The Girl in the Alley?
It was a quiet night. In a deserted alley, a series of high-pitched, agonizing screams echoed off the walls—sharp, desperate, unmistakably female. Mixed in with the cries were muffled English words: “No! Stop! Please—STOP!”
A man happened to be walking by. As soon as he heard it, he stopped. From the sound of it, someone—some poor woman—was being assaulted. Maybe even raped. The kind of scream that made your stomach turn. He hesitated… then curiosity got the better of him. He crept closer and peeked into the alley.
There were four gangsters standing around someone. Someone curled up on the ground, clearly the victim. From this distance, he was sure—it had to be a woman. He started to back away, muttering, “Not my business…” But just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye. The victim lifted his head.
Wait… his head?
It wasn’t a woman at all—it was a short dude, maybe five foot two, wearing pajamas. He had a ridiculous watermelon-shaped haircut and a terrified look frozen on his face. Just then, one of the gangsters smashed a punch straight into his gut. The man let out another piercing scream—even higher than the last one. “AIIIIEEEEEEEE!!”
The bystander froze, then blinked. “…My god,” he muttered. “How the hell can a grown man make a sound like that?” He shivered slightly. “…That’s disgusting.” And with that, he turned around and casually walked back home like nothing ever happened.
Canelo’s New Recruits
They were just kids—four teenage punks, freshly kicked out of high school for being too much trouble and too little brain. Now, instead of growing up, they signed up under Canelo and got thrown into the mugging business like it was some kind of summer internship. This was their first job. Their first mugging. And it was a mess.
Everything about them screamed amateur: the way they moved, the way they threatened, even the way they counted money—like they’d never held more than lunch change in their lives. They surrounded Benson, expecting a fat wallet, maybe even a little resistance. What they got was a single, wrinkled five-dollar bill.
All four of them just stared at it. The disappointment was instant. One of them snatched the bill and held it up like it was a bad joke. “What the hell is this?” he snapped. “Five bucks? A third grader’s richer than you. This can’t even buy a pack of smokes. You wasting our time, man. Wasting the mugging business’s time.”
The others didn’t laugh. They didn’t say a word. Their stares turned cold. To them, this wasn’t just about money anymore—it was about respect. And right now, Benson was pissing on the name of their crew. They stepped in closer, ready to deliver a lesson.
The Beating Begins
One of the boys stepped forward—young, twitchy, with a mean face and a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. Without a word, he marched right up to Benson and started slapping him. Not once. Not twice. Over a dozen times. Fast, sharp, unstoppable. His hand moved like a blur, cracking across Benson’s cheeks again and again, left-right-left-right like a malfunctioning metronome. Smack. Smack. Smack.
“You call yourself a man?” he barked while still slapping. “You pissed yourself, bro. Look at your pants! You think this is funny?” Benson didn’t even have time to cover up. He just stood there, eyes dazed, face bouncing from hit to hit like a human punching bag.
And that’s when it happened. From the side, the tall, skinny kid in the bright pink shirt leaned in silently. Benson didn’t even see it coming. The kid took a deep breath—and launched a fat glob of spit straight into Benson’s eye. Direct hit.
Benson shrieked, staggering backward, blinded and disgusted. “PLEASE! Please, stop! I’m begging you—just let me go!” But the slapping didn’t stop.
The boy with the cigarette finally paused, took one last puff—then pulled it from his mouth and pressed the red-hot tip straight onto Benson’s forehead. A sizzling sound. A flash of smoke. Then a scream loud enough to rattle nearby windows. The boy grinned and said, “Look at you. That dumbass watermelon haircut… man, the more I look at it, the more I wanna piss myself laughing.”
The Stocky Kid
While the others took turns humiliating Benson, one of the boys hanging back let out an irritated grunt. Short, thick-built, and solid like a concrete block, he looked like he didn’t have the patience for slow torture. Without a word, he shoved two of his crew aside, pushing them out of the way like they were plastic bags in his path. The moment he reached Benson, he didn’t waste time. He balled up his fist and drilled it into Benson’s stomach—deep, direct, and devastating.
The hit landed with a heavy, sickening thud. Benson’s body folded forward. His eyes bulged, and a second later, he vomited everything he had. Chunks of half-digested rice and meat sprayed across the concrete. The smell turned the alley into a gas chamber—sour, rotted, acidic. One of the boys gagged and took a step back. The stocky one didn’t even blink.
