Bakery Cracks Along with Raymond’s Dream
The bakery was dead quiet.
Everyone had already bolted—screaming, tripping over chairs, shoving each other—after the third explosion shook the place apart. Now, the only thing left inside was the wrecked car that had crashed through the entrance… and the driver, unconscious and slumped over the wheel.
And two bodies.
Though, calling them “bodies” wasn’t really accurate anymore.
They were just flattened slabs of skin and bone, smashed into the floor like forgotten pancakes. No skulls. No spines. Just… mush.
Outside, sirens were closing in—ambulance, police, fire.
But Raymond?
Raymond didn’t budge.
He stood right outside the destroyed bakery, soaking wet in his pink apron, that crooked little mustache twitching under his nose. His small eyes stared blankly through the bangs clinging to his forehead. Arms limp. Jaw slack. He looked like a ghost who hadn’t realized he was dead yet.
The big glass wall—the one he’d rebuilt twice—was gone again.
Not cracked.
Not shattered.
Just… gone.
His lips moved like he was trying to speak, but no sound came.
His fingers twitched like they were still kneading dough.
Two EMTs ran in, loaded the driver onto a stretcher, and rolled him toward the door. One of them barked at Raymond as they passed:
“Move it, buddy! You think this is a damn movie set?!”
Raymond didn’t flinch.
They shoved past him, bouncing his bony shoulder like he was made of cardboard. One muttered under his breath:
“Freakin’ mannequin…”
Then came the cops. They tossed a couple of white sheets over the bodies—not that it helped. The blood soaked right through, clinging to the tile like paper napkins in a rainstorm.
One rookie looked down at the mess and squinted:
“Yo… do we even gotta cover that? It’s not even bodies anymore. That’s just goo.”
His partner shrugged, still chewing gum:
“Protocol or some crap. Just make it look like we’re doing something.”
They started pulling out yellow tape, stringing it up like they were decorating for a sad birthday party.
Then one of them pointed at Raymond.
“Hey. Pink apron. Crime scene. Off the property.”
Raymond didn’t say a word. Just stared.
The cop rolled his eyes.
“Awesome. Another zombie. Alright, toss him.”
Four officers grabbed him without hesitation—no warning, no courtesy—and chucked him a few feet over, like tossing out the recycling.
Raymond hit the pavement hard but didn’t even try to stand.
He just rolled onto his knees, still facing the bakery.
His apron picked up dust and grime from the ground—creased, dirty.
His eyes were locked on the wreckage.
“It’s all gone,” he whispered.
“That’s it. I’ve got nothing left to fix it.”
His head dropped.
“There goes my bakery.
Along with my childhood dream.”
The Dramatic Rainfall
The sky had been crystal clear just a minute ago.
Bright blue. Not a single cloud.
But like some moody stage play, everything dimmed in seconds.
Wind kicked up. The sky turned black—like bruised fruit.
And then it poured.
No drizzle. No warning.
Just full-on, vengeful rain—dumping buckets like the heavens had a grudge. Thunder cracked in random bursts. Lightning stitched the clouds like angry veins.
Within moments, Raymond was drenched head to toe.
Rain streamed off his face, down his mustache, dripping from his elbows.
His pink apron sagged under the water’s weight.
His knees pressed into the soaked pavement.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Just knelt there, frozen, staring at what used to be his dream.
A few cops huddled inside the broken bakery, peeking out.
One of them scoffed.
“What’s this guy doing, trying to catch pneumonia?”
Another shrugged.
“Let him. Maybe it’ll slap some sense into him.”
Outside, the water pooled.
The blood from the crushed bodies slowly faded into the drains—washed away like trash nobody wanted to claim.
One cop blinked and muttered:
“Dude… they’re gone.”
Another grinned.
“Nice. Looks like our job’s done—nothing left to investigate.”
Raymond still hadn’t moved.
But something inside him had.
His eyes—once oddly gentle and alive—began to change.
First, the color drained, leaving only a dull ash-gray.
Then came the black mist, swirling from his pupils like soft smoke, just hovering there, even in the rain.
His body stopped shaking.
No more cold.
No more numbness.
Something new had taken over—heat.
His fists tightened slowly, like answering a command that didn’t come from his brain.
The air around him seemed to shift.
Not visibly. Not dramatically. But if you were really watching, you’d feel it—like the pressure in the room had tilted.
Muscles that had once looked thin and fragile started to tighten beneath his wet apron.
Not ripped. Not bulky.
Just… refined.
The way metal hardens under stress.
He opened his eyes again.
But he wasn’t looking at the bakery anymore.
He was looking past it.
To the reflection in the glass of an office tower down the street.
Two cops passed him on their way back to their car, umbrellas up.
Then Raymond spoke.
Loud. Clear.
