when it came to protecting others. Teachers told him to keep his head down, that he didn't want this drama. His mother, bless her, begged him to stop getting into fights. Just go to school, do your work, and cause no trouble. His father? Never said much, but there was silent approval in what his boy was doing. In that never give up attitude. Yet, no matter what many other people said, something in him couldn’t just stand by when someone weaker was being pushed around.

That something, what ever it was, never faded.

When Anwar moved to the city as a man, the bullies were bigger, and they didn’t just hang around schoolyards anymore. They wore suits, or gang colors, or badges they didn’t deserve. It pissed him off, and lead to Anwar pouring every ounce of frustration and justice hunger into the gym. When not at work, he was lifting, running, training until his body felt forged from stone. He wasn’t just fit (and he was VERY fit), he was built like someone preparing for a war only he could see coming. Maybe war was what he always wanted...

One night, fresh out of a long, steaming shower, the mirror fogged and the room thick with heat, Anwar reached for the towel, wrapping himself around the waist. First he took a moment to admire all the work he put into himself. Arms where use, pecs where huge, abs you could throw bricks at and the bricks would break. He gotten more than one look of admiration, and even more of lust. Any man would have taken full advantage of such looks, but no, not Anwar. He did this not for easy sex or admiration. He....

He glanced at the bathroom sink and saw it. A red mask.

That stupid cheap plastic thing, a joke from some costume party earlier that evening. He had tossed it there without a thought, meaning to throw it out after his shower. But now? Now that he was holding it in his hand again? Something changed, something that would change his life. It was a spark lit in his chest. Maybe relit? First came a wild, crazy, absolutely bat shit idea. Then another came. Then another.... then a flood. The city was rotting, night time had become a play ground for crime. It was bad, but not to late. All it needed was someone willing to bleed for it, someone who could scare the monsters back into the dark. Someone who didn’t wait for permission to fight. Anwar looked into the fogged mirror, mask in hand, steam curling around him like a war god’s breath. A name... The name came to him instantly, a fusion of the color and his heritage, something sharp, something that would echo down the alleys like a warning.

"Crimson Pharaoh."

Tonight, the Crimson Pharaoh would be born.

 

Later that Night:

The city at night was a different creature. It rang with a different tone, a different air, a different vibe all together. The day hid its sins under traffic and noise, tourist and busy workers, but the darkness peeled that mask away. The streets whispered their secrets in the drip of gutter water and the crunch of broken glass underfoot. Anwar, wrapped in the tight red of the Crimson Pharaoh, moved through the shadows like a predator who had finally been let off the leash. The suit clung to his shoulders, chest and back like a second skin, meant to show off just how much muscle he was packing. It was meant to intimidate and scare, then have his fist do the rest. Topping it off was the mask, it was snug against his brow. Every step sent a quiet pulse of power through him. His heart thudded, not from fear, but from the thrill of finally doing more than dreaming about change.

And then he saw it.

Half a block away from his home, his apartment, down a narrow back alley drowned in shadow, a man was pinned against the bricks. His suit was cheap, his face pale in the flicker of a dying streetlamp. The barrel of a handgun pressed into the side of his head. The robber was wiry, quick moving, eyes darting like a cornered rat. Had to be high on some drug, probably one a number of them. One hand held the pistol steady, the other dug through the victim’s pockets with frantic, jerking motions. The man’s breath came in ragged bursts, each one shuddering like it might be his last. Anwar froze for a moment, his body stilled the way a lion stills before the pounce. His mind, though, was a hurricane. This was it. This was finally it! The first act. The first strike in a war he had been preparing for his whole life. If he did this right, the city would start to remember what justice felt like. If he did this wrong… no, there was no wrong. Only forward. He would do this, he would win. Now, anger surged in him, hot and electric. The image of every bully he had ever faced, every victim he couldn’t save, every time someone told him it wasn’t his fight, all of it boiled over.

