Prologue: The Darkness Within
No one ever paid much attention to Benson. He was the kind of kid who walked with his head down, spoke in whispers, and moved like he was trying to disappear. He had no friends, no confidence, and barely any presence at all. But sometimes, the quiet ones carry something else—something even they don’t know is there. Something waiting.
It didn’t come when he was hurt or bleeding. Pain wasn’t enough. It waited until Benson went limp—unconscious, fainted, or clinically dead. That’s when his alter ego took over.
It had no name. No past. Just one purpose: vengeance. Cold, merciless, and unnatural. Every second it existed drained the real Benson’s life force. Time was short. But even with that limit… it always made time to play. Before the punishment, it mocked. It toyed. It stretched the fear out slow—like a cat playing with a mouse.
And when it rose, the body changed: taller, stretched unnaturally. Nails grew into claws. Hair turned a ghostly white-gray. Its presence felt vampiric—quiet, sharp, and dangerous. Wounds didn’t matter. They sealed within seconds. Bones snapped back. Flesh stitched itself together. Regeneration kicked in faster than death could finish its work.
When it disappeared, Benson woke with no memory. No idea what had happened. No clue what he’d become.
But tonight, in that alley—
the very door had finally opened… once again.
Rise and Shine
The broken body twitched. Chunks of torn flesh slid across the pavement, pulled by some invisible force—merging, reshaping, rebuilding. A grin formed first. Then eyes—cold, sharp, unblinking. The figure stood up slowly, rising from the blood-soaked concrete like a ghost summoned by vengeance.
From the shadows, a voice whispered:
“Rise and shine, Benson…”
His eyes gleamed. His lips curled into a smirk.
“I’m back, baby.”
Yet the boys seemed completely unaware of what was happening just a short distance behind them. Three of them were still clearly nervous, glancing around like they half-expected someone to show up. But the stocky one just laughed, trying to play it cool.
“Man, what a weakling. Dropped dead after one swing? That’s boring as hell.”
He was even cracking jokes. The one with a cigarette, though still tense, chuckled along with him.
“Yeah, for real. Dude was weak as fuck. One hit and done. Not even fun.”
The Cigarette Burns
Benson gave the ground a gentle push with one foot, and his entire body slid forward—silent, smooth, like a gust of wind gliding across the pavement. He didn’t charge. He didn’t sprint. He simply glided toward the four teenagers.
Then—impact.
He went straight through the kid with the cigarette, crashing into him like a silent missile. Just before the moment of contact, Benson leaned in and whispered softly, almost polite:
“Excuse me… coming through.”
The smoker’s body flew back before he could react. There was a sharp, metallic clang as his spine slammed into the steel pole of a streetlamp. The impact echoed through the alley like a church bell cracked in half. His ribs caved inward. His lungs stuttered. A mist of blood flew from his mouth as he collapsed against the pole, then slid down slowly, arms limp, leaving a streak of spit and blood along the cold metal.
But he didn’t pass out. He was still conscious—barely. Head drooping, eyes half-open, chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps. His whole body trembled. Every breath hurt.
And then—Benson was in front of him. He crouched down slowly, calm as ever, like death in no rush. One hand reached out, and with a single finger, he gently lifted the boy’s chin. The smoker’s head tilted up—and when his eyes met Benson’s face, his entire body seized up in fear. What he saw wasn’t human. It was something twisted. Unnatural. And in that instant, he lost control. A dark wet patch spread down his pants. He had pissed himself.
Benson smirked.
“You’re shaking like a little bitch… and you pissed yourself.”
“That’s just crazy. I didn’t even hit you that hard.”
The boy whimpered, tears mixing with blood.
“P-please… don’t hurt me…”
Benson stood up slowly, glancing down at the ground beside the kid. There it was—the cigarette he’d been smoking earlier. Still glowing faintly at the tip. He picked it up between two fingers.
“Looks like you forgot something.”
Then, with casual cruelty, he shoved the burning end straight into the boy’s right nostril.
A high-pitched scream tore out of the smoker’s throat—sharp, broken, almost animal.
“Aaaaghh—IT BURNS! OH MY GOD—IT’S BURNING!!”
He kicked weakly, hands flailing. His entire face twisted in raw pain as the stench of scorched flesh filled the air. Smoke curled from his nose, and his scream turned to gasping sobs.
Benson just watched—calm, cold, and utterly entertained.
The Spit Debt
Benson slowly straightened his body, then tilted his head just slightly as he turned to face the three remaining boys. They didn’t run. They didn’t scream. They just stood there—frozen in place, too shocked to move or think.
His voice came out soft, almost casual.
“Just now… who spit in my eye?”
The three boys glanced at each other in terrified silence. Whether it was fear or guilt, no one spoke. Then, without warning, Benson’s voice exploded—louder, sharper, and filled with rage:
“Who the fuck spit in my eye?!”
All three of them jumped. Their mouths opened but no words came. Then the tall, skinny one in the pink shirt suddenly pointed to the smallest boy—the pale one whose legs were already shaking.
“I-It was him! He did it! He’s the one who spit on you! I swear!”
The pale kid’s face drained of color. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground with a heavy thud. He shook his head in panic, trying to explain, to beg.
“I didn’t—It wasn’t me, I swear—”
But it was already too late.
Benson spat—a violent, laser-precise blast, fired like a bullet from his mouth. The glob of phlegm ripped through the air with a screech, sparked like static, and punched straight into the kid’s throat.
