Unlicensed Wisdom in the Lab Coat
Ever since Norman came back to the city, he began to grasp just how massive the world really was.
There were so many powerful fighters out there—more than he ever imagined. And a disturbing number of them were stronger than him.
Wayne, the giant? Sure, formidable. But just one beast in a whole zoo of monsters.
And Frank? He didn’t even fight anymore. He didn’t need to. The man once withstood a nuclear explosion and walked away like he had just finished a barbecue. His defense had become the stuff of legend.
Even Jack—just a lanky guy sitting behind a steering wheel—was dangerous as hell. Norman liked to think of that fight as a close call, where he “barely lost” or even “kind of won.”
But that was a lie.
He lost.
Completely.
Jack showed him mercy. That’s the only reason Norman was still walking.
Still, in Norman’s prettified memory, the story had shifted into something more palatable. He’d rather live in a fake victory than accept a real defeat.
He walked slowly, muttering to himself.
“Why are humans so strong…? Why’d we survive this long… with so many predators around us?”
He wasn’t expecting an answer.
But then—
A man passed by him. Thin. Ghost-pale. Wrapped in a baggy white lab coat that fluttered gently as he moved.
No medical badge. No ID. Just that coat—and a strange, slow presence.
He was chewing mint.
Not gum. Just raw, fresh mint leaves. One corner of his mouth moved in slow, contemplative rhythm.
He stopped beside Norman. Didn’t even look at him.
Then, in a voice that sounded halfway between a monk and a washed-up professor, he spoke:
“People always say human intelligence helped us survive. But that came later.
Truth is, we had kung fu first.
It was the way we turned weak bodies into dangerous weapons.
That’s what let us crawl to the top.”
Then he walked on.
Norman turned to follow—eyes sharp now, hungry for more wisdom.
He jogged around the nearest corner—
And found himself in a narrow, dim alley. Old brick. Flickering overhead lights. It smelled like damp metal and wet dust.
And standing there—
Right in the center—
Was someone he hadn’t seen in months.
Bowl-cut. Pajamas. A stiff plastic mask over his face.
It didn’t matter if Norman couldn’t see his eyes.
He recognized him instantly.
It was Benson.
The same guy who once transformed into Dark Benson and beat him so badly Norman had to crawl away like a wounded mutt.
Back then, Norman swore he’d never forget that humiliation.
And now… here they were.
Face to face.
No weapons. No transformations.
Just… silence.
And Norman stood still.
Karma Wears Pajamas
“Benson. Stop right there.”
Norman’s voice cracked like thunder through the narrow alley.
Benson jumped.
He had already been facing Norman—just standing there, stiff, like a deer caught in headlights. And now, he froze even harder, eyes wide behind that cheap black plastic mask.
“H-How did you know I’m Benson?” he blurted out.
Norman stepped forward, slow and heavy. His jaw clenched.
“Your pajamas and your dumbass bowl cut gave you away, brother.”
Benson’s hands shot up to his head as if trying to hide both. In a panic, he ripped off the mask—revealing a face full of fear and confusion.
“Wait—what are you talking about? I didn’t do anything! Whatever you think I did—it wasn’t me!”
Norman kept walking until the distance between them evaporated. He stood over Benson now—Benson barely reaching his chest in height.
The difference was absurd. The energy shift was brutal.
“You remember what you did to me?” Norman asked, voice low and trembling with rage.
“You think I’d forget that level of cruelty? That sick, vile shit?”
Benson’s legs went soft.
He shook his head rapidly, hands trembling in the air.
“No, man—no! I didn’t do anything! I’m just some weak loser, okay? I never hurt anybody—I swear!”
Norman didn’t flinch.
He took a deep breath and then stepped even closer—his shadow swallowing Benson whole.
“You do know. You’re a disgusting human being. You abandoned your own dog. His name… was Retarded. Ring any bells?”
That name hit like a gunshot.
Benson’s face contorted. His lips quivered. His knees buckled as memories he had buried long ago came surging back.
A golden retriever. Dumb. Loyal. Too sweet for this world.
He remembered the leash. The long drive. The middle of nowhere. Slamming the door. Leaving the poor thing behind.
He collapsed to the ground, knees hitting the pavement hard.
“Please! Don’t kill me!” he screamed.
“I—I know it was wrong, okay? I realize that now! I’ve changed! I’m not that guy anymore! I swear I’m not!”
Tears streamed down his face.
He begged like a man with nothing left.
“Please… please don’t hurt me…”
The alley quieted.
Just Benson, weeping.
And Norman, towering above him—silent, still, unreadable.
Impossible to Flee
Just then—
A faint noise came from the trash can nearby.
Rustle.
