Cement Treatment
Jason had left.
After all the chaos, fire, and broken bones, he vanished through a hole in the mall wall without a word—carried away by the mist of an ice cream truck that had never once sold ice cream.
Brian lingered a moment longer, silent, still watching the wreckage around him. The battle was over, but something in the air still buzzed—residual tension, like a storm cloud just barely passing overhead.
Soon after, the Humble Organization’s emergency response team arrived.
Silent. Precise. Professional.
They lifted Michael’s battered body onto a stretcher and slid it into the back of a black ambulance, one marked only with a subtle golden ring logo. Brian climbed in with them.
Then he, too, was gone.
The mall was quiet again.
Except for one figure still standing at the center of the ruined battlefield.
Raymond.
He didn’t move for several minutes.
He simply breathed.
In. Out.
Standing exactly where the ground had cracked, where fire had seared, and where so many bones had been broken—mostly his.
But looking at him now?
He looked… fine.
Too fine.
His posture was strong. His eyes calm. His breathing steady.
His body should have been in pieces. But there he stood, as if nothing had happened.
As if his hundred shattered bones had never cracked in the first place.
After a few minutes of silence, he slowly turned and walked away.
No limp. No stumble. Just calm, deliberate steps toward the far end of the mall.
And just as he disappeared from view—
CRASH.
A faint sound echoed in the distance.
CRASH.
Another.
CRASH. CRASH.
The sound of glass walls breaking.
Again.
And again.
While the echo of destruction continued far away, rescue personnel were tending to the injured and moving the dead.
Bodies were being covered. Survivors were stabilized. The mall had turned into a post-apocalyptic triage center.
Among the responders, in a dim corner of the mall, stood a very small man in an oversized white lab coat.
He was short—no more than 5’2″—with a slight forward lean and narrow shoulders.
The coat hung past his knees like a child playing doctor with adult clothes.
But he moved with quiet certainty.
It was none other than Mildy, the unlicensed doctor.
He wasn’t wearing a badge. He didn’t carry credentials.
But no one questioned him.
He looked the part.
And he worked fast.
One young man sat nearby, hunched over and trembling.
Blood was pouring from his right eye—struck by a flying stone during the battle.
He held his face and shook in panic.
“Doctor… do you think it’s serious?” he asked. “Can it be saved? I’m really scared I’ll lose vision forever…”
Mildy gave him a light pat on the shoulder—his tiny hand barely reaching high enough.
“Silly kid,” he said. “You’ve still got your left eye, haven’t you?”
“Let’s stop the bleeding first.”
The boy blinked in confusion. But somehow, Mildy’s calm tone gave him a strange sense of comfort.
He sat still.
Mildy reached into his coat… and pulled out a pouch of industrial cement.
Without hesitation, he packed the wounded eye socket with thick gray mix, smoothed it out with his fingers, and waited a moment as it hardened like plaster.
Blood stopped.
The boy was silent.
Then he reached up, slowly, and touched his face.
His fingers met cold, solid stone.
He froze.
Then his mouth fell open in horror. His breath quickened.
“W-what… what is this?”
“My face—this can’t be right—what did you do?!”
He started to panic.
Mildy, completely unbothered, stared up at him and said flatly:
“Relax.”
“It looks cool.”
“That pirate look? It’s trending anyway.”
The boy blinked again.
Paused.
Then… slowly exhaled.
“…Okay.”
From his pocket, he pulled out a strip of black cloth.
Without another word, he tied it around his head, covering the cemented eye.
The panic was gone.
Not because things made sense—
But because Mildy made it sound… normal.
Before the boy could say anything else, Mildy was already gone.
He had moved on to another patient, already kneeling beside someone with a bruised leg and a cracked rib.
No thanks. No conversation.
Just more work.
Another day of healing…
in his own very special way.
Quiet City Night, in Dim Apartments
The city had gone quiet.
But in scattered apartments—dimly lit, half-alive—life continued, small and strangely still.
In one apartment across the city, a young couple was curled up on a couch.
Dinello and Jessica.
