The Mall’s Last Line of Defense
Raymond hadn’t slept. Not in two days. Actually—scratch that—it was now the third day. Midday. And he was still going.
Still smashing.
For seventy-two hours, Raymond had been punching his way through the city’s glass walls—nonstop. Like some possessed machine on a mission. By now, he’d shattered hundreds of windows. No one knew what he wanted. He didn’t say a word. Just fists. Just glass.
And now?
He’d arrived at Latitude 38—one of the city’s most well-known shopping districts.
Out front, ten gangsters were guarding the entrance. Not your average punks either—these guys were posted up with real tension in their shoulders. They weren’t just loitering. They were here to defend the place.
This mall was under their watch. Monthly protection fees, daily patrols, all that crap. It was part of their job. Their “duty.”
One of them lit a cigarette and muttered,
“Motherfucker’s been going three days straight. Dude don’t even sleep?”
Before the others could answer—BOOM.
Raymond was ten meters away, crouched low, his fist buried in the pavement.
The ground exploded.
A shockwave tore through the air like a cannon blast. All ten gangsters dropped at once—bodies tossed like trash bags in a hurricane. Some were puking. All were groaning. The pavement cracked beneath them.
They were done.
Wiped out in a single move. Instant concussions. Zero warning.
And Raymond?
He was still crouched over, knuckles pressed into the broken floor.
Just as he began to rise, a blur dropped from above.
Canelo.
The boss.
He had launched himself from the second-floor balcony. Built like a pitbull in tight jeans, Canelo dove down in a flying kick—his signature move—like a damn missile from heaven.
His foot was aimed straight for the back of Raymond’s skull.
This was no regular kick.
This was the Enhanced Skyfall Kick.
The kind that split bricks. The kind that ends fights before they start.
Even the air screamed around him—friction burning like jet engines.
Had it landed… it would’ve ended Raymond. Right then. Right there.
But Raymond, slow and dead-eyed just a second ago, suddenly rolled to the side—smooth, clean, effortless.
He barely moved. But it was enough.
Canelo’s foot slammed into the fractured ground—and that was it.
SNAP.
Bone snapped like cheap plastic. His leg folded the wrong way, and his body crumpled like wet cardboard.
He didn’t even scream.
He just hit the ground—and stayed there.
Raymond stood.
No celebration. No gloating.
Just silence.
He dusted off his sleeves, stepped past the broken boss, and walked calmly toward the mall.
Like this was just another stop on the route.
Another glass wall waiting to die.
The Holy Defense
Raymond walked straight through Latitude 38. Barely slowed down. Smashed some windows, kept moving.
And now? He was headed for the other side.
This mall—was different.
It wasn’t just any random turf. It was under the control of Pastor Simon.
Now, Simon wasn’t dumb. He had prepped for this.
Every storefront inside the mall?
Covered.
Glass walls? Draped with blankets, tarps, newspapers—anything to hide the reflections.
The logic was simple:
If Raymond can’t see the glass… maybe he won’t punch it.
The guy might be insane, but even insanity has triggers. And that trigger—was always the sight of glass.
See, Pastor Simon had already collected plenty of protection money from the shop owners here.
So protecting this place?
It was his job. His “holy responsibility.”
But just in case things went south…
He had his people ready.
Inside the grand atrium of the mall, two or three dozen white-robed believers were standing in silence.
They weren’t here to shop.
They were on standby.
On a raised platform in the middle of the hall, two disciples stood guard on each side.
And right in the center—Simon sat calmly, legs crossed.
But he wasn’t on a chair.
Nope.
He was sitting on Kyle.
Kyle—his most loyal follower—was crouched down on all fours, back straight, eyes glazed, knees firmly pressed to the floor. His neck was tilted upward just enough to create the perfect ergonomic support.
A human chair.
Simon gently swayed one leg over the other. His robe draped smoothly down Kyle’s back.
He looked like a cult leader preparing for war—but with a weird luxury twist.
Then came the moment.
One of the guards whispered:
“He’s here.”
Through the wooden boards and tarp-covered windows, they could see a shadow.
A figure.
Approaching slowly.
It was him.
Pink apron fluttering.
Sunken cheeks.
That weird little mustache.
Beady little eyes.
Middle height. Skinny frame.
No doubt—Raymond had arrived.
He stopped at the mall entrance.
From inside, everyone held their breath.
He looked left.
Then right.
Then scanned across the façade slowly.
Nothing shiny.
No reflections.
Just tarp.
Paper.
Wooden boards.
A full cover-up.
Simon watched intently from his holy throne.
This just might work.
Raymond stood there…
Silent.
Still.
Was he going to walk away?
Then—
Without warning—he reeled back and threw a punch straight into the largest tarp-covered panel.
CRASH.
The punch went through the cloth like it wasn’t even there.
Glass behind it? Shattered like sugar. Exploded.
The sound was sharp, clear, final.
Echoed across the atrium.
Inside, Pastor Simon stood up—
Eyes wide.
He whispered under his breath:
“Oh, shit.”
The Holy Warheads
Raymond stepped deeper into the shopping mall.
Two more glass storefronts shattered under his fists—just because. Like it was instinct. He didn’t even look at them. He just walked and punched.
From his throne of flesh, Pastor Simon sprang up, voice sharp:
“Plan B, deployed.”
His followers—what was left of them—snapped into motion. But not all at once.
Simon knew better. He’d seen Raymond’s AOE shockwave punch. He wasn’t about to send his whole flock into the meat grinder at once.
So, one by one, they went.
A slow, painful trickle of faith.
Each follower ran toward Raymond on their own. Brave. Devoted. Or just brainwashed beyond reason.
Didn’t matter.