He could already picture it, the gun clattering to the pavement, the robber folded over from a punch he had never see coming, the poor victim stumbling away free why thanking him over and over. The newspapers wouldn’t know his name yet, but the streets would start to whisper. A hero was born, and they came to save the day! Anwar’s fingers curled into fists, his boots silent against the wet concrete as he stepped deeper into the shadows. The mask hid his face, but his eyes… his eyes burned like the edge of a sunrise. The robber hadn’t seen him yet., the victim hadn’t either. The Crimson Pharaoh exhaled slowly, feeling the tension coil in his muscles like a drawn bow. The alley smelled of oil and rain, and somewhere, a distant siren wailed. He was one heartbeat away from stepping into the light. One heartbeat away from the city’s first taste of fear… and hope.

It was go time.

Anwar moved. From the shadows, the Crimson Pharaoh surged forward like a bolt loosed from the bow of the Gods. The wet slap of his boots on concrete echoed up the brick walls, announcing his arrival a split second too late for the man holding the gun. The robber’s head began to turn, some animal instinct whispering danger. But instinct wasn’t fast enough, why would it be? Robbers like there were never well trained, and always thought they were in control. Anwar’s fist shot forward, driven by every hour in the gym, every fight he had lost, every injustice he’d burned to set right. The leather of his glove stretched tight over his knuckles as it connected with the man’s jaw.

CRACK.

The sound was sharp, not the dull thud of a body shot, but the brittle snap of teeth biting down on tongue. The robber’s head snapped to the side, his eyes going wide and glassy, knees buckling like the strings had been cut. The gun wobbled in his grip, his balance gone. For an instant, the alley froze in the frame of a single perfect moment:

The victim’s eyes, wide with confusion and shock.

The robber’s jaw unhinged in mid impact, spit and blood flecking the damp air.

Anwar’s face, half shadowed beneath the mask, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

The robber staggered back two steps, hitting the wall hard enough to send a brick’s worth of dust drifting down onto his shoulders. His hand instinctively went to his face, fingertips tracing the fresh bruise blooming along his cheekbone. Anwar stepped in close, closing the gap before the robber’s instincts or even fight or flight could catch up. His left hand shot up, gripping the man’s jacket collar in a tight fist. The fabric bunched and pulled, dragging the robber forward, keeping him upright when his knees clearly wanted to give out.

THUD.

Knuckles slammed into cheekbone, snapping the man’s head to the side. Spit and a ribbon of blood flew into the damp air, catching the alley’s dim light for a split second before vanishing into the darkness. Anwar didn’t let go. His right arm pulled back, coiling like a spring, and he drove a third blow into the other side of the robber’s face. The man groaned, half conscious, but still clutching at the gun like it was the last lifeline he had. The fourth punch was harder.

BAM.

It landed just above the jaw, rattling teeth, the robber’s eyes rolling toward the back of his skull. Anwar’s breathing was sharp now, not from fatigue, but from focus. Every strike was deliberate, precise, not wild. He wasn’t just hitting this man; he was breaking him down. Years of weight training, drills, and quiet fury were translating into each punch, one after another, like the ticking of a war drum. The robber’s head lolled. Blood smeared down from his nose, dripping onto Anwar’s gloves and splattering onto the wet concrete at their feet. Still, Anwar didn’t stop. He could feel the raw satisfaction building, the knowledge that, for once, a bully wasn’t getting away with it.

Five.
Six.
Seven.

The punches kept coming, each one rocking the robber back into the wall, then forward into Anwar’s waiting fist. The alley echoed with the sound of knuckles meeting bone, the rhythm so fierce it almost drowned out the victim’s shaky, relieved breathing behind them. By the eighth hit, the robber’s gun slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the ground. Anwar kicked it aside without looking, his eyes locked on the man’s battered, swelling face. For a moment, time seemed to slow. The steam from nearby gutter vents swirled around them, the light from the flickering streetlamp catching the streaks of sweat running down Anwar’s temples. His heart was pounding, but his hands felt steady, like they were doing exactly what they were made to do. The robber sagged against the wall, barely holding himself up. Anwar’s grip loosened, and for the first time since the fight began, he stepped back half a pace, watching the man sway.