Like a preacher in a thunderstorm:
“By the traumatic effect of the rain…
I shall give up my sanity.
I shall become the god of destruction.”
One cop glanced back.
“Okay, buddy. Go home before you catch a cold.”
The other kept walking.
“Nah. This man’s fully lost it. Straight-up lunatic.”
They got in their cruiser, flipped on the siren for no reason, and peeled off into the storm—probably just to skip a red light.
Fists Against the Glass
People passed by like everything was normal.
Raymond stood in the rain, staring through the window of a cake shop like it was an art gallery.
Inside was a cake—simple, clean, elegant.
White frosting. Bright fruit. A golden number “6” candle on top.
To most folks walking by, he looked like just another dude admiring a dessert.
A couple passed by, arm in arm.
“Your birthday’s in two weeks,” the girl said, smiling.
“Should I get you a cake like that?”
“Looks good,” the guy nodded. “He’s been looking at it for a while.”
“See? Must be a good one.”
They kept walking, totally unfazed.
Then Raymond punched the glass.
THUMP.
Not a smash. Not a shatter.
Just a thick, dull thud.
The glass barely trembled.
The couple paused. The guy turned back.
“Uh… sir? Are you okay? Why did you—”
He didn’t even get to finish before Raymond punched again.
And again.
And again.
Same spot. Same sound. No expression.
The girl leaned in and whispered,
“He’s not right. Let’s go. Just leave him alone.”
Then grabbed her boyfriend’s arm and tugged him away.
Just fists rotating like factory arms.
Right. Left. Right. Left.
Rain poured from his sleeves as he kept going.
Finally—a crack.
Tiny. But real.
Inside, the shop owner looked up from the register and groaned.
He marched out, apron on, already pissed.
“HEY! What the hell are you doing?!
This a kung fu dojo now? You wanna spar, go home!”
He stormed up to Raymond and, without hesitation—
socked him right in the face.
Raymond’s head snapped sideways.
Cheek bleeding.
But he didn’t even blink.
He just went right back to punching the glass.
Right fist.
Left fist.
Back to work.
The shop owner watched, stunned.
The crack had spread.
Now it looked like a spider web frozen mid-crawl.
He cursed again and stormed back inside.
The Vibration Technique
Raymond smiled.
Barely. Just a tiny curl of the lips.
But it wasn’t joy. It was… realization.
He whispered to no one:
“That’s it. Vibration.”
He’d found something.
Not strength.
Not speed.
But a frequency.
He lifted his right fist.
From the outside? Looked totally normal—just a man raising his hand to punch.
But deep inside, down to the atoms, his knuckles were humming.
Not shaking.
Not trembling.
They were vibrating—quiet and fast—like a tuning fork buried inside bone.
He didn’t even wind up.
Didn’t throw the punch.
He just… touched the glass.
And the whole window gave out.
Not like an explosion.
Not like a crack.
It crumbled—softly, beautifully—like powdered sugar falling off a cake.
Slivers, flakes, glittering chunks, all cascading to the ground in slow motion.
Inside, the bakery owner stared at the sudden collapse of his front wall.
No reaction. Just turned around and walked to the back.
When he came out again, he was holding a rusty metal pipe.
Dude looked ready to fight in a parking lot in 2004.
Before the bakery, this guy used to be something—a street-level thug in a mid-tier gang.
He’d mugged rich kids, jacked delivery vans, beat snitches bloody in alleyways.
Then one lucky robbery gave him enough cash to “start fresh.”
So he opened a bakery.
Tried to live clean.
And for years, it worked.
Until today.
Something inside him snapped.
He stomped outside, gripping the pipe like it was a weapon of honor.
“You freakin’ psycho! You pink-aproned milk-smelling garbage pile!
I’m gonna bash your damn skull in!”
He spun fast, clean—like muscle memory—and brought the pipe down, full force, straight at Raymond’s head.
Raymond didn’t move.
Instead, he did what he’d just done to the glass.
He pushed that same subtle hum—vibration—into his body.
He raised his forearm slowly… and blocked.
CLANG.
The pipe rang out like it hit a bell.
It didn’t bend.
But the owner’s arms sure did.
The vibration snapped through the metal, into his palms, up his arms—
lighting his nerves on fire.
He dropped the pipe immediately.
His fingers went numb. Wrists locked up.
He stumbled back, mouth wide.
“What the hell was that?!”
Raymond hadn’t even flinched.
It wasn’t a block.
It was a reflection.
The energy didn’t stop—it bounced back.
The owner stared at his hands, now trembling like leaves.
He stepped back once.
Then twice.
Then threw his palms up.
“Okay—okay! You’re a demon! I’m done! I’m not messing with that!”
He turned and ran back inside like the building was on fire.
Cut to: Thirty seconds later.