There was a small explosion inside his neck. He choked instantly—gagged—and threw both hands to his throat. Blood burst between his fingers and poured down his chest. He dropped to his side and started rolling, convulsing on the pavement like his body was trying to escape itself. His eyes bulged. His legs kicked uselessly. He clawed at the pavement with trembling fingers as if he could somehow crawl away from the pain, but it followed him with every breath. He coughed, gagged, sobbed silently.
His eyes locked onto the boy in the pink shirt. There was confusion, betrayal, and heartbreak in that look. He wanted to scream: “Why did you lie?” But his throat was already gone.
He rolled one more time, limbs weakening, body slowing. Then suddenly, his entire frame jerked—his back arched slightly, and both legs kicked out hard, then locked straight, stiff as boards. It looked like a seizure, or the final burst of a nervous system shutting down.
His eyes stretched wide, unblinking. The light inside them faded, the color drained.
His chest stopped rising.
An innocent soul was gone for good.
The Illusion of Strength
The stocky boy—the one who had laughed the loudest—took a deep breath. His chest rose. His eyes narrowed. Somewhere in that terrified little brain of his, something sparked.
Courage.
Or at least, what he thought was courage.
He clenched his fists, flexed his arms, and gripped the old rusty pipe tighter. That thing—whatever Benson had become—was fast, yes… but maybe not unstoppable. If he gave it everything, maybe he could land a hit. Maybe they could go toe-to-toe.
With a final yell, he charged.
“AAAHHHHHHHH!”
Pipe raised. Body tense. Every ounce of power behind that swing—
Clink.
Two fingers. That’s all it took.
Benson caught the pipe between his index and middle finger—calm, effortless, unmoving. The boy froze, the metal locked in place like it had hit solid rock.
Benson tilted his head. Then, slowly, he raised his right hand and wagged his index finger side to side.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no…”
His voice was soft, almost playful. Like a teacher scolding a toddler for drawing on the walls.
Then Benson released the pipe. The boy’s own momentum dragged it forward, and he stumbled backward a few steps, caught off guard.
And that’s when he snapped.
“KILLER MOVE—DRAGON PIPE DANCE!!”
He lunged in again, this time completely unhinged. He swung the pipe like a lunatic—slashing, jabbing, spinning. At least a hundred wild strikes in under a minute. His voice cracked as he screamed with each swing, eyes wide, body flailing.
But Benson didn’t strike back.
He didn’t block.
He didn’t even flinch.
He stepped around it all—smooth, clean, untouchable. A tilt here, a shift there, a lean at just the right angle. It looked more like dancing than dodging.
Then, in the middle of the chaos…
Benson bent down and started tying his shoe.
Calm. Slow. Like nothing else was happening around him.
The pipe kept flying past his head, his shoulder, his back—but he didn’t even glance up. He simply looped the laces, tugged them tight, and stood back up.
The stocky kid was soaked in sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps. His hands were shaking. His swings had slowed, grown sloppy.
He had given everything he had.
And Benson hadn’t even looked at him.
Stocky Kid’s Fate
The stocky kid could barely breathe. His chest heaved. His arms shook. Sweat poured from his face.
But then… he started laughing.
At first it was weak, then louder—unhinged.
Without warning, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and ripped it open, tossing it aside. His upper body was packed with muscle—solid, veined, gym-hardened flesh he clearly thought would save him.
He squared up, flexing every inch like he was made of stone.
“You’re fast, and you’re mean,” he shouted. “But your attacks won’t leave a scratch on me!”
“Come on then, demon—hit me!”
Benson just stood there.
He eyed the exposed chest, then slowly licked one of his long, curved claws—like he was testing the edge. Then he smiled faintly.
“You know public nudity’s illegal, right?”
“Didn’t your gym teacher ever teach you that?”
The boy blinked, confused—then Benson moved.
His right hand slashed the air, smooth and clean, at least three feet away. No contact. No sound. Just a motion.
And for a few seconds… nothing happened.
The stocky boy stood still, confused. His brow furrowed. Ten seconds passed.
Then he laughed again.
“What was that? Some kind of dance move? You trying to scare me with shadow puppets? What a—”
He didn’t finish.
A thin red line bloomed across his abdomen.
A second later—his stomach opened.
A thick, wet tearing sound filled the alley as his intestines spilled out, heavy and coiled like a bucket of raw meat. His hands shot down to catch them—instinctively, hopelessly—trying to shove them back in.
But it was too wet.
Too slippery.
Too late.
His eyes widened in shock.
His knees buckled.
And then, slowly, he collapsed into the pile of his own insides.
Blood pooled beneath him. The alley stank of iron and death.
He didn’t say another word.
He couldn’t.
The Last One
The tall boy in the pink shirt stood frozen—eyes wide, jaw slack, body stiff like carved wood. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t blinked. He just stood there, paralyzed, staring at the pile of intestines and the monster who made it.
Benson slowly walked toward him. Calm. Silent. No threat in his steps. No tension in his voice.
“What are you still standing here for?”
“Get lost.”
The boy blinked, barely able to process what he just heard.
“I… I can go?”
Benson’s gaze stayed fixed, cold and even.
“Leave. Now. Before I change my mind.”
“Crawl like a dog.”
The boy didn’t hesitate.
He dropped to the ground—hands, knees, elbows—and scurried across the alley floor without looking back. His limbs scraped along the pavement as he scrambled away, dragging himself low, frantic and wild.
He moved like a frightened dog escaping the butcher’s knife.
And then—he was gone.
Benson turned away and walked to the wall. His claws retracted. His spine relaxed. His breathing slowed.
The transformation was ending.
His body shrank back to its original shape. His features softened. The deadly tension faded from his limbs. His hair returned to its natural color, falling back into place like curtains after a show.
He sat down quietly, his back against the wall.
Then, without a word,
he closed his eyes… and slept.