They were watching YouTube on the big-screen TV, huddled under a thin blanket. The screen showed the recently uploaded footage of the brutal fight: first Michael vs Raymond, then Jason’s arrival.
Jessica’s eyes were locked to the screen.
The movements were explosive. Every blow had force, every stance had presence.
She whispered, “These three… they’re all kind of incredible. Do you think you could beat them if it ever came to a real fight?”
Dinello didn’t even blink.
“Absolutely. No question. Definitely could beat all of them.”
“What kind of question is that?”
His voice was smooth. Confident. Almost offended she’d even ask.
Jessica gave a playful smirk.
But deep down?
Dinello knew he didn’t stand a chance.
Not even one. Not even maybe.
But it didn’t matter.
She didn’t need to know that.
Across the city, the camera panned—sailing through rows of high-rises, dipping past traffic lights and nighttime silence.
It reached another apartment.
Another couch.
Another couple.
This time, it was Lawson and Monica.
The room was darker. Smaller. The lighting low and warm, almost suffocating.
They were sitting together—but not cuddled.
Lawson’s hand had slid inside Monica’s shirt, fingers moving slowly, deliberately, squeezing, roaming.
Monica breathed lightly.
Then murmured, “You’ve been touching for hours now. Don’t you ever get bored?”
Lawson didn’t pause. Didn’t blink.
“No.”
“I could touch this for the rest of my life and never get bored.”
Monica’s face flushed slightly red. Her body stayed still. Her expression unreadable.
After a moment, she broke the silence.
“Hey… babe?”
“Do you think you could beat those three guys?”
Lawson didn’t hesitate.
“Of course not.”
“They’re way too strong.”
He leaned back slightly, voice flat, almost emotionless.
“I’m not a fighter.”
“I’m just a professional beggar… who happens to run fast.”
Monica blinked. A little surprised by the honesty.
But something about that made her glance back at the TV—where the fighters moved like living gods—and for a moment, she felt something stir in her heart.
Admiration.
Longing.
A little… crush.
She loved all three. At least for that moment. Every frame of the video made them look heroic, powerful, and magnetic.
But then she looked over at her boyfriend.
Lawson.
Eighty-year-old face.
Wrinkled skin.
Hollow cheeks.
Eyes like burnt-out lightbulbs.
And somehow… she still thought:
“He’s the most handsome of them all.”
Far across town, in an even darker apartment, the third transition landed.
This one was silent.
Lonely.
No girlfriend.
No blanket.
No couch.
Just Marvel, sitting on the edge of his bed.
He was still dressed in his Zhongshan suit—buttoned all the way up to the neck, stiff and overly formal, clashing awkwardly with his small belly and slouched posture.
His face was blank.
His arms were wrapped tightly around his own head.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“I still can’t find a girlfriend…”
“Fuck my life!”
And he just sat there,
alone,
in the dark,
as the echoes of other people’s stories played quietly through the city walls.
Silence Amid the Cheers
The bar was full tonight.
Voices were loud. Laughter constant.
And above the shelves of cheap liquor and fake neon lights, four flat-screen TVs glowed.
All of them were playing the same thing—the fight.
Raymond. Michael. Jason.
Back and forth. Shockwave after shockwave.
The crowd in the bar reacted like it was the World Cup—cheering, gasping, clapping at every perfect strike and violent slam.
But in the middle of this noise, there was one man sitting completely still.
Dave.
He was completely naked.
Not shirtless. Fully nude.
Sitting at the bar, alone, quietly sipping from a glass of dark liquor.
His muscles still bulged across his chest and arms, but they no longer felt powerful.
Not to him.
He stared up at the TV, eyes distant.
Then sighed.
“I’m not the fighter I used to be,” he muttered to himself.
“I haven’t fought in forever. My muscles are starting to shrink…”
“And my pink triangle… my woman’s underwear… it’s gone.”
“I’ve lost myself.”
He looked down at the counter, defeated.
Then, the bar door opened.
A man in a red cloak stepped in.
Sean.
He walked quietly toward the tables, eyes locked on the screens.
He sat down across from Dave—but said nothing at first.
Instead, he ordered a cocktail and kept watching the fight in silence.