A pale, sickly-looking kid who’d been watching from the sidelines finally stepped in, clearly shaken. He rushed forward and grabbed the bruiser’s thick forearm. “Hey—yo, chill! Don’t beat him to death, man! If he dies, we’re done. We’ll all be in deep shit!” His voice cracked under the pressure.
But the warning fell on deaf ears. The stocky one yanked his arm free like it was nothing, then followed up with two more savage punches, both slamming into Benson’s ribs with raw power. Blood shot out of Benson’s mouth, splashing onto the ground and painting the puke with streaks of red. He collapsed to his knees, shaking, his entire body lurching with every sob.
“Please… it hurts…” he cried, his voice hoarse and broken. “Please… I’ll bring you the money next time. I swear… just let me go…”
The stocky kid wasn’t moved. No sympathy, no hesitation. He raised his fist again and swung it straight at Benson’s face. But this time, Benson saw it coming—clear as day. He knew if that punch landed, it would crack his skull in half. His instincts finally kicked in, and he jerked his head to the side at the last possible second.
The fist missed—and slammed into the wall behind him.
The impact exploded like a gunshot. The concrete split instantly, veins of cracks spiderwebbing out from the center. Chunks of dust and debris rained down, and the wall itself seemed to tremble. That punch was a death sentence.
Benson froze, breathing like a wild animal, eyes wide with terror. But instead of backing off, the stocky kid got even angrier. His jaw clenched. His shoulders tightened. It was the kind of fury that didn’t speak—it just acted.
Without a word, he reached behind his back and pulled out a chunk of old metal—a rusted iron pipe, thick and jagged at the edges, the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a condemned building. He twirled it through the air twice, and with each spin, the air grew heavier. The alley filled with a low, vibrating hum, like the sound before thunder rolls in. Even the other boys stopped moving.
Something very terrible was about to happen.
Mugging Gone Too Far
The moment the stocky boy pulled out the rusted iron pipe, the mood shifted. The other three boys rushed forward in a panic, grabbing at his arms from both sides. “Yo, what are you doing?!” one of them shouted. “Are you outta your mind?!” Another snapped, “This is already way too much. You gotta stop. Now.”
But the stocky one didn’t care. He let out a grunt and flung both arms outward—like swatting off insects. The three boys were sent flying through the air, landing hard on the concrete about six feet away. As they scrambled to their feet, they looked up just in time to see him raise the pipe high above his head. His muscles locked tight. His stance firm. Then—he jumped. Midair, he brought the weapon down with everything he had.
The iron pipe slammed straight into the top of Benson’s head.
CRACK.
The sound exploded through the alley—sharp, violent, and final. The concrete shook. Dust fell from the walls. It was the kind of impact that made your stomach twist. Benson’s skull split open like a watermelon dropped off a rooftop. Blood and pulp burst in every direction—painting the walls, soaking the ground, even splashing back onto the attacker himself. It was fast. Messy. And way beyond anything they expected.
The alley fell silent. The tall kid in the pink shirt knelt there, frozen, eyes wide. “Did he… is he dead?” One of the others, still catching his breath, muttered, “Bro, if that’s not dead, I don’t know what the hell is.” The third one just shook his head slowly. “Man turned into a body. His whole head’s gone.”
They all looked down. Benson’s corpse lay slumped on its side like a discarded doll. Where his neck ended, there was nothing but red pulp and shattered bone. The head was simply… gone.
Benson was really, truly gone.
The Shadow Arose
The whole alley was a mess. The four punks stood frozen, staring at each other, unsure of what to do next.
Then the stocky one barked out, “What the hell are you waiting for? You wanna get caught by the cops? Move!”
He shoved both hands into his pockets and casually started walking toward the mouth of the alley, like he didn’t have a care in the world. The other three hesitated for a second, then quickly followed behind him, glancing back nervously as they walked away.
Behind them, the broken body on the ground began to twitch.
Chunks of bloodied flesh scattered across the pavement suddenly jerked, then shot through the air—rushing back toward the corpse. They gathered where a head once was, merging and reshaping into something new.
Sharp, glinting eyes. Bone-pale skin. A tall, rigid nose. Crimson lips curled into a sinister grin. And from that grin—two long, needle-like fangs gleamed in the dark.