Welcome to the Prison
A black Mercedes SUV slowly rolled across a narrow bridge and arrived on a desolate island.
There was nothing here—no trees, no homes, no roads.
Only a single massive structure: a prison.
This place held the worst of the worst.
Criminals too dangerous for the mainland.
Security was beyond strict. Visitors were unheard of.
The SUV came to a stop. Three men stepped out.
The first wore a white dress shirt and slacks, gold-rimmed glasses on his face, and a black briefcase in hand. That was Michael.
The second was a tall, lean young man in a white tank top and black athletic shoes—Brian.
The third was completely covered: a black hoodie pulled low, sunglasses, and a black surgical mask. His entire identity was hidden.
They walked to the prison gate. It was closed tight.
Two armed guards stepped forward and said bluntly:
“No visitors allowed here. Turn back.”
Michael calmly stepped toward one of them and opened his briefcase.
Inside—stacks upon stacks of cash. Neatly packed. Quiet and undeniable.
He closed the briefcase again and gently handed it over.
The guard didn’t say a word. He took the case, turned around, and unlocked the gate.
The three men walked in.
—
The interior was enormous—like a concrete labyrinth.
Corridors twisted endlessly. Reinforced doors lined the walls.
The air smelled of rust and disinfectant.
Michael paused, glanced around, then turned back toward the gate.
He called out to the guard who had taken the briefcase:
“You. Guide us.”
The guard didn’t argue. He nodded and stepped forward, silently taking the lead.
His movements were sharp and obedient, his attitude precise and professional—like a personal escort.
Without another word, they began their descent into the depths of the forgotten prison.
Prison Walk
They walked the corridor in silence.
On both sides were cages—rows of reinforced iron cells, each one holding something dangerous.
Men who didn’t look like men. Creatures shaped like humans, but stretched, scarred, twisted in ways that spoke of violence and madness.
And then, from the shadows of one cell, a long, bony arm extended.
It was absurdly long—at least three meters.
The hand reached across the walkway and tapped Michael’s shoulder.
A light, almost casual tap.
Michael turned slightly.
“Hey,” he said to the prison officer beside him, “What’s up with that guy? How’s his arm that long?”
The officer’s face stiffened.
He lowered his voice.
“You’ve never heard of him? That’s the infamous Long-Hand Freak. Real name forgotten. He was a legend decades ago. His arms aren’t just long—they’re deadly. Muscle like steel cable. Fingernails sharp as blades. He once sliced off a dozen heads with a single hand swipe.”
He gulped.
“Took the police months to catch him. Some say they lost more men in that manhunt than in a riot. He’s… not the kind of guy you mess with.”
Before the last word even finished—
The Freak snatched Michael’s right arm.
Grip like a vice.
“LET ME OUT!” he roared from inside the cage. “LET ME OUT OR I’LL CUT HIS HEAD OFF RIGHT NOW!”
The whole hallway tensed.
The officer froze.
His lips parted but no sound came out.
He knew he was useless here. He couldn’t save Michael if he tried.
But Michael?
He didn’t flinch.
With his free left hand, he calmly reached over and grabbed the freak’s arm at the wrist—
Then, with one sharp twist—
CRACK.
The arm snapped like dry wood.
Not just broken. Destroyed.
The kind of break that would never heal right.
A scream tore down the hallway, echoing off the metal and concrete.
And then—
Silence.
Not just from the freak.
But from everyone.
All the other prisoners—those twisted monsters behind the bars—they all went quiet.
Not a word. Not a breath.
They stepped back into the darkness of their cages.
Michael kept walking.
Unbothered.
Unshaken.
And the corridor stayed silent behind him.
The Most Fortified Door
They kept walking.
The corridor was long—longer than it needed to be.
Echoes of their footsteps bounced off the metal walls, mingling with distant, shaky voices.
From behind some of the cages, they could hear trembling whispers:
“Please… please don’t kill me…”
The prisoners had clearly seen what Michael did earlier.
And they wanted no part of him.
The group reached the end of the corridor.
