The Blood on the Bars

Chapters

Prologue - Sacrifice.
Welcome to The Sacrifice Games!
Knowing your place.
The Auction.

Prologue - Sacrifice.

Sacrifice. Ponies make it sound so noble, don’t they? As if giving something up automatically makes you a saint. But let me tell you a little secret: sacrifice is a tool. Nothing more, nothing less. The question isn’t whether you’ll give something up—life takes what it wants from you anyway. No, the real question is what you’ll give and why.

You see, most ponies treat sacrifice like some sacred act, something painful and tragic, like it only counts if it tears your heart out in the process. But pain? Pain is irrelevant. It clouds your judgment, makes you cling to things you should’ve let go of long ago. The trick—the real wisdom—is knowing how to sacrifice. Knowing what’s worth losing and what isn’t.

When you learn that, sacrifice becomes easy. Efficient, even. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I’ve sacrificed plenty. More than most, I’d wager. Friends, loyalties, trust. Some of it stung for moment, yes. But in the end, every piece I gave up was a step toward something greater. You don’t climb to the top without leaving a few ponies behind.

And that’s the beauty of it: sacrifice is only hard for those who cling to sentiment, to weakness. They’re so blinded by their emotions, their ideals, that they can’t see the opportunity in front of them. The ones who succeed, the ones who truly understand, are the ones who know when to cut their losses. Sacrifice isn’t about loss—it’s about gain.

You want to know how I learned this? It wasn’t a book or a lecture, I’ll tell you that. It was on a battlefield, surrounded by chaos and blood. I was a soldier once. A proud one, or so I thought. I had the training, the skills—intelligence, artillery, infantry—I could do it all. And I thought I understood sacrifice. I thought it was about loyalty, about giving your life for your comrades, your country, your ideals. But that night, I learned the truth.

It was supposed to be a routine operation—move in, extract the target, get out. My squad and I had done missions like it dozens of times. We trusted each other, and we trusted our commanding sergeant. He was a good stallion, strong, steady. The kind of leader you’d follow into Tartarus if he asked. But trust doesn’t stop an ambush.

We never saw them coming. One moment, we were sweeping the area; the next, the sky lit up with fire and steel. Griffon insurgents, smart ones, with the high ground and the numbers. In seconds, half my squad was down, and the rest of us were pinned. It was chaos—shouting, blood, smoke. My sergeant was barking orders, trying to rally us, but it was hopeless.

And then I saw it. A way out. A narrow escape route, just wide enough for one pony to slip through. But there was a catch. If I took it, the rest of them—my sergeant, my squad—they’d be sitting ducks. I had a choice. Stay, fight, die with them… or take the path, leave them behind, and live.

I won’t lie to you. In that moment, I hesitated. Just for a second. I could hear my sergeant calling my name, his voice steady even as the world burned around us. But then I made my choice. I grabbed a flare, fired it into the air, and shouted a false order to regroup on me. They moved, like the good soldiers they were, right into the enemy’s line of fire.

And I ran.

I didn’t stop until the screams and the gunfire were far behind me. When I finally collapsed in the mud, alone and alive, I felt… something. Not guilt, not sorrow. Power. For the first time, I understood what sacrifice really was. It wasn’t about noble gestures or dying for others. It was about making the hard choice, the right choice, no matter the cost.

They called me a hero after that. Said I’d survived against impossible odds. If only they knew the truth. But they don’t need to, do they? Because that mission taught me something valuable: sacrifice isn’t about the lives you lose. It’s about the life you keep.

At twenty-five, I resigned from the army. They called it an honourable departure, a celebration of my service to Equestria. Medals, speeches, even a knighting ceremony—“For dedication and valor,” they said. What they didn’t see, what they couldn’t see, was that I had already planned my next move. I wasn’t stepping away out of fatigue or a sense of duty fulfilled. No, I was trading one battlefield for another.

The military gave me something far more valuable than titles or accolades. It gave me connections. Nobles, officers, politicians—ponies who owed me favours, who trusted me. Sacrificing my career in the army wasn’t a loss; it was an investment. And it paid off.

I leveraged those connections, planted myself among the elite like a weed in fertile soil. It’s easy, really, to trick the right ponies. Nobility loves a war hero, after all. They see what they want to see: a stallion of honour, a defender of the realm. Smile in the right places, flatter the fragile egos, and suddenly, doors open for you.

From there, building a company was simple. I took risks others wouldn’t, made alliances others deemed too ruthless, and when I needed to, I sacrificed—employees, partners, competitors. You’d be amazed how many ponies will gladly fall on their swords if you make them believe it’s for the greater good. And when they outlive their usefulness? Well, that’s just another calculation.

That’s how I climbed. Step by step, sacrifice by sacrifice. And now, here I stand, at the top. They say there are consequences for using others, for casting them aside when they’re no longer needed. I’ve heard the whispers, the warnings: Karma will catch up to you someday. But as of now? That’s just a myth.

Every sacrifice has brought me closer to this moment, closer to the power I deserve. And if I have to keep sacrificing to stay here, so be it. After all, the world is full of ponies who are willing to give everything for nothing. I just make sure they give it to me.

I’ve seen the truth of sacrifices. I’ve even made the truth come reality. Do you know what ponies look like when everything is taken from them? When they’re stripped of their pride, their hope, their so-called morality? They’re beautiful. In that moment—when the mask slips, when the illusions crumble—you see them for what they really are. Weak. Desperate. Hungry. That’s when the fun begins.

I built a little… sanctuary, you could call it. A place where rules don’t matter and the only law is survival. I pluck the forgotten, the unwanted, the guilty, and even the willing from the streets and drop them into my little world. Criminals, vagrants, volunteers—I take them all. You’d be surprised how many ponies sign away their lives for a promise of bits or a fleeting hope of freedom.

