Restaurant Panic
At dawn, the sky began to lighten. Eason’s headless body still slumped against a mailbox outside the noodle shop. Throughout the night, it didn’t rot. It didn’t stiffen. It began to… regrow.
Around 5 a.m., something started to sprout from his neck. Slowly. Like moss growing on damp stone. His face—battered, familiar, pathetic—took shape inch by inch.
By sunrise, a new head was fully grown.
And just a few meters away, nestled under a bush, was his original severed head—the one Michael had sliced off with a hand chop. The eyes were still open. The mouth still twisted in disbelief. If it could speak, it might’ve said: “You got chopped like tofu, dummy.”
Eason quietly picked it up, and without a second thought, he held it in his hand—motionless, still.
He stepped into a casual Cantonese restaurant for breakfast. Still dazed, he sat at a table near the window, his old head resting on the table in front of him.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
A woman screamed. A baby cried. A grandpa spat out his congee in horror. One of the cooks looked out from the kitchen, shouted “HOLY SHIT!” and leapt out the back window—from the fifth floor—splatting on the alley like spilled sauce.
Chairs toppled. Tables flipped. Everyone ran.
Except one man.
A man walked in from the street. Slow. Steady. Calm.
Khan.
The strongest man on Earth.
Khan was dressed in his signature look—a long coat, unbuttoned, flowing freely across his shoulders. His bucket hat was tilted low, casting a shadow over his face, adding to his intimidating presence. He moved with ease, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, walking as if nothing around him mattered.
Eason recognized him immediately. Everyone did. Khan was built like a beast, muscles firm as stone. His eyes—sharp, focused, completely calm.
Khan walked up to Eason’s table, not even glancing at the severed head resting there.
Khan raised his right hand slowly, palm open.
A soft, barely perceptible draft began to swirl. The air around them shifted. The subtle force of Qi gathered, and with the slightest gesture, Eason’s severed head—still held in his hand—began to float.
The head rose from the table, drawn gently yet forcefully by the invisible current of Qi. Eason’s hand opened, releasing it, and the head flew toward Khan’s awaiting palm. It hovered just in front of him.
Khan’s eyes locked on the head, still filled with silent authority.
Then—BOOM.
Without warning, Khan’s fist shot out. His punch collided with the head mid-air, the force so precise that the skull shattered, and the fragments turned into dust. The head disintegrated, reduced to microscopic particles, scattered in the air like ash caught in the morning breeze.
The air was still. Silent. The particles settled.
Eason blinked slowly. He didn’t move. The chaos around him seemed muted, distant.
Khan stood perfectly still, his hand still raised, his eyes calm, watching the result of his strike.
Without a word, Khan lowered his hand. He turned and walked out the front door. His long coat flowed effortlessly behind him, the bucket hat still tilted low.
Eason stared at the empty space where his head had been. His body was still, but something had changed.
He nodded slowly to himself.
Then, picking up his chopsticks, he silently finished his meal.
After paying the bill, Eason walked out of the restaurant without a word—no more second head, no more showing off. Just a quiet man, with a brand new neck, trying not to die again.
Society’s Rejects: Round 2
The morning sun peeked into the alley like it regretted waking up.
Eason trudged through the dusty path, his body fully restored from last night’s execution—but the emotional wreckage remained. His pride was gone. His second head? Vaporized. Now he was just back to being regular, pathetic Eason… again.
At the alley’s bend, he saw someone squatting alone, legs curled up, shoulders drooping like wet laundry.
It was Benson.
No words. No greetings. Just eye contact—and then instant violence.
Eason charged like a dog chasing a bus. Benson stood up just in time to get tackled, and the two immediately launched into the world’s saddest street brawl.
Hair-pulling. Sloppy slaps. A missed punch that ended with a loud “ow” as Eason hit the wall by accident. Benson tried a spinning kick and tripped over his own feet. It looked like two ghosts in slow motion trying to settle an unpaid lunch tab.