For a few glorious seconds, Anwar felt like the city’s guardian angel. The adrenaline roared in his veins, his knuckles were warm with victory, and the robber in front of him was crumbling like wet clay. Every muscle in his body sang with the satisfaction of finally doing what he had always promised himself he would, stepping in, making it right. He held the man there against the wall, his chest heaving, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth under the mask.

“This is it. This is what I was born for!”

And in that single moment, the smallest pause, the lightest exhale, everything changed. The robber’s eyes, which had been glassy and unfocused, suddenly sharpened. His shoulders twitched, and before Anwar’s body could read the danger, a fist came driving forward.

 

 

WHUMP!

It sank deep into Anwar’s stomach, just below the ribs. The air rushed out of him in a shocked grunt. He hadn’t been braced, hadn’t flexed, he’d been wide open. His body folded slightly, the muscles in his gut spasming as the pain radiated outward in a burning wave. For a split second, the world narrowed to the fire in his midsection. But instinct dragged him upright. He staggered back, teeth clenched, willing himself to push through, to counter before the robber could follow up...

That’s when the alley’s shadows moved.

Two more shapes stepped in from the darkness behind him. Big shapes. One in a black hoodie and jeans, the other all in black like a shadow given flesh. Their footsteps were quick, purposeful. Before Anwar could turn, the first one was on him.

CRACK!

A heavy fist slammed into the back of his head. His vision flashed white, his knees buckled, and the brick wall to his left seemed to sway. Another blow, harder to the back of his head. Dizzy, he stumbled forward a step, his arms reflexively going up, but his movements felt half a second too slow, like he was fighting through water. Then a sharp pain, like something had been... injected in him? Anwar tried to think, to react, but everything was so.... he wanted to hurl, jump up, curl up into a ball and die. All at the same time. But he had no time for that, the original robber straightened, wiping blood from his mouth, had a huge grin a crooked mess.

“Well, well,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but tinged with something ugly. “Look what wandered into our alley.”

The other two flanked Anwar now, hemming him in.

“Let’s have some fun...” one of them said, his voice low and eager.

The third chuckled, and Anwar felt the sound in his bones more than in his ears.

“Yeah. We’ll take turns.”

The words cut through the ringing in his head like ice. They weren’t just going to beat him, they were going to make a game of it. Anwar forced his feet to square up, trying to clear the dizziness. His fists rose, but the ground under him felt less certain now, and every breath pulled at the ache in his stomach. The fight had started as a statement.... now it was about survival.

“Fu ” was all he could think before it began.

The original robber stepped forward, cracking his neck with a slow, deliberate roll. Blood still leaked from the corner of his mouth where Anwar had first tagged him, but his grin was back, wider now, crueler.

“You had your fun,” he said, his voice thick with mockery. “Now it’s my turn.”

THUD.

It slammed into the center of Anwar’s abs, making him grunt sharply through clenched teeth. His whole torso jolted back against the wall, but he stayed on his feet, his arms instinctively folding across his middle before he forced them back down. He wanted to drop, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to make a run for it. No... NO! He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him run like prey. He would fight, he would endure and come back! This battle was his, he would - another punch came. Hard, brutal, almost like it was more drill then fist. Then another fist after. The robber’s rhythm was cruel and efficient, the kind of methodical striking you would use on a heavy bag at the gym. Each blow landed just low enough to dig into the softest part of Anwar’s midsection, just high enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Anwar’s body rocked with every impact, but he fought to keep his expression tight, to bury the pain behind the mask, even if the mask itself felt heavier now, his vision still hazy from that shot to the back of the head.

WHUMP.
WHUMP.
WHUMP.

