Broken Lips, I Choose You
The rain had just stopped.
The sky still hung low and heavy, the streets wet and steaming like the city had just taken a long, angry shower.
But Grayson didn’t care.
He planted one hand on his hip, struck a ridiculous pose, and pointed his other arm toward Raymond like he was summoning lightning.
“Broken Lips, I choose you!”
It sounded like he was picking a Pokémon.
The other officers blinked.
Broken Lips turned around slowly, mouth still swollen from earlier, and gave a look that said: What the hell, again?
“Why is it always me?” he muttered. “I was the first one last time too. Shouldn’t it be someone else’s turn by now?”
But Grayson was already backing up—literally stepping behind the rest of them—until he ended up beside the delivery girl.
He jabbed a finger toward Broken Lips.
“Get over there! You stall any longer and I’ll smash your mouth again with my baton. Don’t test me.”
The girl glanced at Grayson, clearly uncomfortable, but then turned to Broken Lips and raised a clenched fist in support.
“You can do it, Broken Lips!
I believe in you! If anyone can bring back the old Raymond… it’s you!”
She was sincere.
Too sincere.
Broken Lips blinked. Then gave a long, theatrical sigh.
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it like this was some kind of slow-motion movie scene.
Took one drag. Exhaled. Nodded to no one.
“Alright then.
If all of you are too scared…
I guess I’ll be the one to take care of this.”
He stepped forward.
And oh, he stepped.
He walked just like a guy on a fashion catwalk—like he was showing off a spring collection instead of heading into a fight.
Not like a soldier. Not like a cop.
He walked like he was on a runway—left foot forward, right foot crosses in, then left again—his hips swinging side to side like he’d rehearsed it in a mirror.
The streetlights glinted off the puddles around him. Cigarette smoke trailed behind him like mist from a cheap fog machine.
He looked ridiculous.
And yet… kind of heroic.
He got close—way too close.
Pointed his finger right at Raymond’s face.
There were maybe three inches between fingertip and nose.
“You hear me, you evil bastard?!
I’m giving you ten seconds to surrender right now.
If you don’t, I swear to God—
I’ll beat your face in so hard it’ll make my lips look good!”
Raymond’s head tilted slightly.
His eyes were still covered in that swirling black mist.
His expression unreadable.
And then, he spoke—calm, quiet, almost disappointed.
“You’re wasting your breath.”
“I don’t hear you.”
“I hear only the sound… of shattering glass.”
Support from a Fangirl
From behind, the delivery girl was bouncing on her toes like a cheerleader.
Both fists raised, voice full of excitement:
“Come on! Woohoo! You can do it, Broken Lips! You’re the hero! You look amazing! I love you!”
She sounded like a fangirl at a K-pop concert.
Bright, energetic, totally sincere—completely unaware of the disaster that was about to unfold.
Grayson gave her a sideways glance.
That kind of youth… that kind of optimism…
That was exactly the kind of woman he’d been searching for.
Long, flowing hair. Beautiful face. Sharp, clean features.
And those two little bunnies bouncing in front of her chest? Yeah, Grayson noticed.
Hard not to.
And just like that, he fell in love again.
Or whatever his version of love was.
Fueled by the girl’s encouragement, Broken Lips stood straighter.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, acting cool.
“3… 2… 1.
Time’s up. Looks like you’re not gonna surrender.”
“Guess I’ll have to beat it out of you.”
With the cigarette still lit, he reached forward and brought the glowing tip close to Raymond’s face—trying to provoke him. Humiliate him. Look tough.
He never made contact.
Raymond didn’t even turn his head.
His arm moved—fast and effortless—swinging out like a steel hook.
It caught Broken Lips square in the face.
The officer flew backwards, body spinning sideways in the air.
He hit the ground with a hard thud—then kept going.
The pavement was freshly laid. Smooth. Slick with leftover rain.
His body slid across the road like a hockey puck, limbs limp.
He didn’t stop until he’d skidded over twenty meters down the street.
The crowd went silent.
Even the delivery girl froze mid-bounce.
She stared at the motionless figure on the ground and slowly lowered her fists.
“Oh no…” she said quietly.
“Turns out Broken Lips…”
She paused.
The other officers turned toward her, waiting for the sentence to land.
She blinked, then said it.
“…is just too weak.”
Lying on the ground, Broken Lips felt everything.
He wasn’t seriously injured. Just some scrapes. Torn fabric. Bit of road burn.
He could’ve stood up.
But he didn’t.
That slap—whatever it was—wasn’t just stronger than him.
It felt five times stronger.
Ten times.
Maybe twenty.
His body trembled. His pants were wet.
He’d pissed himself.
Not from pain.
From fear.
If he got up now…
If he really tried to fight again…
He was going to die.
So he did the only thing that made sense.
He closed his eyes—
and pretended to be unconscious.
The delivery girl looked at him lying there, lifeless and limp.