There, at the far wall, stood a heavy iron door—thick, reinforced, secured with a massive industrial lock that looked like it belonged on a vault.
And beyond that? Another door.
The prison officer gestured toward it.
“This is it,” he said. “That’s Raymond in there. The cursed one. He’s extremely dangerous. That’s why we’ve got double barriers—one here, and one inside.”
Brian crossed his arms.
“Stop wasting time. Enough talking,” he snapped.
The officer hesitated, looking nervous.
“Oh… shit. I forgot… This lock—uh—it’s one of our most secure models. Needs two guard fingerprints to open. I’m the only one who came in with you. I’ll have to run back to the front and get the second guy. Just gimme ten minutes.”
Brian’s brow twitched.
“Why the fuck didn’t you bring him with you in the first place?”
The officer stammered. “Sorry! Sorry—I’ll go now!”
He turned and started to hurry off.
But before he could take two steps—
Michael spoke. Calm. Quiet.
“Step aside.”
The group all turned to him.
Michael exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.
And stepped forward.
The officer blinked. “Wait… That’s a solid iron door, man. Two layers. I mean, no offense—I know you’re strong, but unless you’re Khan himself—”
BOOM.
Michael didn’t punch the door.
He punched the wall beside it.
The cement exploded in a cloud of dust and debris, chunks flying outward like shrapnel.
In seconds, a man-sized hole appeared—jagged, smoking, and open.
Michael looked at the others and simply said,
“Let’s go.”
They stepped through.
No keys.
No permission.
Just one punch.
And a path.
Curse Lifted
Michael stepped up to the center of the cell.
Right in front of him—bound in thick steel chains, locked in place—was Raymond. His body couldn’t move an inch.
Michael tilted his head.
“Hey, narrow-eyes. Do you remember me?
We fought once, not long ago.”
Raymond didn’t even lift his eyes.
His voice was low, quiet—like a whisper bleeding from deep within.
“You’re wasting your breath.
I don’t hear a thing you say.
I only hear the sound…
of shattering glasses.”
His eyes were still filled with the black fog.
Brian let out a sharp breath.
“Look at his eyes. He’s gone.
He’s just a madman now.
You know what pisses me off?
We sacrificed fresh organs from innocent bystanders.
Spent millions on the transplant.
All of that just to save this lunatic?”
He turned away in disgust.
“Useless.”
Then came the voice from behind them.
A soft voice. Calm. Measured.
From a man in a black hoodie.
He stepped forward.
As he spoke, he removed his face mask.
“Raymond,” he said.
“You are not full of hatred.
You are a kind person.
Loved by the customers at your bakery.
Loved by this city’s people.”
As he said those words, something strange happened.
From his mouth—golden, glowing letters drifted gently toward Raymond, floating like fireflies.
They entered Raymond’s chest.
No one else moved.
The prison officer gasped.
He turned, wide-eyed.
“Wait… is that… could it be…”
But before he finished the sentence, the man pulled down his sunglasses.
Lifted his hoodie.
And revealed himself.
Colin.
The legendary senior figure of the Humble Organization.
The one whose influence ran deeper than most people could imagine.
It was him. In the flesh.
Raymond’s breathing slowed.
Then his eyes—still filled with darkness—began to shake.
Images flooded his mind:
Laughing with customers behind the bakery counter.
Joking with kids who came in after school.
Baking at sunrise, smiling, flour on his hands.
Warmth. Joy. Normalcy.
His face twitched.
Then suddenly—
The fog in his eyes vanished.
Completely gone.
He looked down at his own hands.
As if waking from a long, terrible dream.
“Where am I…?”
“Why am I here…?”
Brian, Michael, and Colin exchanged looks.
None of them spoke.
They just smiled—faint, knowing smiles.
Mission complete.
Freedom
The prison officer stood frozen, eyes wide in disbelief.
He had just witnessed golden letters shoot from Colin’s mouth into Raymond’s body—breaking the curse and clearing the black mist clouding his mind.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Before he could gather his thoughts, Brian barked at him:
“Hey, you useless cop, what are you standing there for?