Inside, there’s nothing but the bare essentials: walls, food—scarce, of course—and each other. That’s all they get. No guards, no rules, no mercy. Just survival. And I watch. Oh, how I watch. I see mothers betray their foals for a stale crust of bread. Lovers stab each other in the back—sometimes literally—because they couldn’t bear to go hungry one more night. And the faith? The righteousness? It evaporates like mist in the sun.

But why stop there? Why let this masterpiece rot in the shadows when there’s a world full of ponies who would pay to see it? So, I gave them a show. Cameras in every corner, streaming every scream, every betrayal, every last desperate act to the darkest depths of the web. They call it The Sacrifice Games. How poetic.

The audience loves it. They cheer, they jeer, they place their bets. Will the priest abandon his god? Will the soldier give up his code? Will the innocent become the monster? Every day, the show delivers. And I deliver them something even better: an escape from their dull, moral little lives.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. You think I’m the villain here? I’m not the one pulling the strings. They are. The prisoners. The viewers. I just… provide the stage. The rest? That’s all them. Ponies love to preach about goodness and sacrifice, but when it comes down to it, they’ll burn it all to the ground if it means saving their own skin.

And the best part? They still think they’re good. They’ll tell themselves it was necessary, that they didn’t have a choice. But I know better. I’ve seen them. I’ve made them. Sacrifice isn’t noble. It’s raw, and brutal, and selfish. And it’s the only truth that matters.

So, tell me, dear reader… what would you sacrifice? Your morals? Your loved ones? Your precious little soul? Don’t answer just yet. You’ll know soon enough. Because if you ever find yourself in my little world, I promise you this: you’ll sacrifice. You’ll lose everything.

And I’ll be watching.

Welcome to The Sacrifice Games!

Ah, my little experiment. My beautiful little experiment. When I started this, I knew it would catch attention. But I never imagined just how far-reaching it would become. The views are climbing every day—thousands, tens of thousands, millions now. Whispers of my stream have spread like wildfire, from taverns to royal courts. Ponies, zebras, griffons, dragons—they’re all talking about it. Not openly, of course. No, they keep their voices low, their conversations hushed. But not low enough. Oh, no. The royalty and their precious governments have heard, too.

And they’re panicking.

It’s hilarious, really. They’ve launched investigations, detained ponies caught watching the stream, dragged them into dimly lit rooms for serious interrogations. I can picture it now—some clueless stallion, shaking in his boots, stammering about how he only clicked the link out of curiosity. “I didn’t know what it was, I swear!” Poor fools. They know nothing. They’re not the masterminds. They’re just the audience.

But the best part? The absolute chef’s kiss? All their efforts amount to nothing. They’ve hired their best hackers, ponies with names like “Code Breaker” and “Firewall.” as if that intimidates me. They try to breach my stream, thinking they can find me. And what happens? Oh, they stumble right into my little surprise—a virus so nasty it leaves their systems smoking. Literally. One of their terminals caught fire. Now that’s what I call fireworks.

They don’t even know where to start looking for me. Equestria? The Crystal Empire? The Badlands? Zebrica? Maybe the Griffin Kingdoms or the Dragon Lands? Oh, it’s delicious, watching them scramble. Every nation on this planet has a stake in my game. Every race is represented. They’re all players, all pawns. And that makes it nearly impossible to pinpoint where this is happening. Is it under their noses? Across an ocean? In a cave, a city, a palace? Let them guess. They’re all wrong.

The funniest thing? The more they fail, the more they watch. They have to watch. They tell themselves it’s to gather evidence, to study my methods, but let’s be honest—they’re hooked. They’re as much a part of my audience as the commoners they govern. I’d bet a month’s worth of bread that even Celestia’s sneaking peeks when nopony’s watching.

And why wouldn’t she? This isn’t just a stream anymore. It’s a cultural cornerstone. It’s art. It’s philosophy. It’s reality stripped bare, exposing every ugly, beautiful, desperate truth about sacrifice. And they all see it. The whole world sees it.

The royalty, the governments—they hate me because they can’t stop me. They hate me because I’ve turned their citizens into viewers. They hate me because, deep down, they understand what I’m doing, and it terrifies them.

And me? I love it.

So go ahead, Princess Celestia. Assemble your councils. Draft your letters. Command your guards. Go ahead, King Thorax. Send your changelings out to scour the land. Go ahead, Ember, Cadance, Rutherford, whoever else wants to play the hero. Watch me. Scramble. Try. Fail.

You’re not stopping the show.

Because the whole world is watching, and the whole world is playing.

And the game has only just begun.

They call him Brown, but even that feels like too much. A name is something you give to somepony you want to remember, and there’s not a soul here who wants to remember him. Not with those eyes—glazed over, like a pony who’s already halfway gone. You don’t look into eyes like that; you avoid them.

His body tells a different story, though. He’s built like a soldier, strong and scarred in ways that scream of battles long since fought and lost. Thick gashes mark his sides, his shoulders, his legs—proof of violence, but not pride. He doesn’t carry himself like somepony who won. He carries himself like somepony who survived.

Brown keeps to himself, tucked away in the shadows of his cell. He doesn’t talk unless he has to. He doesn’t even move unless absolutely necessary. The others whisper about him, wonder what he’s done, why he’s here. But he gives them nothing. No words. No answers. Just silence.

Ponies have tried to get close. Some out of curiosity, others out of desperation. He doesn’t fight them off, doesn’t snap or snarl like the rest of the broken souls in this place. No, Brown’s way is quieter. A single look, a tilt of the head, and the intruder always backs away. Something about him is wrong—not dangerous, exactly, but heavy. Like standing too close to a cliff and feeling the pull of the abyss.

No one knows what’s in his past, but whatever it is, it’s still with him. Haunting him. Dragging him down.