She turned to Grayson and said,
“Looks like it’s time for the next one.”
Grayson nodded calmly.
“Don’t worry. He’s the weakest one on our team anyway.”
Then he turned, reached out, and patted the next officer on the shoulder.
“I choose you. Go.”
But the camera didn’t show who it was.
Split Pants Evolved
A tall, skinny cop stood stiff as Grayson clapped a hand on his shoulder.
He turned his head slightly. “Chief… is it my turn?”
Grayson gave a crooked smile.
“Yup. And I’m giving you a nickname. From now on—you’re Split Pants.”
The cop blinked, confused. “Why though, Chief?”
Grayson pointed directly at his crotch.
“Look at you. Your pants are blown wide open. Everyone can see your pink underwear, man.”
From a few steps away, the delivery girl gasped and immediately covered her eyes with both hands.
But through the cracks between her fingers, she peeked.
And when she saw that lump bulging beneath the bright pink fabric, her eyes locked in.
She was… curious.
Split Pants stepped forward. Without saying a word, he shrugged off his uniform jacket and tossed it aside.
Underneath, he wore a tight black tank top—just snug enough to show his lean, wiry muscle.
Then, with a casual flick, he dropped his police baton onto the ground.
Instead, he reached to his belt and pulled out a rusted metal pipe.
The thing looked like it had been pulled out of a sewer. Corroded. Worn. Dangerous.
“Whoa…” the delivery girl whispered.
“Split Pants just evolved. I can feel it—his power just went up by like… 50%.”
Split Pants gripped the pipe tight. His voice was low, almost like a vow to himself.
“I can’t afford to lose this fight. Not today. Because this isn’t just my battle…”
He stared at the ground, eyes half-closed.
“…This is for my families.”
Plural.
Because Split Pants had two wives. Each had given him a litter of kids.
And between all the mouths to feed, he worked two jobs—cop by day, low-level gangster by night.
You could see it in his face.
The sunken cheeks. The tired, hollow stare. The quiet desperation.
He closed his eyes for just a moment.
In his mind, he could see them—both wives, standing on either side of him, each with an arm on his shoulder.
Behind them? A sea of kids. Dozens of little faces staring back at him.
Then—his eyes snapped open.
They were glowing with fire.
He gripped the metal pipe harder.
His fingers dug in so tight that the old steel actually dented inward, just a little.
He stomped out a wide horse stance. His legs planted, his knees dropped—and with that—
RRRIPPP.
His crotch exploded open.
The entire bottom of his pants split in two, perfectly revealing a smooth, bright pink pair of underwear underneath.
Right in the center, that same bulge pressed outward like it was proud to be seen.
The delivery girl froze.
She stared.
Then licked her lips—slowly.
She whispered to herself, cheeks a little flushed:
“…Oh yeah. That’s massive.”
For My Families
Split Pants pointed his rusted metal pipe straight at Raymond like he was summoning lightning.
“You can’t win,” he shouted. “Because you’re not fighting for anything that matters!
I’m fighting for something noble. Something real.
My families’ love.”
From the sidelines, the delivery girl gasped. She was honestly touched.
“This world needs more men like that,” she whispered to herself.
“Men with real responsibility… real masculinity.”
Grayson glanced over at her glowing expression and clenched his jaw. His fists tightened.
If we make it out of this alive, he thought, I’m firing Split Pants on the spot.
And not quietly. In front of everyone.
Then he snapped aloud:
“That guy?! Responsibility?! He’s got TWO wives! Jesus Christ!”
Split Pants didn’t care. He was in the zone now.
He spun the pipe around his body like Bruce Lee with a staff, letting it swirl from shoulder to waist, underarm to wrist—twisting, flicking, flaring in blurs of rusted silver.
The pipe danced for twenty whole seconds like a weapon possessed.
Then—he stopped spinning.
He gripped the pipe hard with both hands.
And jumped.
Half a meter into the air. Nothing fancy. Just enough.
And then—
“FOR MY FAMILIES! FOR MY TWO WIVES!!”
He swung down with full force toward Raymond’s head.
The delivery girl clutched her chest, moved by the sheer conviction in his voice.
“Split Pants… I’m rooting for you!” she cried.
“And if you don’t mind—I want to be your third wife!”
Grayson nearly threw up.
He watched her eyes sparkle as she cheered on the idiot in torn pants and pink underwear, and something in his soul snapped.
Split Pants… you’re done.
I’m firing you for sure.
And I’ll do it with a megaphone if I have to.
Also… damn those long legs.
Right as Split Pants was descending, Raymond tilted his head up slightly. Just a little.
And raised his fist.
He didn’t even punch forward.
Just swung it into the air—right into the path of the incoming pipe.
CLANGGGGGG!
The sound of metal smashing against raw force rang through the street like a cannon blast.
A horrible screech of high-frequency metal vibration followed.