He was in the restroom, pants down, sweating like hell.
He didn’t even bother putting the toilet seat down.
Didn’t notice the dried pee stains, the crusty floor, the nasty rim.
Didn’t matter.
He sat down and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
Took a long, slow drag.
Let out a shaky breath.
And all he could think was:
“What the f*** was that vibration…”
Concussion Punch
Raymond kept moving.
Down the street. Still soaked. Still silent.
Walking past shop after shop—each one with those tall, clear windows.
And one by one…
he broke them.
No big swings. No effort.
Just a touch.
A light punch.
That same hum running through his bones.
CRACK.
SHHH.
BOOM.
Each glass wall burst like it had been hit by sound itself.
People inside screamed.
Glass fell into soup bowls, into hair salons, into the back of someone’s neck while they were getting a scalp massage.
But Raymond?
Didn’t stop.
He went block by block.
Ten windows.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
He was a walking storm.
The glass wasn’t even shattering anymore—it was disintegrating.
His punches were beyond human now.
They were instinct.
He paused in front of a shattered storefront, watching tiny shards twirl in the air like silver snowflakes.
There was something beautiful in it.
Like powdered sugar falling across a fresh cake.
Then, for the first time since everything broke—
Raymond spoke out loud.
“I shall name my new move…
Concussion Punch.”
And then—he laughed.
Not a normal laugh.
Not even human.
Somewhere between giddy joy, deep revenge, and total insanity.
A teenager rode by on a beat-up bicycle, hoodie up, earbuds in.
He slowed down when he caught the phrase “concussion punch.”
“Yo, what? You serious?”
“I got Torpedo God Palm, bro.”
He did a fake kung fu pose.
Sliced the air with his hand like some anime character.
Raymond slowly turned toward him.
Didn’t step.
Didn’t blink.
Just turned his head.
Rain slid down his face.
Apron fluttered in the wind.
His eyes? Solid black. Fog swirling in the sockets.
The teen locked eyes with him and instantly regretted everything.
He stood up on his pedals and booked it.
Legs pumping. Chain rattling. Tires squealing.
“Errr… ehhh… ughhh… soooooorrryyyyyyyy!!”
His voice faded into the storm behind him.
Raymond didn’t even react.
Just turned back to the next window.
It hadn’t shattered yet.
But it would.
Citywide Curfew
TV screens across the city lit up all at once.
BREAKING NEWS blared across every local channel.
Grainy cell phone footage played:
A thin man in a pink apron walked calmly up to a storefront.
Lifted a fist.
BOOM.
The glass exploded like it got hit by a sonic boom.
The anchor’s voice kicked in:
“Several businesses have been completely destroyed within the last hour. Witnesses claim it was the same individual—using only his bare fists.”
Cut to a drenched field reporter standing outside a destroyed bakery.
Recognizable face—she was the same reporter who once covered the alley protest.
“It’s pure chaos out here. We’re talking dozens of shattered storefronts.
This isn’t vandalism. This is martial arts.
We may be looking at a rogue fighter with serious internal power.”
And then?
A short man wearing striped pajamas and a cheap plastic mask ran into the shot.
He wrapped his arms around the reporter’s waist and started groping her like a pervert at a festival.
“What the—GET OFF ME!”
She turned and decked him clean in the skull.
He yelped and ran off like a cartoon character, wobbling down the street.
The reporter fixed her hair and tried to play it cool.
“As you can see… tensions are high.
Some individuals may be experiencing temporary mental disturbances due to the shock of the destruction.
Parents, please keep your children safe during this time.”
Meanwhile, somewhere across town—
Canelo sat on his couch, watching the report.
Cigarette in one hand.
Eyes locked on the screen.
He paused the video at just the right moment.
The pervert in the mask.
Striped pajamas.
Round haircut.
He squinted.
“…That’s Benson.”
Took a drag.
“Ain’t nobody else that short… or that stupid.”
Smoke drifted out his nose in a slow, respectful stream.
Back on live TV, the reporter got another update through her earpiece.
“We’ve just received official word from the central precinct:
Due to the scope of destruction, a citywide curfew is now in place.
Civilians are urged to stay inside unless absolutely necessary.
A tactical unit has been deployed to handle the threat.
We’ll continue coverage as the situation unfolds.”
Cut to: the police station rec room.
Dim light. Rain tapping the windows.
Grayson sat at a card table with three other cops, mid-poker game.
TV on the wall played the same news footage.
He set down his hand, leaned back, rubbed his temples.
Groaned.
“Ugh… in this weather?
Who the hell’s bored enough to go around punching windows all night?”
He glanced out the window.
The rain was heavier now.
He didn’t want to get up.
Didn’t want to suit up.
But orders were orders.
And this night?
This night was gonna suck.