Broadcast of a Broken Arm
It was just another regular night.
The screen lit up with a live TV program — one of those late-night current affairs shows trying to appear serious and socially aware. The set was dimly lit, with two men seated at a round glass table. One of them, dressed in a navy blazer and holding a cue card, was the show’s official host. The other wore a dark floral shirt under a charcoal blazer, paired with perfectly pressed slacks and a lazy half-smile — a visiting sociology professor brought in for expert commentary.
Between them sat a man named Marvel, tonight’s guest.
His hair was parted neatly down the middle, just like Kim Jong-un’s early public appearances back when he first took power. His outfit looked decades behind the times, with every button fastened tight up to his neck. Round-rimmed glasses rested awkwardly on his face, completing the look of someone permanently out of sync with the current era.
Marvel sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly, as if he were waiting for a hymn to begin.
The host cleared his throat and looked into the camera.
“Good evening, everyone. Tonight’s topic has been making the rounds online, stirring up a mix of outrage and fascination. You may have seen the footage already. Three days ago, our guest here — Marvel — was caught on security camera in a local café, walking up to a college student and snapping his arm.”
The professor chuckled under his breath. The host smiled faintly, then added:
“No shouting. No fight. Just a clean, quiet— snap —like a chopstick.”
They both glanced at Marvel, waiting.
Marvel returned a small, polite smile. His voice was calm, almost gentle.
“That boy was pathetic,” he said. “Trying to act cool. Thin little arms. Hair dyed like some fashion magazine model. One of those soft, no-good types girls seem to go for these days.”
He leaned back slightly, as if the memory annoyed him.
“A girl had walked over to ask for his number. I couldn’t take it. He’s the type who’d scream before ever throwing a punch. Someone like that… shouldn’t be treated like a man.”
The professor raised an eyebrow, intrigued. The host gave a slow nod, almost impressed.
“Well then,” the host said, tone still casual. “That’s one way to open a discussion on modern masculinity.”
A Question Too Far
The camera panned slightly as the host adjusted his blazer and leaned toward Marvel.
“Before we jump into the incident, Mr. Marvel,” he said with a polite smile, “would you mind introducing yourself to the audience?”
Marvel nodded calmly, voice steady and measured.
“My name is Marvel. I’m a junior-level accountant. I graduated from Harvard—”
“Whoa, Harvard?!” the host cut in, eyes lighting up. “No way! A top graduate! We’ve got ourselves a real intellectual here, folks.”
Marvel blinked. His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to clarify — but the host had already moved on, grinning as he signaled toward the man beside him.
Marvel had actually been about to say “Harvard Avenue Community College.”
But the moment passed. No one asked again.
“We’re also honored to be joined tonight by Professor Stiffen Hawking,” the host continued. “From St. John University. He’s a leading expert in behavioral sociology and modern dating. It’s a real privilege to have him here tonight.”
The professor gave a half-lazy nod, still scrolling on his iPad. Then, leaning forward, he addressed Marvel directly.
“Mr. Marvel,” he said, “from what I saw in the footage, you were seated in a café, looking at your laptop. Could you walk us through what happened that day?”
He paused, his smirk creeping in.
“And — maybe I’m wrong — but it looked like you were watching porn, weren’t you?”
SLAP!
The host’s hand smacked the table.
“What the dickhead did you just say?!”
His voice echoed across the studio. He jabbed a finger at the professor, scowling.
“Watch your language! There are children and minors watching this program!”
The professor froze. His face flushed — not with embarrassment, but pure annoyance. Without a word, he leaned back into the couch, stretched one arm out, and slowly dug a finger into his nose.
He was done.
A heavy silence followed. Five long seconds passed.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the host turned back to Marvel with a rehearsed smile.
“So, Mr. Marvel,” he said brightly, “can you tell us what really happened that day?”
Marvel gave a calm nod.
“Yes,” he said. “I remember it clearly.”
The timeline shifted.
We went back to three days ago…
Sunshine, Milk Tea, and Rage
It was a bright, sunny afternoon.
The air was light and fresh, filled with a youthful energy — the kind that made you think of spring.
Somewhere outside, birds were singing. Butterflies flitted through the breeze. The world, for a moment, felt gentle.
Inside the café, Marvel sat alone at a corner table, sipping from a King Size, Extra Large cup of bubble milk tea. The drink was so big it looked like it belonged at a theme park. The tapioca pearls slid through the fat straw with a satisfying rhythm, each one vanishing into his mouth with a soft thump. As he drank, he absentmindedly rubbed his round belly with one hand, slow and circular, like he was comforting a pet.
In front of him, his laptop glowed.
He was watching his favorite genre of film: romantic action cinema.
More specifically… porn.
A few tables ahead, directly in Marvel’s line of sight, sat a college-aged boy.