Norman snapped his head in that direction. It was just a rat, digging around for scraps.
But that tiny distraction was all it took.
Benson seized the opening.
With a panicked jerk, he pushed off the ground and bolted—scrambling like a terrified child running from a monster in his own nightmare.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t breathe.
He just ran.
But Norman didn’t chase. Not yet.
He simply stood there. Calm. Watching Benson’s back getting smaller and smaller.
Then—
With a slow, deliberate inhale, Norman exhaled sharply and raised one arm.
His claws flicked out. A single sweeping motion.
Swoosh—
From his fingers, a blade of compressed air shot out like a flying crescent.
It cut through the air like a whip—silent, invisible, fast.
And in the next instant—
SLASH!
Benson’s right calf tore open mid-stride.
He screamed, lost balance, and crashed face-first into the pavement—rolling across the ground in a pitiful spiral.
Blood sprayed across the concrete. His leg twitched, but he couldn’t get up.
He turned his head back, trembling, tears in his eyes.
“Sorry! I— I wasn’t trying to run! I was just… I… I was trying to…”
He trailed off. Even he didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
He was lying. And he knew it.
Norman didn’t say anything.
He walked.
Just a few casual steps… and then—
He was suddenly in front of Benson.
Not just that—Norman had his back to him. Hands crossed over his chest.
As if this wasn’t even worth facing directly.
“Running away?” Norman said, flatly. “Impossible.”
He didn’t yell. He didn’t even raise his tone.
But the words hit harder than a punch.
Norman tilted his head slightly, still not turning around.
“You can come out now. I know you’re hiding.”
“Dark Benson.”
Benson’s heart froze.
He didn’t understand. Not even a little.
He had no idea what Norman was talking about.
Because every time he blacked out—every time that thing inside him came out—
He remembered nothing.
No dreams. No feelings. Just silence.
So now, he lay there trembling—wounded, confused, and terrified of things he couldn’t explain.
“Please stop,” he cried. “Don’t mess with me anymore. Just let me go home. I beg you.”
He sounded like a boy, not a fighter.
But Norman wasn’t moved.
“That claw to your leg… That was payback. For the golden retriever.”
“His name was Retarded.”
The name hit like a thunderbolt.
Benson blinked.
For a second, he looked completely lost.
Then something flickered in his expression.
“Oh… right. The golden retriever,” he muttered. “Yeah… I remember now.”
“Okay. So you’re here for that. Fair.”
He tried to shift his weight, flinching.
“Thanks for sparing me, I guess…”
“But I really don’t know what else I’ve done to you. This whole thing about… black demons or… some ‘Dark Benson’? Man, I swear I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Norman didn’t reply.
He turned around slowly.
Then walked up again—each step heavier than the last—and stared down at Benson like he was reading a book he’d already memorized.
“Come on, man,” he said softly. “Drop the pretend.”
“Transform already.”
Benson froze.
Sweat ran down the sides of his face.
His breathing slowed.
He didn’t move. Just stared up at Norman—confused, anxious, calculating.
Is this guy even serious？… what the hell am I supposed to do?
Summon the Dark Shadow
Norman stared down at Benson.
He wasn’t moving. Just lying there on the ground like a broken puppet—dazed, expressionless.
Norman narrowed his eyes. He began to count.
Out loud.
His voice cold. Measured. Serious.
“I’m gonna count to zero. And if you don’t change your voice by then… I’m not holding back.”
“Four…”
Benson’s eyes twitched. His mind started spinning.
Gotta think of something. Fast.
“Three…”
“Two…”
“One—”
Before Norman could say zero, Benson slowly stood up.
He reached for his black mask and slid it back over his face. Still trembling.
Then he tried to deepen his voice, making it heavy and menacing—fake confidence in every word.
“Hey. I’m… Dark Benson. What’s up, dude?”
Norman froze.
Every nerve in his body tensed like a tripwire pulled tight. Muscles coiled, eyes sharp.
That voice—
It triggered something deep.
A sharp, reflexive fear.
That’s the voice. That’s the one.
Without hesitation, Norman turned and slashed the air with his claw.
SHHRAAASHH—
A ripping gust tore across the alley.
Benson didn’t even have time to react.
The claw gale hit him square in the chest—tearing his pajama shirt apart, slicing a deep red gash across his chest, and shattering his black mask clean in two. The pieces clattered onto the concrete.
His face took a hit too—another sharp cut, clean across his cheek.
Benson screamed and rolled backward, howling in pain.
“OH SHIT—FUCK! It hurts! It hurts as FUCK!”
He collapsed, squirming on the ground.
The truth was brutal.
He hadn’t transformed.
There was no “Dark Benson.”
He’d been pretending—cosplaying the version Norman feared.