None of them lasted longer than five seconds.
Some were launched backward—twitching midair. Others dropped where they stood, like sacks of meat, bleeding from every orifice. Two turned and sprinted away before they even got close.
In under two minutes, the atrium was a graveyard. Bodies everywhere.
But Simon had more.
His real believers.
To his left and right stood two silent men. White-robed. Blank-eyed. Still.
Human Missiles.
He had trained them weeks ago. Reprogrammed. Hardened. Loyal to death.
And now—Simon moved.
He stepped forward, flexed his over-the-side man boob—that thick, pendulous slab of spiritual muscle sagging from under his robe—and, with one violent chest convulsion, hurled the two men into the air. One from the left. One from the right.
It was as if he had breast-fired them into battle—divine warheads launched from the altar of faith.
Five seconds later, both were airborne.
Vertical. Rigid. Dart-like.
Flying straight toward Raymond.
The first one reached him.
Boom.
Raymond punched.
The body exploded midair—flesh, bone, blood—splattered across the entire atrium. Chunks hit beams. Windows. Escalators.
Then the second one arrived.
Raymond couldn’t see. The blood mist still hung heavy.
CRACK.
The second missile hit dead-on.
Chest-first into Raymond’s ribs.
The entire building shook.
But the blood in the air was too thick.
No one could see what happened next.
Simon narrowed his eyes.
But he couldn’t tell.
Not yet.
The Holy Nuke
About ten seconds passed.
The red mist slowly unraveled—like vapor in the breeze. And when it finally cleared… Raymond was still standing.
There was a thick, black tire mark scorched into the ground in front of him—two meters long, like someone tried to drive through his body.
He hadn’t moved more than a step.
Just a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.
At his feet: the Human Missile.
Legs snapped. Body twitching. Completely wrecked.
From the stage, Simon clenched his jaw. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
“…Looks like we have to use Plan C.”
He sounded cornered. Not proud.
“I really didn’t want it to come to this…”
From beneath his white robe, he pulled out a small detonator.
He clicked it.
A red light blinked.
And from the broken, spasming body at Raymond’s feet—
A blast of golden light exploded out.
BOOOOM.
The whole mall lit up like heaven had detonated.
The floor quaked.
Kyle—the human chair—was launched like a frisbee.
Simon himself crashed to the ground, sliding across cracked tile.
Smoke surged in waves.
From a distance, it looked like a mushroom cloud had bloomed right out of Latitude 38.
Still kneeling, Simon wiped his tear.
“My faithful disciple… your sacrifice was necessary. For the greater victory… we’ll remember you…
…whatever your name was.”
(He never asked.)
A full minute passed.
Half the mall was gone. Demolished. Sky now visible from inside. Glass gone. Walls cracked. The rest barely holding.
And in the middle of it all…
Raymond.
Still standing.
Burned. Bleeding. Shirt gone.
Pink apron: vaporized.
Ribs showing. Flesh torn.
But upright.
Not fine.
But not finished.
Simon stared, frozen.
Raymond slowly raised his head.
“Oh… that’s…
Unbelievable.
Inconceivable.
Impossible.”
Over-the-Size Man Boobs
The explosion wiped out everything.
Every disciple. Charcoal. Ash. Vaporized.
Every shopper. Every shopkeeper. Gone. Not a trace.
Raymond sensed it. The hatred. The power.
It wasn’t over.
He bolted for the stage.
Simon panicked—grabbed rubble—started throwing.
Chunks flew like bullets. Some burst into dust midair from the speed.
Raymond dodged. Punched rocks into powder. Still advanced.
Simon ran out of stones.
Raymond: five meters away.
Simon, desperate, yanked a detonator from his belt. Threw it like a boomerang.
Raymond spun. Dodged.
Then—he punched.
It was majestic.
Had it landed, Simon would’ve been vapor.
But at the last second—
Simon blocked.
Not with his arms.
Not with his abs.
With his over-the-size man boobs.
The punch hit full-on.
THWUMP.
Simon was launched like a missile—through a wall, then another. His body cartwheeled before crashing into trash bags outside.
But he was alive.
The boobs had saved him.
Soft enough. Elastic enough.
They absorbed 70 to 80 percent of the impact.
Any other body part? Death.
Now lying in the garbage, Simon looked up at the blue sky.
Smiled weakly.
And whispered—
“And live for another day.”
Fifty Floors Above
Raymond had finally stopped moving.
After days of chaos, he just stood.
Breathing. Tired. Quiet.
He looked around—broken glass, rubble, ash.
Then saw it.
Kyle.
Still lying face-down. Crumpled.
Raymond walked over. Picked him up by the collar. Set him back in place.
Kyle dropped back into position. Knees down. Back arched.
The human chair.
Raymond sat.
For a moment—peace.
Fifty floors above, behind reinforced glass, three men stood.
Michael. Brian. Colin.
Colin watched, arms folded. Eyes glowing faint gold.
Brian leaned forward.
“Boss… want me to go down there and humble him a little?”
Colin didn’t blink.
“No need. You’d lose.”
“…Oh.”
Colin nodded.
“He’s strong. Disciplined. I want him.”
Then looked left.
“Michael. Might need you for this one.”
Michael adjusted his golden-rimmed glasses.
“Is he… that strong?”
Colin: “You two are evenly matched.”
Brian squinted. Golden Eyes confirmed.
Then Colin smirked.
“Looks like a hyena’s been awakened.”
Michael raised a brow.
“Most people say tiger or dragon.”
Colin shrugged.
“He’s strong. Just… not that strong.”
Brian chuckled.
“Still dangerous though. Especially if you corner it.”
And together, they watched as the dust settled…
and the monster below sat…
waiting.