He could be an ally, a protector, a threat. But Brown doesn’t care about alliances. He doesn’t care about survival games or twisted sacrifices. He just… exists. A ghost in the prison, waiting for something—or maybe for nothing at all.

And if you ask him what he’s waiting for, what keeps him breathing in this pit of despair, you’ll only get the faintest of answers.

“Not sure.” he might mutter, his voice low and cracked from disuse.

Brown was an easy target. In a place where strength and fear dictated the rules, he was the outlier, the anomaly. He didn’t fight back. He didn’t resist. When the prisoners in their white and navy blue jumpsuits circled him, their faces twisted with cruelty, he wouldn’t even look them in the eye.

It started on his first day. The guards tossed him into the chaos without so much as a word, and within minutes, they descended on him. They wanted to test him, to see if the quiet stallion with the hollow gaze had any fight left in him. He didn’t. Or if he did, he buried it so deep it might as well not have existed.

A few punches turned into a full-blown spectacle. They dragged him through the dirt, mocked him, kicked him until his scars reopened, and left him in a heap. He didn’t yell. Didn’t scream. Not a word passed his lips, not even when blood trickled from his mouth.

The next day, they did it again. And the day after that. Brown became their entertainment, their release. A punching bag that wouldn’t break, no matter how hard they hit him. And the strange thing? They never went too far. They didn’t kill him, didn’t cripple him. Maybe it was pity, or maybe they were afraid to lose the one thing that gave them a sliver of joy in this place.

They laughed as they beat him, called him names, spat on him. Brown didn’t flinch. He never begged, never pleaded. He just took it, his face blank, his eyes staring somewhere beyond them. Somewhere they couldn’t reach.

But it wasn’t courage. No, courage has fire, and Brown had none. He was deflated, empty, like a puppet with its strings cut. Whatever he was before this place, it was gone now.

And yet, there was something about him. Something that made the others uneasy, even as they mocked him. Maybe it was the scars on his body, each one telling a story they didn’t understand. Maybe it was the way his gaze seemed to pierce through them, even when he wouldn’t meet their eyes. Or maybe it was the simple fact that no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t get a reaction out of him.

Whatever it was, it lingered, an unspoken tension in the air.

Because in this place, nothing stays buried forever.

Brown sat on his steel bed, his scarred, well-built frame hunched over as if trying to make himself smaller. His glazed-over eyes stared at the cracked floor, unseeing, unbothered. Around him, the noise of the prison droned on: shouts, laughter, the clanging of metal, and the ever-present hum of the screens mounted high on the walls.

The screens never stopped. They flickered with an endless stream of comments from the audience watching their twisted show. Messages scrawled in bright white text on a black background, each one tagged with the same mocking author: “Anonymous” followed by a meaningless number.

And none of them had anything good to say about Brown.

“Anonymous3421: This guy is such a waste of a character. Does he even do anything?”

“Anonymous5643: Punching bag alert! Lol.”

“Anonymous8923: Just kill him already. He’s boring as hell.”

“Anonymous1208: Freak. What’s with his eyes? Is he even alive?”

“Anonymous4789: Bet he cries himself to sleep. Pathetic.”

“Anonymous2345: A nopony. That’s what he is. No name, no life, no nothing.”

The comments scrolled endlessly, growing crueler as the hours dragged on. The other prisoners laughed when they saw the insults directed at Brown, pointing at the screens and nudging each other. Some even joined in the taunts, repeating the words aloud like a chant to try and get a rise out of him.

But Brown didn’t react. He never did.

He stayed where he was, his gaze unfocused, his expression unreadable. He didn’t flinch when the words “boring” or “freak” lit up the screen. He didn’t shift when prisoners shouted, “Hey, nopony! They’re talking about you!” from across the room. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even lift his head.

And that, perhaps, was what made them angrier.

The viewers hated him for being uninteresting. The prisoners hated him for not fighting back. But Brown? Brown didn’t seem to care what any of them thought. He let the insults wash over him like rain on stone, like they were never meant for him in the first place.

“Anonymous8888: Maybe he’s just waiting to die.”

“Anonymous9912: Nah, he’s too cowardly for that.”

“Anonymous0034: Somepony make this loser entertaining already.”

The words hung in the air, glowing harshly on the screens. But if they wanted a reaction, they wouldn’t get it from Brown. He stayed rooted to his bed, silent, a pony-shaped void where life and emotion used to be.

And still, the comments kept coming.

Brown’s eyes flicked to the screens, not out of interest, but because the rhythm of insults aimed at him had shifted. The comments moved away from “boring” and “nopony” and latched onto another name.

“Anonymous8743: Here she goes again. What a slut.”

“Anonymous4532: I fucking love Vicky! She’s the only reason I watch this garbage.”

“Anonymous2020: Can we get a camera closer? I can’t see her pussy properly.”

“Anonymous3456: That’s it, Vicky. Show them what you’re good for, bitch.”

“Anonymous9999: Just sent her a gift. Enjoy it, babe.”

Brown let out a slow, quiet exhale, his gaze lingering on the flickering text. He didn’t need to look far to know who they were talking about. Vicky.

Not her real name, of course. Nopony used their real names here unless they wanted the world outside to know what they’d become. Vicky had chosen her name—a sharp, confident sound that suited her better than most would admit. She was one of the few in this pit who had figured out how to thrive, or at least survive.

She didn’t do it with fists or fear. No, Vicky used something else: her body, her voice, her ability to make ponies—and viewers—forget for a moment where they were. Lust was her weapon, and she wielded it expertly.

The screens lit up again, detailing the latest “performance.” Somewhere in this prison, Vicky was putting on a show, and the audience couldn’t get enough.

“Anonymous4567: Best one yet. She knows how to work it.”

“Anonymous1111: Worth every bit. Somepony marry this broodmare.”

“Anonymous7890: She’s just a whore. But, like, a really good whore.”