Like steel being stretched, shredded, and shaken all at once.
Everyone nearby immediately covered their ears.
Even the delivery girl winced.
“Oh my god—my eardrums…”
A Goodbye Without Words
A violent pulse of vibration shot out from Raymond’s fist and slammed into the rusted metal pipe.
The pipe let out a high-pitched metallic scream—sharp, unbearable, like steel under pressure.
Everyone nearby instinctively clamped their hands over their ears.
The energy shot through the pipe and into Split Pants’ arms. Then his spine. Then the rest of him.
In that moment, he and the pipe became a blur—a flickering, vibrating mess of motion, like a distorted frame caught between two realities.
And then—
BANG.
The whole blur smashed into the ground.
The second his body touched down, the blur started to fade. His outline slowly came back into focus.
For the past few seconds in midair, the energy had nowhere to go—it just bounced back and forth inside him, frying him from the inside out.
But now that he hit the ground, the vibration traveled outward—into the earth—and finally let him go.
Raymond’s fist remained raised in the air, still clenched—as if the vibration hadn’t left him yet.
He didn’t even bother turning his head. Just slightly tilted it.
Enough to glimpse the aftermath.
He saw the blur crash into the ground.
He knew.
The fight was over.
Behind Raymond, Split Pants lay motionless.
His mouth was leaking blood. So were his nose, his eyes, and even his ears.
The kind of bleeding that doesn’t come from cuts—it comes from something breaking inside.
His insides were wrecked.
He slowly pushed himself upright, using the rusted pipe like a walking cane.
Not a weapon anymore. Just support.
Like an old man with nowhere left to go.
Two nearby officers struggled to their feet. One of them choked out,
“No… please stop…”
Then louder:
“The fight is over, Split Pants!
You don’t have to keep going! Just stop—it’s over!”
But Split Pants didn’t answer.
He didn’t attack.
He just turned around.
And walked.
One limp step at a time, down the empty street.
Back toward the direction of his home.
His legs dragged. His body trembled.
But his voice, though soft, was steady.
“Wife No.1… Wife No.2…
My son… my daughters… my dogs…
No matter what… I’ll come home to see you…”
Grayson stormed up, furious.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?! Where are you going, Split Pants?! You idiot! STOP RIGHT THERE AND COME BACK!”
He was about to say more when two other officers grabbed him gently by the shoulders.
They shook their heads.
“…Split Pants is done for,” one of them muttered.
“He won’t last long… he could collapse any second…”
Their throats tightened. Words caught halfway.
Even Grayson—cold, cynical, ruthless Grayson—could see it now.
That man wasn’t walking away.
He was fading.
Even Grayson’s eyes started to gloss over with… something.
And behind them all—
The delivery girl dropped to her knees, crying uncontrollably.
Gone Without a Word
Everyone was still frozen in grief, watching Split Pants limp into the darkness, muttering about his wives, his kids, his dogs…
Then—
Thud.
His body dropped.
No words. No warning.
Just the sound of his body hitting the ground.
A moment later, there came a sharp, metallic clang.
Then another.
And another.
It was his rusted metal pipe, the one he’d clung to all the way through.
It bounced on the concrete once, twice, then spun slowly before landing flat.
The clean, crisp ring of steel echoed across the street, slicing through the silence like a bell toll.
Just like that, the fight was over.
Everyone stood there, stunned.
A few officers began to cry.
The delivery girl sobbed into her hands.
Even Grayson—usually stone-faced—looked like something had finally cracked inside.
He didn’t say a word.
But for the first time, he didn’t look like a chief.
He just looked… human.
Far in the distance—maybe twenty, thirty meters away—someone else opened his eyes.
Broken Lips.
He hadn’t passed out. Not really.
He’d just been faking it the whole time.
Lying still, eyes shut, waiting. Watching.
Now, with everyone focused on the fallen hero, he seized his chance.
He scanned the area.
No one saw him.
He dropped to his elbows and began crawling. Fast.
He slid along the wet pavement like a snake, pulling himself further and further away from the crowd.
Ten meters. Twenty. Fifty.
Once he was far enough, he jumped up to his feet and bolted.
Full sprint. Full panic.
He didn’t even look back.
“This is a warzone,” he muttered to himself as he ran.
“No one’s paying me enough for this shit.”
He ran for blocks.
All the way to the city center.
Only then did he finally slow down.
He leaned against a lamppost, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“That was scary,” he whispered.
Just thinking about that moment—seeing Split Pants lying motionless in the street—had been enough.
That was it.
That was the last straw.
He wasn’t gonna be next.
Now surrounded by the flashing neon signs of downtown, Broken Lips took a deep breath.
Bright lights, warm sidewalks, people laughing in the distance.
He needed to cool off.
He needed to relax.
So he looked around, saw a glowing red sign in the corner of the street.
Massage Parlor.
He smiled faintly to himself.
And walked in.