He was tall and slender, with clean, golden-blonde hair and sharp, symmetrical features — the kind of face that might belong on a perfume ad or the cover of a fashion magazine. He wore a crisp white shirt and sat with perfect posture, flipping through a paperback novel. Every movement of his fingers seemed quiet, deliberate, almost elegant.
His expression was gentle. His eyes dreamy. He looked calm, a little shy, and effortlessly attractive.
Marvel stared at him with narrowing eyes.
Too skinny. Too delicate. Too feminine.
He took another long sip of milk tea, this time louder, more forceful.
No wonder he’s still single, Marvel thought. Boys like this — they look good, but they’re useless. They can’t protect anyone. They don’t deserve to be chosen.
Then, like a drop of ink falling into water, something disrupted the stillness.
A young woman approached the boy’s table.
She wore a white blouse, a black skirt, and had long black hair that swayed gently with each cautious step. Her expression was nervous, almost panicked — the kind of fear only seen in moments that matter too much.
She stopped next to the boy’s table and spoke, voice soft, breathless.
“Um… excuse me. Are you single?”
The boy looked up, blinking, then smiled politely.
“Yes, I am. Is… something wrong?”
The girl hesitated. Her face turned red. She shuffled slightly in place, then gathered herself.
“Can I… have your phone number?” she asked. “I thought… maybe we could go see a movie sometime. If you don’t mind.”
Marvel froze.
He was really jealous.
So jealous it turned into pure adrenaline.
The adrenaline surged through his body, transforming instantly into muscle energy, raw and twitching beneath his skin.
Within seconds, Marvel’s entire body was flooded with a wild, irresistible force — a surge of power he couldn’t control. Like a volcano bracing to erupt.
His fingers curled involuntarily.
Crack.
Without realizing it, he had crushed the wireless mouse in his hand. Plastic shards scattered on the table beside his milk tea.
He stared down at the broken shell. His breath was heavy. His body was heating up from the inside, like a machine overheating.
But at the front of the café, the boy and the girl were still talking. Still smiling. Still unaware.
They had no idea what was coming.
The Break
Marvel stood up.
He didn’t say a word. No shouting. No dramatic warning.
Just quiet. Smooth. Controlled.
He walked over to the young couple’s table like a shadow — silent and slow, like a waiter delivering the check.
The boy glanced up, confused by the sudden presence.
“Excuse me, can I hel—”
Marvel didn’t let him finish.
In one swift motion, he grabbed the boy’s right wrist. The boy jolted, startled but still unsure of what was happening.
Before he could react, Marvel’s other hand clamped down on the boy’s forearm — firm, deliberate.
Then, with just a small twist of his thick fingers, he applied pressure and bent.
A loud, sickening CRACK echoed across the café.
The bone in the boy’s arm snapped clean, like a dry stick of bamboo.
His skin didn’t tear, and the flesh looked untouched — but the forearm now dangled helplessly in the air, disconnected from its structure.
The boy’s eyes widened. His mouth opened.
“Wh-what’s wrong with you?!”
He dropped to the floor, clutching his broken arm, rolling in pain, screaming loudly as he twisted on the ground.
Marvel stepped forward.
He reached down with one hand, grabbed the boy by the collar, and lifted him into the air like a bag of trash.
His eyes narrowed.
“I can tell just by looking at you,” Marvel said coldly. “You’re scum. You’re probably already married — and yet here you are, luring in innocent young girls. You’re disgusting.”
The boy, pale and trembling, cried out:
“I’m just a college student! I’m not even married!”
But Marvel didn’t care.
He raised one hand and unleashed his move:
MACHINE GUN SLAP.
In two seconds, ten slaps rained down on the boy’s face.
PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK PAK.
The speed was ridiculous — like a malfunctioning printer slapping out paper.
The boy screamed and began to cry. A dark stain spread across his pants.
He had pissed himself.
“Please! Please stop!” he sobbed. “I don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please… spare my life…”
Marvel’s eyes burned.
He shouted back:
“UNFORGIVABLE!”
His right fist clenched.
He charged it with all his might — his body tensed like a coiled spring — and then he launched his signature move:
FACE DESTRUCTION PUNCH.
The fist landed square in the center of the boy’s face.
A brutal THUMP.
The impact was massive — his facial features instantly caved inward, blood bursting out across his cheeks. Nose shattered. Eyes swollen. Mouth torn.
The force of the punch ripped the boy’s shirt from the collar where Marvel had been holding him. He flew horizontally — like a crash test dummy — across the café.
He slammed into a concrete wall several meters away with a hollow BOOM, then collapsed to the ground like a broken mannequin.
Unconscious.
Possibly dead.
Definitely no longer pretty.
Restraint
A wave of screams erupted through the café.