Eason screamed mid-fight:
“Why do you still get to live like a normal person?!”
Benson grunted:
“Says the guy who grows back heads like weeds!”
Neither had any real fight in them. They were just pissed. At life. At themselves. At each other. At the invisible audience of a world that kept laughing without them.
It was round two—not of rivals—but of rejects.
Eventually, both collapsed on opposite ends of the alley wall, gasping and wheezing like retired vacuum cleaners.
A man passing by gave them a glance and muttered:
“Losers.”
And kept walking.
Silence returned. One of them coughed. The other sniffled. Neither of them wanted to get up first. They just sat there… two nobodies, covered in sweat and regret, pretending they still had fight left.
Freeze frame.
Sushi Knife Ambush and Unbelievable Regeneration
The alley was still—eerily still. It felt like even the air had given up breathing. Eason and Benson leaned against opposite walls, motionless, two wrecks of men left behind by the world.
Then, Benson turned his head slightly. A flicker of resolve flashed through his eyes. Slowly, he stood up, reached behind his waistband… and pulled out something shiny.
A sushi knife.
Eason blinked.
“…Hey, wait—what are you—”
Before he could finish the sentence, the blade came plunging in.
The first stab—straight to the gut.
The second—across the shoulder.
Then a third, a fourth, a fifth—no rhythm, no pattern. Just blind, desperate stabbing.
Over a dozen stabs in total. Eason collapsed onto the ground, covered in blood, lifeless.
Benson stood over him, chest heaving, watching the carnage. His heart was pounding like a war drum. He muttered under his breath:
“That should’ve done it… You’re dead now for sure…”
But then—
Less than thirty seconds later, Eason’s fingers twitched.
Like a stitched-up scarecrow, he lifted his torso, swaying slightly. His entire body was soaked in blood, but his eyes were calm. Too calm.
“…Good as new.”
Benson nearly pissed himself. His knees buckled. He staggered back a step, then turned and ran as fast as he could.
Eason stood tall again, casually brushing some blood off his shirt. He picked up the sushi knife, his lips curling into a quiet grin.
“Running already? But you haven’t even paid the bill.”
The scene froze—Eason gripping the sushi knife, calmly stalking after Benson.
Accidental Murder and Collapse
The alley echoed with frantic footsteps.
Benson was sprinting, his face pale and twisted with panic—as if he had just escaped hell itself. He glanced over his shoulder. Eason was walking slowly behind him, holding the blood-stained sushi knife, his expression disturbingly calm… almost peaceful.
“Why are you running?”
“Weren’t we just having a conversation?”
Benson shivered. That voice felt colder than the blade.
He darted through the alley, ducking left and right, trying to shake off the monster behind him. But Eason was always a few steps behind—silent, steady, unstoppable.
Eventually, Benson tripped and fell. Before he could get up, Eason was already towering above him.
“You’re too loud, Benson. I just want some peace and quiet.”
He pressed his foot into Benson’s chest and wrapped both hands tightly around his neck.
Benson struggled, gasping, clawing at Eason’s arms. He managed to land a wild punch across Eason’s face. The grip loosened. Benson kicked with all his strength, throwing Eason off and scrambling to his feet.
“You’re insane! I was just trying to defend myself!”
Eason didn’t reply. He calmly picked the sushi knife up off the ground. His eyes… emptied.
And then—he slashed.
Whoosh—
A clean, sickening sound sliced through the air.
Benson’s head flew off his shoulders, bouncing twice before landing. Blood sprayed like a fountain, painting the alley red.
The world went quiet.
Eason stood still, staring at the corpse.
His hands trembled.
The knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.
He whispered:
“I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t… I just…”
And then—he dropped to his knees.
His breathing became erratic. His face turned ghost-white. He began to sob.
“I just didn’t want to be a nice guy anymore…
Why did it end like this…”
He slammed his fists into the pavement.
Punched his own legs.
Tears streamed down as his body shook in anguish.
Blood. Silence. Horror. A mistake he could never undo.