When he saw Jason appear on the screen—Sean froze.
A single tear slid from the corner of his right eye.
“Master,” he whispered.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…”
His mind began to drift.
Memories flooded in.
Following Jason through the underworld.
Street fights.
Smashing shops.
Massage parlors.
Refusing to pay after the massage.
Getting caught.
The three years in prison.
He shook his head.
“No,” he muttered to himself.
“I’m a changed man now. I can’t keep thinking about the past…”
And then—he made the mistake of looking across the table.
Right at Dave’s giant cock.
His eyes widened. His mind froze.
“What the hell is that?”
“Public obscenity?”
“That can’t be legal.”
He stood up and walked over to Dave.
“Put on some pants, dude.”
Dave looked up at him.
His eyes were watery. Helpless. Vulnerable.
“I lost my underwear along with my dignity as a fighter.”
Sean paused.
He looked down at the broken man in front of him.
Then silently turned around, walked to another seat farther away, and sat down—pretending like he hadn’t seen anything.
The fight continued.
Crowds cheered, clapped, shouted, pumped fists in the air.
Every blow on screen made the bar tremble with energy.
But not everyone was screaming.
In the middle of that wild energy—
Dave sat naked, ashamed.
Sean sat cloaked, reflective.
Both sipping their drinks.
Both silent.
Both drowning in memories
while the rest of the world
cheered like it had never been broken.
The Hall of Justice
It was noon.
But the air was thick.
A heavy, almost crushing pressure lingered over the entire city, like a massive current of heat was about to sweep through.
The kind of weather that made you sweat just by existing.
The kind of weather that warned:
Something was coming.
In front of the city’s massive police headquarters, two officers stood lazily near the front steps, chatting quietly under the glaring sun.
An old woman—at least ninety, hunched and fragile—was slowly making her way past them.
She leaned heavily on her cane, a plastic bag of groceries in her other hand.
Her pace was slow. But she was steady.
Until chaos arrived.
From across the street came a strange young man.
He wore a black plastic mask. His hair was cut into a perfectly even bowl—like a watermelon. He was in pajamas.
Benson.
He rushed up and—without hesitation—kicked the old woman’s cane out from under her.
Then, before she could even react, he snatched a few bills from her pocket.
The old woman cried out, “Help! Police! Help!”
Her voice was raspy and thin, but still loud enough to reach the two nearby officers.
One of them looked over and asked the other,
“Do we need to do something?”
The second officer glanced at the scene, then sighed.
“Eh. Let it go. I haven’t had a raise in years. I’m not getting involved.”
And with that, they both turned away.
Pretending nothing happened.
Benson wasn’t done.
He paused in front of the old woman, groping her saggy boobs like he’d just discovered treasure.
What a pathetic loser.
He didn’t even spare an elderly woman.
The kind of guy who fears the strong but always picks on the weak.
Then he turned and sprinted away—
disappearing into a nearby alley like the cockroach he was.
The woman was stunned.
The officers didn’t move.
One shook his head.
“Man… today’s kids are getting worse and worse.
They don’t even spare the almost-dead.”
The other one nodded.
Solemnly. As if this was a normal observation.
Then, the camera panned.
Through the officers.
Through the giant doors of the police headquarters.
Through the marble corridors of bureaucracy and command.
Until it reached a tall, dark meeting room filled with high-ranking officers in full uniform.
And at the center of it all sat a man.
Bucket hat.
Oversized police coat.
Arms calmly crossed in front of his chest.
Wearing sunglasses—indoors.
Motionless.
Khan.
The myth. The force.
The one people whispered about when all other plans failed.
The strongest man on record.
The final hand of justice.
Khan sat in complete silence as the footage from the previous day’s battles played on a large monitor.
Raymond.
Michael.
Jason.
Each clash, each shockwave, each moment of destruction.
The officers around him watched nervously.
Then, after a long pause—
Khan spoke.
Softly.
“Looks like Michael and Jason couldn’t stop him.”
He lifted his chin ever so slightly.
“Looks like I’ll go.”
The room erupted in cheers.
Applause. Whistles. Fists pounding on the table.