A desperate, stupid bluff.
And now he was paying for it.
Norman stood there for a second, stunned.
Then he squinted.
“Say what?”
He looked genuinely offended.
“Are you mocking me?!”
He stormed forward, furious.
“You’re not Dark Benson. You’re just… Weak Benson!”
He grabbed Benson’s hair with one hand and yanked him up off the ground—lifting him by the scalp, like a rag doll.
Benson’s legs flailed in the air. He screamed, kicking wildly.
“PLEASE! It hurts! My scalp—my hair’s gonna come off!”
“OH MY GOD! You’re a MONSTER! What did I ever do to you to deserve this?!”
Norman didn’t flinch.
He stared into Benson’s eyes—cold and focused.
Then, with a long sigh, he whispered:
“If you won’t come out on your own…”
“Then I’ll have to… force you out.”
His expression changed.
Sharp. Evil.
A terrifying chill spread through the alley.
Benson’s eyes widened in terror.
And then—
Psshhhh…
Warm liquid ran down his leg.
He had pissed himself.
Completely.
No control. No pride left.
Just raw, primal fear.
Fresh Meat
Norman remembered the last time.
The first time that thing—Dark Benson—ever came out…
It didn’t happen during a clean, honorable fight. It didn’t happen with strategy or form.
No.
It came after a long, brutal, merciless humiliation.
Norman had dragged Benson through psychological dirt until something inside him snapped. Until that monster clawed its way out.
So now, seeing Benson limp and weak at his feet, Norman had an idea.
Not a clean one. Not a noble one.
But maybe… an effective one.
He cleared his throat loudly—
Hggkkk—ptoo!
—and spat directly onto Benson’s face.
[…Session continues as provided, ending with:]
“What the hell do I have to do… to pull that demon out of you?”
Gouged Heart Still Beating
[This section continues as provided, starting with:]
“Probably… humiliation wasn’t the key.”
[…and ending with:]
“You still owe me that shadow…”
But the real Benson was already gone.
Something else was rising.
Gouged Heart Still Beating
Norman stared straight at him.
“Probably… humiliation wasn’t the key.”
Last time, Dark Benson only came out after getting his head cracked open by that stocky kid with a metal pipe.
Not when they mocked him.
Not when they spit on him.
But when they hurt him. For real.
So maybe pain was the switch.
Norman rolled his shoulders once, walked forward slowly—then without a word, drove five fingers deep into Benson’s right chest.
SHHLPK—
Benson jerked.
“Huh—!?”
Eyes bulged. Jaw dropped.
Norman twisted his wrist clockwise inside the flesh like turning a key—
—and yanked the heart out.
SPLRTCH.
A full, beating human heart, still dripping warm blood.
Thump.
Thump.
Benson didn’t fall.
He was still standing.
Barely.
Swaying like a busted streetlight in the wind.
He looked down. Saw the hole.
Looked at the thing in Norman’s hand.
“Wh—what the fuck…?”
His lips trembled.
“That’s… that’s my heart…”
His voice cracked.
“It’s still beating…”
“I’m gonna die… I’m literally gonna die…”
Norman didn’t blink.
“Transform,” he said coldly.
“Or die right now.”
Benson didn’t move. Couldn’t.
He just stared at the hole in his chest.
Then—
“Okay! Okay, I’ll do it! Just… just put it back in! Please!”
Norman gave him one more look.
Then shoved it back in.
CHLOMP.
Benson gasped.
His chest twitched.
His whole body softened.
“Thank you… thank you so much…”
He looked almost peaceful.
Norman nodded once.
“Good.”
“Now transform.”
But before anything could happen—
Benson’s eyes rolled up.
His knees buckled.
His whole body tilted sideways—
WHUMP.
He crashed to the ground like a bag of wet laundry.
Motionless.
Silent.
Dead.
Norman blinked.
“No—no no no—”
He dropped down beside him and started shaking him violently.
“HEY!”
“WAKE UP!”
“You still owe me that fight!”
No response.
“You still owe me for that dog!”
“You can’t just die like this!”
“Come on, man! Wake up!”
“Earth to Benson! It’s breakfast time!”
Still nothing.
But deep inside—
Something was happening.
The heart inside that broken chest was twitching.
Slowly, almost curiously, it started pulling the torn veins back together.
Like it was reconnecting.
And Benson’s body…
Started changing.
Skin turning pale.
Nails growing sharp.
Hair bleaching white.
Joints cracking and shifting out of human shape.
Norman didn’t notice.
He was still kneeling. Still shouting. Still shaking the body.
“Don’t die on me yet…”
“I’m not done with you.”
“You still owe me that shadow…”
But the real Benson was already gone.
Something else was rising.