“Anonymous9999: I donated a generous gift? Hope you likes it. It’s a long black one ;) Now thank me, bitch!”

Brown didn’t move or flinch. The gift—a black dildo, no doubt on its way to be delivered to her—was just another sick token from the twisted viewers who fed on this place’s misery. Vicky would take it, of course. She wasn’t stupid. She understood the game better than anypony, and she played it well.

He could almost hear her voice in his mind, sweet and sultry, dripping with the kind of confidence that made stallions forget themselves. “Thanks for the gift, boys.” she’d say, a knowing smile on her face. It was her way of staying alive, of staying relevant.

And it worked.

“Anonymous2233: She’s the queen slut of this prison. Nobody else even comes close.”

“Anonymous7456: You could learn a thing or two from her, Brown.”

The last comment earned a brief flicker of motion from Brown—a subtle shift of his head, barely noticeable. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. He returned to staring at the floor, ignoring the laughter of the other prisoners as they pointed at the screens.

Vicky was many things, but she was not boring. The audience loved her for it. Brown, on the other hand, remained what he’d always been: invisible, even when they were staring right at him.

And that was exactly how he preferred it.

The familiar scrape of footsteps against the concrete floor pulled Brown’s attention for the briefest moment. He didn’t look up, not even when a shadow fell across his cell doorway.

“Oi, you miserable cunt.” came the sharp voice, cutting through the static hum of the screens.

Leaning in the doorway was Irela. Her sharp green eyes bore into him with equal parts frustration and disgust. Her pale white coat, speckled with freckles, seemed to catch what little light the prison offered, and her short ginger pixie cut framed a scowl that had become all too familiar to Brown. She was wearing the same striped white and navy-blue jumpsuit as the rest of them—an extension of her no-nonsense demeanour.

“Get up.” she snapped, her accent turning the words into a command. “I’ve no patience fer yer bollocks today. On yer feet, now.”

Brown didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. He stayed seated in the corner, as still and lifeless as a statue.

“Don’t you feckin’ ignore me, Brown.” she growled, stepping into the cell. “Y’think I’m doin’ this fer the craic? No, I’m not. If I had me way, I’d let ye rot. But no, the boss says I’m stuck lookin’ after yer sorry arse. Says ye’ll starve yerself to death if I don’t drag ye to get food.”

This had been going on for weeks now. The boss of their block—one of the few who held any real power in the chaos of the prison—had decided Brown was worth keeping alive, for whatever reason. And that responsibility had been shoved onto Irela. To her great displeasure.

“Ye think I enjoy this?” she spat, her sharp eyes narrowing as she towered over him. “Takin’ care o’ some lifeless eejit who doesn’t even have the decency to tell me to feck off properly? Aye, don’t flatter yerself, Brown. This ain’t kindness. This is orders. Now, move.”

Brown’s head shifted slightly, just enough to acknowledge her presence. Slowly, with the kind of lethargy that bordered on defiance, he rose to his feet. He didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t say a word. He just stood there, waiting for her next command.

“’Bout time.” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with before I change me mind and leave ye here to starve. Not that ye’d feckin’ care, would ye?”

Brown didn’t respond. He never did. And, as much as it irritated her, Irela knew better than to expect anything else.

She turned sharply and began walking out of the cell, not bothering to see if he was following. She knew he would. He always did.

And so, like a ghost dragged by a leash, Brown followed her into the dim, chaotic halls of the prison.

The stench was everywhere. Blood, sex, piss, and shit—a suffocating cocktail that clung to the air, seeping into every crack and corner of the prison. It was almost normal now, so ingrained in the walls and in the minds of its inhabitants that no one flinched at it anymore. Not even Brown.

He followed Irela down the dim hallways of cells, her sharp footsteps echoing in the distance. Around them, life—or whatever passed for it in this hellhole—went on unabated. Prisoners lounged in their cells or leaned against the bars, their eyes predatory, their weapons barely hidden. Knives and pistols tucked into waistbands, liquor bottles passed between dirty hands, and smoke curling in the stale air.

This wasn’t a prison. Not really. It was a kingdom of the forgotten, ruled by chaos and desperation.

Brown’s glazed eyes shifted slightly as a sound caught his attention. A familiar sound—moaning, punctuated by quiet sobbing. It wasn’t unusual here, but something about it made his ears twitch.

He turned his head toward one of the cells as they passed. Inside, the scene was as grim as expected.

It’s was the new prisoner. Recent. A young unicorn filly, maybe nineteen or twenty, was pressed against the dirty mattress. Her light grey fur was marred with bruises, her dark blue eyes red and swollen from crying. Her mane—a soft blue with purple stripes—hung limply around her face, clinging to the sweat and tears. Her jumpsuit was sprawled on the floor, her naked body covered with more purple bruises.

“Please, stop.” she whimpered, her voice cracking. “Please…”

The stallion on top of her didn’t listen. He didn’t care.

Buster—a light blue unicorn with royal blue eyes and a mane tied back into a messy ponytail—moved with the brutal rhythm of somepony who had done this countless times, his erect cock penetrating the fragile filly over and over again. His laughter was low, guttural, as though her pain was little more than background noise to him. His quick thrusting stopped however, grunting as he pulled out, waves of his cum shooting on to her belly, her chest and her face, sperm mixing her her tears.

Brown’s steps didn’t falter. He didn’t pause, didn’t look twice. He had seen this before; mares and fillies being touched and raped. He would see it again.

“Oi, keep up.” Irela snapped, glancing back at him. Her sharp green eyes briefly flickered to the cell, her scowl deepening before she turned away. “Don’t need ye laggin’ behind.”

Brown obeyed, his pace steady as he followed her further down the hall. The mare’s cries faded into the background, replaced by the ever-present din of the prison.