He forced himself, to stay up, to take the hits, to plant his boots against the concrete and ride them out. He would get himself back together, fight off what ever they injected him with... he would have to. He tried to tighten his core each time, tried to absorb the punishment, but the dizziness was a constant drag, a weight pulling his reactions half a second behind. The impact still sank deep, rattling his insides until his breaths grew shorter, sharper. The robber chuckled between strikes.

“What’s the matter, hero? Not so quick now, huh?”

Anwar didn’t answer, feeling like if he opened his mouth, vomit and blood would come out, not words. His forearms twitched like they wanted to come up and shield his stomach, but for some reason now he couldn't move them. Was what they injected him with, was it that's doing? He didn't have time to think this as even more hits came now. Every strike made the world swim a little more. His abs felt like they were turning to hot stone under the robber’s fists, each blow chipping away at his strength. He knew he was losing ground. He could feel it in the heaviness of his arms, in the way his knees wanted to give. But even with the edges of his vision darkening, some stubborn part of him refused to fall. Some part was still fighting back. The robber landed one last, hard shot right into the solar plexus.

WHUMP.

Anwar’s breath caught, a sharp hitch in his chest, but he locked his knees and forced himself to stand tall. The robber stepped back, smirking, and glanced at his two companions.

“Alright… who’s next?”

The second robber stepped forward with a lazy sort of swagger, like he already knew how this would go. The resemblance between the two other robbers was uncanny, same narrow eyes, same crooked grin. Twins... both with a look that sent dread all threw out his body.

“How soften up you feeling there red?” he said, rolling his shoulders. “How about we find out?”

Anwar leaned back against the wall, drawing in air through gritted teeth. His mask hid most of his expression, but his eyes were locked forward, unblinking. The bigger of the twins, and largest of the three stepped forward, his heavy boots splashing in a shallow puddle as he approached. He didn’t rush, he didn’t need to. Every step was measured, deliberate, like a man walking to claim something that already belonged to him. Anwar’s chest heaved, the cool night air cutting across sweat slicked skin. His bruised stomach tightened instinctively as the man closed in, but his muscles were slow to respond, dulled by the beating he had already taken. The first punch to his chest landed like a sledgehammer, a wide, clubbing shot that rattled his whole body. The second followed, right to the upper stomach. It was short, sharp blow that drove a grunt out of him. These weren’t wild strikes. They were testing shots, measuring the damage. Then, with a suddenness that made Anwar’s pulse spike, the big man reached up and grabbed the edge of his mask.

“No—”

RIP.

The mask came away in one brutal pull, the elastic snapping as it left his head. The cool air hit his sweat matted hair, his bare face now lit by the dim streetlamp. Anwar froze. Sure his upper body had been beaten and exposed, but it was his face, his identity, that made the fear spike. No armor. No anonymity. No shadow to hide behind. The big man looked at the mask in his hand, then let it drop into the grime at their feet. He chuckled low, a sound that felt colder than the night air. Anwar’s jaw clenched, because really that's all he could do now. His stomach still throbbed from the first barrage, each breath making the ache flare hotter. He widened his stance against the wall, trying to ready himself. He’d held through the first onslaught. He could hold again. Hold until what ever was in his system, worked it's way out. It couldn't last that long right? The twin stepped in close, too close, and fired the first punch.

THUD.

It was a hook, right into Anwar’s side, angled in such a way that it dug deep beneath the ribs. Pain exploded in his flank, his body jerking involuntarily against the wall. He tried to keep his core tight, but the twin didn’t give him time, the next hit came fast.

WHUMP.

Another hook, this time to the opposite side. Then a straight shot, dead center, landing with a sharp SMACK that echoed off the alley bricks. Anwar’s breath burst out in a rough grunt. The second robber grinned, and that grin widened when he looked down. The first small tear had appeared in the red fabric over Anwar’s stomach, just a little split where the seam had strained under the impact.