It all sat heavy in the night air, like a weight pressing down on his soul.
The Return of Dark Benson and the DeepSuck Invitation
Eason stood frozen, staring at the puddle of blood where a man had just lost his head. He had seen it with his own eyes—Benson’s head, sliced clean off by some unknown force.
But then, the impossible happened.
The headless body twitched… then straightened. Slowly, silently, it bent down, picked up the severed head, and gently placed it back onto the neck stump.
With a series of squelches and clicks, the muscles reattached, veins stitched themselves back together, and bones aligned with perfect precision. The whole thing took no more than a few seconds.
No scar. No wound. Just… back to normal.
Benson—or rather, Dark Benson—opened his eyes again, a dull, eerie glow in them. He looked forward, unblinking.
Eason’s voice cracked slightly as he stepped back:
“Wait… Benson? Are you… my cousin?”
Dark Benson didn’t answer. He only gave the slightest nod.
The atmosphere was thick with tension. Eason, always quick to adapt, forced a grin and started talking fast:
“Listen, bro. There’s this group—called DeepSuck. They, uh… they research people like you. You know… special folks. People who can, uh… survive things like this.”
Dark Benson just stared.
Eason licked his lips and kept going:
“You wouldn’t need to do anything crazy. Just show up. Let them poke around a bit. They’ll pay you, give you food, a place to stay. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. Just… be there. Be observed.”
A pause.
Then, in a gravelly, low voice, Dark Benson asked:
“Where?”
Eason didn’t miss a beat. He rattled off the address, like a well-trained rep who’d done this many times before.
Dark Benson gave him one last glance. Not grateful. Not angry. Just… neutral.
Then he turned and walked away.
His gait was calm. Stable. Not a trace of damage. As if his head had never been separated.
Eason watched him disappear into the night.
He exhaled slowly, wiped a hand across his forehead, and muttered to himself:
“Well… he’s DeepSuck’s problem now.”
The Challenger in Pink
The alley was quiet—so quiet it almost felt abandoned by sound itself. A stray newspaper fluttered against the wall, rustling in the breeze like dry leaves.
Dark Benson stood in the middle, motionless. His eyes were half-closed, as if dozing off. But the air around him pulsed with a quiet, deadly pressure. Like a wild beast asleep with one eye open.
Across from him, Eason and Benson stood still, exchanging tense glances.
Then—footsteps. Slow, steady, almost lazy. Slap, slap, slap.
Someone was approaching from the end of the alley.
And then… he appeared.
A hulking mass of muscle, glistening under the sunlight like carved bronze. Every curve, every bulge, exaggerated to a comic degree. Veins popped like ropes wrapped around his frame. His chest and abs flexed with each step, like living armor.
He was wearing only one thing.
A tiny, bright pink women’s thong. Triangular, minimal coverage, somehow holding on. It bounced slightly with his stride, dangerously close to slipping.
In one hand, he held a half-finished bottle of soda. With the other, he scratched his neck casually.
Dave had arrived.
Eason instinctively stepped back.
“This idiot again…”
Dave strolled to the center of the tension, smiling like he’d just shown up to a beach party. He looked up and down at Dark Benson, then gave a slow nod.
“So you’re the dark dude, huh? Heard you can reattach your own head. That’s pretty cool.”
Dark Benson slowly opened his eyes. There was nothing sleepy in his gaze now. His pupils locked onto Dave’s like a blade meeting flesh.
Dave grinned wider. He took a loud gulp of soda, then flicked the bottle at the wall. It exploded with a pop.
He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders. Muscles rippled like waves under his skin. Then he crouched slightly and raised his fists into a classic, no-nonsense boxing stance.
No gimmicks. Just raw power.
Every inch of him shimmered with sweat and madness.
This wasn’t a joke.
Dark Benson’s voice scraped out of his throat like rusted metal:
“Do you want to die?”
Dave laughed.
“That depends. Can you hit hard enough to make it happen?”
The wind picked up.
And just like that, the challenge was set.