Chairs scraped. Glasses spilled. Dozens of customers scrambled to the exit as panic spread like fire. The once-sunny afternoon was gone. In its place: chaos.
A few large-bodied men — along with the café owner — rushed forward, trying to restrain the attacker. But Marvel, still riding a high of raw adrenaline, swung both arms outward in a wide arc.
WHAM.
The group of men were knocked back several meters, crashing to the floor like bowling pins.
Marvel’s breathing was heavy. Wild.
He turned to the girl — the one who had approached the boy just minutes earlier. His eyes locked onto her like she was the last piece of something missing.
He stormed forward.
Before she could react, he grabbed both of her shoulders with shaking hands and shoved her back against the wall.
“Help! Somebody help me!” she screamed, eyes wide with terror.
Marvel held her tightly, face close, speaking with twisted intensity.
“I’m the good guy,” he said. “He was the bad one. I saved you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re safe now. Safe because of me.”
His fingers dug into her shoulders. His voice shook — not with fear, but desperation.
“Guys like him, they’re all liars. What’s so good about him, huh?!”
Then — without warning — he grabbed the front of her blouse and tore it open with both hands. The fabric split with a loud rip, exposing her bra and the upper curves of her chest.
She gasped, shocked, frozen for a moment.
“You don’t need that kind of boy,” Marvel muttered. “He doesn’t deserve you. None of them do.”
The girl tried to push him away. “Get off me, you sick freak!” she shouted, struggling hard against his chest. “Don’t touch me!”
Marvel didn’t move. He leaned in closer, breath hot and shaking.
“If I were the bad guy… what would you do?” he whispered.
Before the girl could respond, he tilted his head and, without warning, pressed his lips against hers.
She froze, eyes wide, too stunned to react.
But Marvel didn’t stop there.
His mouth lingered — and then, slowly, his tongue began to move.
It flicked in and out, sharp and quick — unnatural, reptilian. Snake-like.
The girl jerked her head back, but Marvel’s grip on her shoulders held firm. His tongue found its way into her mouth, slithering past her lips for a few horrible seconds.
She let out a muffled, horrified cry.
Her stomach turned. Her eyes welled. Her whole body recoiled.
Then came the scream — louder than anything so far.
“STOP! HELP ME! GET OFF!”
That’s when the men got back up.
The café owner — blood running down one arm from the earlier scuffle — saw his chance. He noticed something had changed. Marvel’s movements were slower. His grip weaker.
The adrenaline was fading.
In a split-second decision, the owner charged.
He tackled Marvel full force, wrapping both arms around his waist and slamming him down to the floor. The impact rattled the furniture nearby.
Marvel let out a choked grunt.
The café owner climbed on top, shoved Marvel’s face against the floor, and pressed down hard with his forearm.
“You’re done!” he roared.
Marvel twitched beneath him, exhausted, powerless.
The girl backed away, crying uncontrollably. Clutching her torn blouse, she stumbled toward the door, arms shaking, then broke into a full run — disappearing into the street outside as the sound of sirens began to rise in the distance.
Return to the Studio
Marvel stopped speaking.
The story ended, not with triumph or clarity, but in silence.
The camera slowly zoomed out, bringing the audience back to the present — back to the quiet tension of the studio.
The host smiled like he’d just finished a good bedtime story.
“Wow,” he said softly. “What a breathtaking, emotional journey. I haven’t heard something so dramatic and tear-jerking in years.”
He turned to his right, facing Professor Hawking.
“Professor,” he said, “after hearing this entire account, do you have any insights you’d like to share?”
Professor Hawking didn’t answer right away. He was sitting with his back pressed against the chair, one hand lazily pinching something between his fingers. After a second or two, he gave the booger a soft flick — it flew forward into the studio lights and vanished somewhere offscreen.
Still reclining, he finally muttered,
“I’m here only for the paycheck.”
The host gave a small chuckle.
“Ah, our Professor Hawking. Witty and philosophical, as always.”
He turned back to the camera.
“Now, let’s check in again with Mr. Marvel himself. After everything that’s happened… how are you feeling now?”
Marvel had his head lowered. One hand was gently covering his eye. His voice trembled slightly when he answered — quiet, almost tearful.
“I still couldn’t save her,” he said. “It’s all my fault. I failed her.”
The host leaned in kindly.
“It’s okay. I’m sure next time, you’ll be able to save someone else. I believe in you.”
Marvel nodded silently, eyes never lifting.
The host turned back to the audience, beaming.
“Well, dear viewers — that brings us to a short commercial break. But don’t go anywhere! When we return, we’ll continue our conversation with Mr. Marvel. If you have any questions or thoughts, send them via text to the number on the screen. He’ll be answering them live, right here with us.”
The screen faded out.
A bright jingle began to play, and an upbeat voice announced:
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