As they turned another corner, Brown’s eyes caught sight of the corpse before the smell did. A stallion lay crumpled against the wall, his body soaked in a pool of blood that had long since stopped spreading. His jumpsuit, once white and navy blue, was now dark with stains, the fabric shredded around the chest where knife holes pierced through.

It was Crimson.

The crimson-maned, crimson-eyed stallion had been loud, cocky, and impossible to miss in this hellhole. His wide, unseeing eyes were locked open in shock, his jaw slack with blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Whatever he’d thought he was, whatever power he believed he held, it hadn’t saved him.

Brown’s gaze lingered for a moment, taking in the scene as Irela walked on without a glance. She didn’t even slow down.

The screens lit up again as the viewers reacted.

“Anonymous3457: Called it. That guy had it coming.”

“Anonymous5674: About damn time. Couldn’t stand that loudmouth.”

“Anonymous0034: Crimson dead? Meh. Who cares?”

“Anonymous9856: Damn, I kinda liked him. At least he made things interesting.”

“Anonymous2222: Should’ve happened ages ago. Dude didn’t know when to shut up.”

Brown’s expression didn’t change. He had seen this coming long before the viewers had. Crimson had a way of barking up the wrong tree, of pushing ponies too far. He always acted like he was untouchable, like he had power in this place. But power in this prison was fleeting. It didn’t matter how many ponies you had in your gang if half of them wanted you dead.

“Anonymous7888: Let’s be honest, we all knew this was how he’d go out.”

“Anonymous2234: Drama king finally bit it. Good riddance.”

Crimson had been a spark in this dark, chaotic pit. A spark that burned too bright, too fast, and eventually snuffed itself out. The prison didn’t mourn him. It didn’t stop for him. His death was just another beat in the endless rhythm of this twisted game.

Brown moved past the body without hesitation, his steps steady, his expression blank.

Irela didn’t even notice.

The cafeteria was a warzone dressed up as a communal space. The sound of muttering and chatter was drowned out by the occasional clash of metal, the thud of bodies hitting tables, and the sharp cries of pain. Blood smeared the cracked tiles beneath their boots, some of it fresh, some of it long dried and ignored.

A fight had broken out near the far corner, two stallions locked in a brutal brawl over what looked like half a loaf of bread. One had a jagged knife in his hand, the other wielded a chair leg as a club. The guards didn’t intervene. They never did. This wasn’t their domain. It belonged to the prisoners, and the prisoners’ rules were simple: survive, or don’t.

Nearby, a mare was slumped against the wall, clutching her side where a deep gash bled freely. A few others crowded around her—not to help, but to loot her pockets while she was too weak to resist.

The chaos was constant, but somehow there was an unspoken rhythm to it, a balance that kept the room from completely descending into anarchy. At least for now.

Irela walked through the madness like she owned the place, her sharp eyes scanning for the safest route to her table. Brown followed behind her without hesitation, his gaze steady and unfocused, as though the blood and violence around him were nothing more than a distant memory.

“Oi, keep up.” Irela snapped, not bothering to turn around as they navigated through the chaos. A fight spilled into their path—a stallion was shoved violently against the wall, his face already swelling from a punch—but Irela simply shoved him aside without missing a step.

Finally, they reached a table near the edge of the room. It wasn’t untouched by the chaos—bloodstains marred the wood, and a cracked tray sat discarded on one corner—but it was occupied by two familiar faces.

Irela dropped into the seat with a huff, gesturing for Brown to follow. “Sit yer arse down, before I lose me patience.”

The first was Geek, Irela’s younger brother.

He flinched as the sound of a chair smashing against a wall echoed nearby, his orange eyes darting nervously behind his glasses. He was a unicorn, pale white with a short ginger mane like Irela’s, though far less confident.

Next to him sat Z, a zebra who radiated calm amidst the chaos.

His black-and-white striped coat bore faint scars, each one a testament to the fights he’d survived. Z’s steady gaze met Brown’s for a moment before returning to scan the room, always watchful for trouble.

“Ye wouldn’t believe the shite we had to wade through to get here.” Irela muttered as she leaned back, grabbing a piece of stale bread off the table. “And for what? To babysit this feckin’ statue.”

Z raised an eyebrow. “He made it here in one piece.” he said, his tone neutral. “That’s more than some can say.”

Geek adjusted his glasses, his voice hesitant. “I mean… it could’ve been worse, right? At least he didn’t… y’know, just stop walking.”

“Wouldn’t’ve made a feckin’ difference if he did.” Irela snapped, tearing into the bread. “Dead weight, he is. A waste o’ my time.”

Brown sat down without a word, his movements slow and deliberate. He didn’t look at any of them, didn’t acknowledge the blood on the floor or the screams still echoing in the distance.

“Figures.” Irela muttered. “Not even a feckin’ thank you.”

Geek fidgeted nervously, his gaze flicking between Irela and Brown, while Z continued to watch the chaos around them with quiet intensity.

The stale bread in Irela’s hand cracked loudly as she tore off another piece, her sharp eyes darting between Geek and Z. “You know what’s funny?” she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “This shite’s gettin’ smaller every week. Soon they’ll have us fightin’ over crumbs like a bunch o’ rabid dogs. Feckin’ circus is what it is.”

“Circus?” Z replied, his deep voice calm as ever. “Pretty sure even a circus feeds their animals better than this.”

Geek stared nervously at the bread in his own hands, like it might vanish if he so much as blinked. “It’s deliberate.” he squeaked. “They’re… they’re trying to make us desperate. Hungry ponies are easier to control, right? Keep us on edge so we… y’know…”

“Kill each other for sport?” Irela finished with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes. “Aye, makes sense. Keeps the cameras rollin’. Bet the viewers love it, too. ‘Ooh, look at ‘em! Such desperate little rats!’” She mimed a dramatic gasp, then tossed her bread onto the table with disgust.