Hurry up and unlock him!
You got paid, is this how you do your job?”
Startled, the guard threw up his hands and shook his head frantically.
“No—no, I can’t! Letting you in was one thing, but releasing him?
If I do that, I’ll be in deep trouble!”
Michael stepped forward slowly, voice cold and steady:
“You only have two choices.
One, unlock him now and deal with your own mess later.
Or two—don’t unlock him, and I’ll take your damn head off with a single chop.”
That was it.
The prison officer froze again—then trembled.
Psssssshh—
A dark stain spread across his pants as a wet trickle hit the floor.
The smell was immediate.
He had pissed himself.
And just then, Colin spoke calmly:
“This man, Raymond, is a good citizen.
He’s never committed a crime.
He’s not supposed to be locked up in a place like this.”
Golden letters, radiant and warm, flowed out from Colin’s lips—like a quiet chant—and gently entered the guard’s body.
The guard blinked.
Then nodded.
Something had clicked.
“He… he’s right…
This guy’s never done anything wrong…
He shouldn’t be in here…”
Without hesitation, he pulled out his keyring and began unlocking the chains.
CLANK—CLANK—CLANK—
Heavy iron fell away piece by piece, echoing through the room like a ceremonial drum.
Raymond slowly stood up.
His arms stretched wide. His face tilted upward.
He took in a long breath.
And then, with a deep, booming voice, he cried out:
“I am free!”
Chosen by Fate
They walked out of the prison gate like they owned the place.
The prison officer led the way—head low, expression dazed—while the other guards just stood there watching, too confused to stop them.
One of them saw Raymond in the group—unshackled, walking freely—and turned to whisper to his colleague.
“Wait… isn’t that the guy that was locked up?”
“Relax,” the other said. “Turns out he never committed a crime.”
The first one just stared blankly, frozen in place.
Something didn’t feel right, but… what could he say?
—
Outside the gate, a black Mercedes SUV sat waiting at the curb.
No driver.
It had been parked there, silent and still, like a predator conserving energy.
The four of them walked up to it.
Michael opened the driver-side door, slid in, and hit the ignition.
The engine purred to life.
One by one, the doors opened and closed.
Raymond in the back. Brian up front. Colin last.
Then the SUV pulled away—slowly at first—then vanished into the city traffic.
Destination: the Humble Organization.
—
Days passed.
Raymond had already adapted to his new role.
An enforcer. An operator.
Efficient. Reliable. Surprisingly ruthless.
On his first mission alone, he reportedly returned with dozens of heads and a full report—with everything documented, signed, and timestamped.
Like clockwork.
Now, once again, the four of them sat at the round table in their headquarters, having lunch.
Michael was wiping the lenses of his new golden-rimmed glasses.
Brian was halfway through a chicken wrap.
Colin sat across from them, quietly sipping from a glass of iced water.
Then Michael looked up and asked:
“Boss… you haven’t stepped out of this building in years.
You’re always about staying safe, staying in the shadows.
So why did you go out for him?”
There was a pause.
Colin didn’t look up.
He just gently set a bottle of Pepsi down in front of Raymond.
“Maybe it’s fate,” he said softly.
“There are stronger people. More capable ones.
But when I saw him… I just knew.”
Raymond smiled awkwardly, then gently pushed the bottle back.
“Thanks, Boss.
But I don’t drink soda.
I usually just stick to water.
You can probably tell—
look how skinny I am.”
Brian and Michael exchanged a quick look.
That had never happened before.
No one had ever rejected Colin’s gesture—no matter how small.
They watched, tense.
But Colin?
He just nodded.
“Fair.”
And that was it.
The conversation flowed on like nothing had happened.
Within a minute, it was like the moment had been erased from everyone’s mind.
No one remembered the tension.
No one brought it up again.
Just four men having lunch.
Maybe that’s what fate looks like.
Not chosen by logic. Not earned by strength.
Just… meant to be.
Chosen by Fate.