“Well, would you look at that,” the twin chuckled. “Guess Red bleeds under the cheap ass costume!”

The next punch was harder, driven in with both shoulder and hips. The tear widened, the costume stretching until another seam popped. The damp night air brushed against Anwar’s bare skin through the gap, sweat cooling instantly before more heat bloomed from the next hit. The blows came in a steady rhythm now, left hook, right hook, straight, straight, hook, hook, each one pulling another thread loose, each one making the rip bigger. By the sixth punch, a hand sized patch of his midsection was bare, the skin beneath already mottled with angry red marks and deepening bruises. Anwar’s teeth ground together as he fought to stay upright. His arms twitched again with the urge to block, but he refused. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him cover up, even if every blow made it harder to think through the pounding ache in his gut. The twin pressed in, his voice low and mocking between shots.

“Not so mighty now, huh? You’re just meat under that fancy red.”

Before Anwar could even form a comeback, a curse, anything really, another fist drove deep into his stomach.

WHUMP.

The air left his lungs in a sharp grunt, his back hitting the wall harder. The twin didn’t wait, he followed with another, and another.

THUD.
THUD.
THUD.

Each strike was sinking in deeper now, compressing muscle and bone, pulling a fresh wave of pain through Anwar’s core. The tear in his costume stretched wider with each hit, the once proud crimson fabric now sagging and frayed. His costume and his body seem to be one, beaten, ruined, no respect. If that wasn't bad enough, the punches came faster. Harder. Left hook, right hook, straight. Straight, straight, hook. Anwar’s legs wobbled under him, but his boots stayed planted, stubbornly holding his ground. The twin’s grin was now almost manic, sweat dripping from his forehead as he wound up again and hammered another fist into Anwar’s middle. The seam over his right side gave way completely with a rip, revealing more of his sweat slicked skin. The alley air clung cold to him for a second before another blow reignited the fire under his ribs. Then the punches stopped for only a breath, just enough for the twin to grab the front of Anwar’s torn costume with both hands.

“Let’s finish unwrapping Red, eh?” he sneered.

The twin yanked hard, fabric tearing with a vicious RRRIPPP that echoed in the alley. A few more punches followed, each one jarring his frame, each one shaking more seams loose, until the red fabric hung in tatters. One last savage tug and the entire top half came away in the robber’s hands, leaving Anwar’s upper body bare to the night. His chest and shoulders glistened with sweat under the streetlight, his abs already marred with swelling and bruises from the relentless attack. The twin tossed the ruined costume top aside like garbage, stepping back with a smirk to admire the damage.

“Much better,” he said. “Now you look like a man who’s about to break.”

Another punch, harder than the rest, tore the fabric almost to his hip. Anwar’s stomach heaved under the impact, his abs contracting painfully before relaxing into a raw, unsteady tremor. The twin finally stepped back, shaking out his hands, breathing just a little heavier but smiling like he had just finished carving something up. He turned to his twin brother, nodding toward Anwar.

“Your turn. Don’t leave anything standing.”

 

“Now everyone gets to see the hero bleed.”

He stepped in, squaring his shoulders, and drove a deep punch straight into Anwar’s stomach.

WHUMP.

Anwar’s body jolted forward. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Before he could suck in air, another punch came.

THUD.

Then another.

And another.

So. Many. More.

Each blow landed lower, heavier, drilling into the same battered spots over and over. It wasn’t the flurry of the first robber or the precision of the second, this was raw, punishing power. The kind of force meant to leave a mark you would feel for weeks. The impacts were so deep they seemed to echo through his body, pain blooming in his back with every shot as the force bounced off the brick behind him. Anwar’s breathing turned ragged, shallow, his abs trembling from the strain of staying tight.

“Not much more now...”

The next strike was harder, so hard it felt like it reached through muscle and bone to squeeze something vital inside. Fear, real fear, surged up Anwar’s spine. Not of losing, not even of the pain. But of damage, the kind you don’t walk away from. The kind you couldn't get rid of easily, or really at all....and the big man wasn’t finished.