Officers stood up and shouted, almost as if celebrating a national holiday.
To them, Khan stepping in wasn’t just action.
It was the endgame.
His involvement meant closure was near.
The chaos would be handled. The fight, finished.
No one questioned it.
No one ever questioned Khan.
Then—
His phone rang.
He answered it calmly.
“Oh.”
“Understood.”
“No problem.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Click.
He hung up.
Silence returned to the room.
No one asked who called.
No one dared.
But the air had shifted slightly.
Just enough for the celebration to feel… paused.
Khan sat still.
Expression unreadable.
And outside, the heat pressed down harder.
As if the city itself was holding its breath.
Colin’s Quiet Request
Elsewhere in the city—
high above the chaos, in a tall glass skyscraper—
three figures sat quietly in a dimly lit room.
In the center was Colin.
To his right, Brian.
To his left, Michael.
But Michael didn’t look like himself.
He wore a plain black t-shirt.
His glasses were ordinary—no golden rims, no sharp reflection.
He looked strangely… off.
Like someone else entirely.
Colin had just finished a phone call.
He still held the phone loosely in one hand as he turned to Michael.
“Captain Lam,” he said calmly,
“Your new white shirt and golden-rimmed glasses will be delivered in a few hours. Don’t worry.”
“For now, just wear that.
You look ridiculous anyway… like a different person.”
Michael didn’t respond immediately.
He simply leaned forward, one hand pressed to his forehead, slowly rocking in place.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered,
“I can’t believe he destroyed my beloved golden-rimmed glasses.
And my shirt—my white shirt—was covered in shit. I don’t even know how it happened.”
Brian, sitting nearby, gave a weak, polite smile.
He couldn’t say anything.
He couldn’t tell Michael the truth—
that he had accidentally laid him down in a pile of human feces behind the mall restroom.
So instead, Brian cleared his throat and blurted,
“Hey, uh… Colin.
That call just now…
was it to Khan?”
Colin gently set his phone down on the table.
“Yeah,” he said.
“We’ve known each other since we were kids.
I told him to go deal with Raymond this afternoon.”
Michael looked up.
Brian stayed quiet.
Colin continued—
“But I also told him not to kill him.
I’m still planning to recruit him.”
There was no argument.
No reaction.
Just two nods.
Brian and Michael both understood—
Colin wasn’t giving orders.
He was asking a favor from someone he respected,
and hoping it would be enough.
The Wind Shifts
The afternoon sky darkened.
Clouds rolled in overhead—thick, gray, and heavy.
The stifling heat was suddenly gone, replaced by a cool, rushing wind that tore through the streets like a warning.
Leaves scattered.
Garbage bags took flight.
It felt like the entire city was about to change.
Then came the doors.
The massive front doors of the police headquarters creaked open—
and out stepped more than a dozen men.
Uniformed. Armed. Silent.
At the center of the group was a short man in a bucket hat.
Sunglasses on.
Long police coat draped across his shoulders like a cape.
Hands in his pockets.
Face unreadable.
Khan.
Beside him walked Grayson.
Others followed without a word.
They weren’t rushing.
They didn’t need to.
They were the storm.
Down the street, a dented aluminum Pepsi can rolled in the wind, bouncing and rattling over the cracked asphalt like some kind of junkyard tumbleweed.
And chasing after it—
a large, greasy man in tattered clothes, panting heavily, arms swinging—
Tom.
He followed it for twenty, maybe thirty meters, completely entranced.
When he finally caught up, he bent down and picked it up like he’d just found buried treasure.
His eyes sparkled with dumb joy.
Unfortunately for him, he was standing directly in Khan’s path.
Grayson didn’t hesitate.
He stepped forward and kicked Tom to the side—hard.
Tom hit the curb and rolled.
Groaning.
Grayson scoffed.
“Dumb mutt. Good dogs don’t block the road.”
And just like that, the group kept moving—
as if nothing had happened.
—
They walked straight ahead.
Toward the source of the destruction.
Toward the shattered glass.
Toward the next name on their list.
The wind howled louder now.
The leaves didn’t just scatter—they fled.
And Khan never said a word.