“Entertainment.” Z agreed, shrugging. “Desperation makes for good TV. Don’t expect the rations to get any bigger anytime soon.”

Geek’s face paled, though whether it was from the thought of less food or the blood-curdling scream from across the cafeteria, no one could tell. “It’s… it’s not fair.” he muttered, fidgeting with his glasses. “We’re not… we’re not animals.”

Irela snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, aye. Tell that to the lad over there with the knife in his ribs. Bet he’d love to hear it.”

That earned a chuckle from Z, though it was more a short exhale than anything resembling joy. “Speaking of knives… heard Crimson bit it.” he said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather.

“Crimson?” Geek’s voice cracked. “He’s… dead?”

“Dead as shite.” Irela confirmed with a grin, waving a hand as if she were presenting an exhibit. “Found ‘im not ten minutes ago, sprawled out like yesterday’s garbage. Poor bastard had more holes in him than this bread.”

Geek grimaced, clutching his bread a little tighter. “H-how?”

“Feck if I know.” Irela said with a shrug. “Ran his gob one time too many, I reckon. That lad made enemies like it was his bloody talent.”

Z smirked faintly. “Let’s just say he had a lot of ‘friends’ with knives.”

Geek looked like he might vomit, his pale fur somehow managing to get even whiter. “But… but Crimson was—”

“An arsehole.” Irela interrupted. “Loud, cocky, and about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. If ye ask me, he had it comin’.”

Z nodded. “Can’t say I’ll miss him. But he did keep things… interesting.”

“Interesting?” Irela barked out a laugh. “Aye, like a bloody train wreck is interesting. Good riddance.” She picked up her bread again, examining it with mock disgust. “Honestly, this bread’s got more personality than he ever did.”

Geek didn’t respond, his orange eyes darting nervously to Brown, who sat in silence, as unbothered by the conversation as he was by the chaos around them.

“What about you, Brown?” Geek asked hesitantly. “You… you saw him, didn’t you? I mean, when you and Irela—”

“Don’t bother.” Irela cut in, waving a hand. “He’s not gonna answer. Ye’d have more luck gettin’ a corpse to chat ye up. Right, Brown?” She leaned forward, her green eyes glinting with mock amusement. “Oh, wait. Maybe ye’re just practicin’ for when it’s your turn to end up like Crimson, eh? Eh?”

Brown didn’t flinch, didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge her existence.

“Feckin’ statue.” she muttered, leaning back again.

The conversation lulled until Z spoke up, his tone still calm but with an edge of curiosity. “Rumors are spreading.” he said. “About an escape plan.”

Geek’s eyes widened. “Escape? Like… an actual escape?!”

“Aye, sure.” Irela said with a dry laugh. “And maybe the moon’s made o’ cheese while we’re at it. What poor bastard’s dumb enough to try that shite?”

Z shrugged. “Don’t know. But ponies are talking. Supplies going missing, secret meetings… Could be nothing. Could be something.”

Geek leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You think it’s possible?”

Irela snorted. “Possible? Sure. Surviving it? Ha! Ye’d be better off wrappin’ yerself in bacon and jumpin’ into a pit o’ wolves.”

Z glanced at Brown. “And what about him? Think he’d survive an escape?”

Irela didn’t even bother looking at him. “Brown? Ha! He’d probably sit there and wait for the guards to shoot ‘im. Save ‘em the trouble.” She grinned darkly. “Might even thank ‘em for it.”

Geek fidgeted awkwardly. Z said nothing. And Brown? Brown stared at the table, as silent and immovable as ever.

Irela was in mid-bite when two furry arms wrapped around her shoulders from behind, pulling her into a tight embrace.

“Miss me, love?” came the cheerful, sing-song voice of Pup, a diamond dog with the markings of a Bernese mountain dog.

“Feckin’ Jaysus, Pup!” Irela spat, jerking back slightly, though she didn’t seem genuinely angry. “Will ye let me eat in peace fer once?”

“Never.” Pup replied with a grin, planting a playful kiss on the side of Irela’s head. “You’d starve without me to brighten your day.”

She let go, bounding around the table with the energy of somepony—or somedog—who had no right to look so happy in a place like this.

“Geek!” Pup chirped, stopping behind the pale unicorn. “My favorite bookworm!”

Geek winced, already bracing himself. “Pup, don’t—”

Too late. Pup reached down and tousled his ginger mane until it was a complete mess. “You need to loosen up.” she teased, ignoring his protests. “You’re gonna give yourself wrinkles, you know.”

“Stop it!” Geek whined, trying in vain to straighten his mane while pushing his glasses back into place.

Satisfied with her handiwork, Pup turned to Z, flashing him a sly grin. “And you, handsome.” she said, leaning over and blowing him a dramatic kiss. “Still watching our backs like the strong, silent hero you are?”

Z gave her a small, amused snort, his lips twitching in the closest thing to a smile he ever offered.

Finally, Pup turned her attention to Brown. Her tail wagged gently as she crouched to his level, her soft brown eyes searching his face. “And how’s our quiet boy today?”

Brown didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up. He stayed seated, staring at the table as if Pup wasn’t even there.

She sighed, her cheerful demeanour faltering for the briefest moment. “You know, you don’t have to be alone all the time, Brown. We’re here, you know?”

Brown’s eyes remained fixed on the cracked surface in front of him, but his thoughts stirred.

She smiles all the time. She laughs, teases, makes them forget where they are. She wants them to see her as innocent, untouched by this place.

But he knew better. He’d seen the cracks in her mask, the way her cheerful exterior slipped when she thought no one was looking. Pup was a survivor, like all of them, but her methods were different.

She went from cell to cell at night, offering herself to whoever would take her. Stallions. Mares. It didn’t matter. She traded her body for safety, for favours, for protection from those who might hurt her—or worse.