WHUMP.

Another fist buried itself deep into Anwar’s gut. His lips parted, a pained gasp escaping before he could clench his teeth again.

THUD.
WHUMP.
THUD.

Each blow was a shovel digging into the same ground, over and over, breaking apart what little was holding it together. The sound of knuckles colliding with his midsection was wet, heavy, the noise of flesh giving way under force. Anwar’s face twisted with every shot, his eyes narrowing to slits, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Sweat poured down his temples, stinging his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He couldn’t, blinking felt too much like surrender.

SMACK.
WHUMP.
WHUMP.

The punches came in a merciless never ending motion, with a drumbeat that rattled through his chest cavity. His stomach, his once powerful abs of steal that were already raw and bruised, trembled with each new impact, no longer able to stay fully tight. Unable to stay tight at all. A tremor ran through his whole body, a visible shaking he couldn’t hide.

THUD.

His head snapped forward.

WHUMP.

His shoulders lurched back into the brick.

WHUMP.

The big man grinned through it all, watching the fight, color and life slowly drain from Anwar’s frame.

“You feel that, Red?” he growled between shots. “That’s me taking your final pieces of you.”

The next set of punches landed faster, sharper —

WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP-WHUMP.

Each one drove deeper than the last, making Anwar’s stomach cave under the pressure before springing back only to be hit again. His breathing turned ragged, broken into short, wheezing bursts. Then came the final series. The big man squared his stance and unleashed a brutal tencount of gut shots, each one a hammer blow:

One — pain.
Two — harder.
Three — his body shuddered.
Four — his vision swam.
Five — his mouth opened in a soundless gasp.
Six — the ache turned molten.
Seven — his ribs quivered under the strain.
Eight — his arms dipped for half a second.
Nine — his knees buckled slightly.
Ten — the breath was gone, completely stolen.

The last thing he remembered was another punch, the hardest yet,s lamming into his middle, his breath catching and holding like his body had forgotten how to let it go. And then… nothing.

Darkness.

He was still upright, but his mind had gone somewhere far away.

 

  

A slow blink.
Then another.

Anwar’s vision swam, the world tilting in and out of focus like the alley was on a ship at sea. His ears rang with a hollow, metallic hum. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if his eyes were even open or if he was trapped in some half dream, halfway between consciousness and the void. The pain in his gut was what brought him back. It was still there, sharp, burning, alive in every inch of his core. He winced and let one hand drift down, fingers trembling as they pressed against his bare abs. The heat radiated up into his palm, the tender muscle throbbing under even the lightest touch. He inhaled shakily, testing himself. His legs felt heavy, his knees unsure, and yet… he was upright? How? His head lifted slowly, the air in the alley thick and still. Something about the quiet was wrong. He turned, turned just enough for his blurry vision to adjust. The three robbers were there.

All of them.

But they weren’t circling anymore. They weren’t grinning or winding up for another shot. They were on the ground. All three of them lay sprawled on their stomachs, arms splayed unnaturally wide, their chests unmoving. Anwar’s brow furrowed. His mouth went dry. He had no memory of this. The last thing he remembered was the pain, a barrage that felt like it might break him in half, and then nothing. No fight, no final stand. Just… darkness.

And now this? Now this, what ever it was.

He looked down at his own hands. His knuckles were raw, scraped, flecked with something darker than dirt. His breathing quickened, the chill of the night suddenly seeping into his skin. Were they unconscious? Were they… worse? He didn’t check. He couldn’t. Anwar stood there in the dead quiet of the alley, chest bare, mask gone, stomach aching like it had been carved into. His eyes flicked once more to the bodies, then to the shadows beyond. Whatever had happened in that gap of time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that he was still standing, he had some how won, and three criminals would no longer bother the good people of this city!

And for tonight… that would have to be enough.

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