It wasn’t just rival gangs she had to worry about. Even within her own group, survival came with a price. And Pup paid it, night after night, hiding her shame behind that infectious smile.

She’s playing the game, Brown thought, his stomach tightening with pity he didn’t expect to feel. Doing whatever it takes to stay alive. And it’s killing her. Not her body—her.

He wondered if the others knew. Irela? Geek? Z? Did they see it, or were they too caught up in their own survival to notice?

Pup leaned closer to him, her smile soft and warm. “You don’t have to say anything.” she said gently. “Just… remember, you’re not alone, okay?”

She straightened up and moved to sit beside Z, her usual energy returning as quickly as it had faltered. “So, what are we talking about?” she asked brightly, tearing a piece off the bread Irela had abandoned.

The conversation around the table became a blur. Words passed back and forth—talk of food, Crimson’s death, whispers of escape—but none of it stuck. Brown’s eyes stared through the cracked table in front of him, his mind drifting.

He wasn’t thinking about the future. The future didn’t matter here. Survival wasn’t a plan; it was a moment-to-moment gamble. Nor was he thinking about the past, not the fragmented scraps of memory that lingered at the edges of his mind. Those were useless too.

Instead, his thoughts wandered aimlessly, unmoored from the chaos around him. Daydreams came and went, nonsensical and fleeting. Shapes and shadows, fragments of faces he couldn’t place, feelings with no context.

This was his state, his constant. A hollow name for a hollow existence. Brown. No past. No future. Just the present, stretched thin and colourless.

Voices around him rose and fell—Pup’s cheerful laughter, Irela’s biting sarcasm, Geek’s nervous muttering, and Z’s low, steady responses—but they were distant, muted.

Brown let them fade into the background, his gaze fixed on nothing, his thoughts fixed on less.

A dull thud pulled Brown from his haze. His eyes blinked slowly as he looked down at the tray of food placed in front of him. It was pitiful—just a single loaf of stale bread, cracked and dry—but in this place, it might as well have been gold.

Z was the one who’d set it down. He gave Brown a slow nod, his expression calm but firm, as if to say, This is yours. Eat it.

“Go on, then.” Irela barked, leaning forward with a glare. “Don’t make me feckin’ shove it down yer throat.”

Pup chimed in with a much softer tone, her tail wagging slightly. “You should eat, Brown. You’ve got to keep your strength up.” She nudged the tray gently toward him, her smile warm and encouraging.

Brown stared at the bread. He didn’t move at first, his gaze locked on the dry, cracked surface as if it might disappear.

“Come on.” Irela pressed, her irritation mounting. “Don’t just feckin’ sit there. Eat it, or I’ll make ye regret wastin’ me time.”

Pup gave her a playful shove. “You’re not helping.” she said before turning her attention back to Brown. “It’s okay. Just a little bite, alright?”

Brown didn’t respond. He sat motionless, his thoughts an empty void once more. But his stomach twisted, a sharp reminder that it had been far too long since he’d last eaten.

Eventually, hunger won. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and picked up the loaf. The bread was harder than he expected, the edges sharp against his hand. He hesitated for a moment, then brought it to his mouth and took a bite.

The dry, flavourless lump scraped against his throat as he swallowed, but it filled the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

“See?” Pup said brightly, her smile widening. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Irela rolled her eyes, leaning back in her seat. “Bout feckin’ time.”

Z gave a small, approving nod, saying nothing.

Brown didn’t react. He took another bite, chewing slowly, mechanically. The bread didn’t taste like anything, but it was something. And in this place, that was enough.

The low hum of the cafeteria was suddenly interrupted by a sharp, familiar notification sound. The noise echoed through the room, turning heads, including Brown’s. He glanced up at the nearest TV screen mounted on the wall, where the bright, garish “Death Screen” lit up.

A blood-splattered image of a unicorn stallion faded into view, his face a mixture of shock and agony. The entire screen redded out as the image froze, accompanied by a scrolling line of anonymous comments from the viewers.

“Anonymous3423: Finally! That guy was fucking annoying.”

“Anonymous5544: Damn, that was brutal! Did you see his neck?!”

“Anonymous8787: Called it! Just won 100 bits! I’m rich bitches! Told you he wouldn’t last this week!”

“Anonymous1221: RIP, I guess. Not like he’ll be missed.”

“Anonymous9876: Richie, good work. That was a show!”

The text scrolled endlessly, each comment either mocking the dead stallion or revelling in the violence. Brown’s dull gaze lingered on the screen for a moment before he turned to look toward the scene in the cafeteria.

Sure enough, the unicorn lay lifeless on the cold floor not far from where the fight had erupted earlier. Blood spread in a slow, viscous pool beneath him, staining the tiles as his chest and neck bore the unmistakable marks of a knife—multiple stab wounds, quick and savage.

The stallion had been fighting over bread earlier, his desperation turning violent. It was clear now that his opponent hadn’t just won the fight; they’d ended it.

“Ha! Good riddance.” Irela barked out, grinning as she leaned back in her chair. “One less mouth to feed, eh?”

Pup frowned, her ears lowering slightly, but she said nothing. Z barely reacted, his gaze flicking briefly to the body before returning to his meal. Geek, meanwhile, looked like he was going to be sick.

Brown’s eyes remained on the lifeless body for a moment longer before drifting back to the TV. The comments kept coming, a mixture of celebration and casual indifference.

“Anonymous4567: That was quick. Didn’t even last through lunch.”

“Anonymous3344: Who’s next? Crimson already bit the dust, and now Fury? This is getting good.”

“Anonymous1122: Bet 50 bits it’s one of the stripys are next. Easy money.”

The sound of laughter and conversation returned to the cafeteria, as if nothing had happened. For Brown, the scene felt almost normal now—death, blood, and the sickening spectacle of it all.

He took another bite of his stale bread, the act mechanical and devoid of thought. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how many more names would flash on that screen before the week was over.

Suddenly, Brown’s head slammed against the steel table, the sharp clang echoing through the cafeteria. His vision blurred, the room spinning around him. He didn’t need to see to know who it was—he’d felt this kind of attack too many times to forget.

It was Richie.

“Miss me, Brownie?” Richie’s mocking voice was thick with cruel glee as his magic kept Brown’s head pinned to the table. “Thought you’d get through a meal in peace? Not on my watch.”

Richie was one of many who used Brown as a punching bag, a tool to vent his frustrations. His voice carried a cruel edge, and his presence always brought trouble. His grey horn was no longer grey from his recent ordeal, his horn covered in Fury’s blood from his recent fight before, his horn used to penetrate as much as he used it to perform magic.

Brown didn’t respond, didn’t resist. His body stayed limp as Richie dragged his head back by his mane before slamming it down again.

“Always so quiet.” Richie sneered. “Let’s see if we can’t change that, huh?”

The next thing Brown felt was his collar tightening around his neck as another set of hands yanked him backward. His body hit the floor hard, and a sharp grunt escaped his lips. This was no denying that strength.

It was Hunt.

“Still breathing?” Hunt’s cold voice was a low growl. The earth pony stood over him, his icy blue eyes devoid of anything resembling compassion. “Let’s fix that.”

Hunt’s foot came down hard on Brown’s chest, driving the air out of his lungs in a pained wheeze. Brown’s body tensed as another kick connected with his ribs, then his stomach.

Richie stepped in, his horn glowing as he yanked Brown up to his boots with his magic. Brown’s legs wobbled, barely holding him upright before Richie’s hand crashed into his face. The force of the blow snapped Brown’s head to the side, blood spraying from his mouth as he stumbled but didn’t fall.

“Hold him steady.” Richie ordered, laughing as Hunt stepped in, gripping Brown by the mane to keep him upright.

“Not much fight in this one.” Hunt muttered before driving a brutal punch into Brown’s gut. Brown doubled over, only for Hunt to yank him back upright and deliver a headbutt that split his brow open.

Blood streamed down Brown’s face, dripping onto the floor in steady droplets. His body swayed, barely upright, but he didn’t make a sound.

“Nothing to say, huh?” Richie mocked, stepping forward to drive a fist into Brown’s side. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Brown finally collapsed, crumpling to the floor in a heap. But Richie wasn’t done. He loomed over Brown’s curled-up form, his horn glowing again as he lifted Brown just enough to send another brutal kick into his side.

“Oi, leave him alone!” Pup’s voice rang out, sharp and panicked as she shot to her feet. Her ears were pinned back, and her usual cheerful expression was replaced by pure anger. “Stop it!”

Irela slammed a hand on the table, her green eyes narrowing. “Pup, sit. Down.”

Pup froze, her wide eyes darting between Irela and the scene in front of her. “But—”

“I said, sit down!” Irela barked. “Ye know the feckin’ rules! Ye get involved, and they’ll just turn on ye next. Ye want that?!”

Reluctantly, Pup sank back into her seat, her hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table. Her tail hung low, and her eyes stayed glued to Brown as tears pricked at the corners.

Richie and Hunt ignored her. Hunt grabbed Brown by the neck, dragging him back to his boots with little effort. “Still standing, huh?” Hunt muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Richie grinned, stepping forward to land a punch square on Brown’s jaw. “Barely.”

The blow sent Brown sprawling back to the floor, his blood smearing across the cold surface. His breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

Above it all, the prison’s screens was alive, drawing the attention of those who still cared to look. The anonymous comments rolled in, each one reacting to the unfolding brutality:

“Anonymous3457: Beat his ass!”

“Anonymous2223: Why’s he even still alive? He’s useless.”

“Anonymous9991: Kill him already. Seriously, just end it.”

“Anonymous4512: Boring. Make him scream or something.”

“Anonymous7803: This guy’s so pathetic it’s almost funny.”

“Anonymous6678: I’ll bet 20 bits he won’t last the week.”

Richie caught sight of the comments out of the corner of his eye and grinned. “Hear that, Brownie? Even the crowd thinks you’re a waste of space.”

Hunt’s cold blue eyes flicked briefly to the screen, his expression unchanged. “They’ve got a point. Why don’t we just finish him off?”

“Anonymous3334: DO IT!”

“Anonymous0101: End him already. We’re sick of watching this punching bag.”

But Richie shook his head, his grin widening. “Nah, not yet. This is too much fun.” He stomped on Brown’s side, eliciting a faint grunt. “You hear that, Brown? They want you dead, but we’re gonna keep you alive. For now.”

The comments kept rolling in, the viewers as bloodthirsty as the prisoners:

“Anonymous8888: Drag it out. He’s more useful as entertainment.”

“Anonymous4545: If they kill him, what am I supposed to watch tomorrow?”

“Anonymous6868: Beat him until he can’t move. Then let him rot.”

Hunt snorted, glancing at Richie. “What do you think? One more for good measure?”

Richie’s grin widened. “Oh, we’re not done yet.”

The assault on Brown was interrupted by the cocky strut of Green Riot, his green coat and streaked brown-and-green mane standing out even in the dimly lit cafeteria.

His punkish swagger carried him over like this was a casual meeting, his smirk wide and unbothered by the bloody mess on the floor.

“Well, look at this!” Green Riot exclaimed, tilting his head as he approached the scene. “Brownie’s gettin’ his daily massage, huh?”

Richie grinned, wiping a smear of blood from his hand. “You want in? Plenty of room for one more.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Green Riot pulled a makeshift knife from the folds of his striped jumpsuit. The blade, jagged and crude, reflected the dull light as he knelt down beside Brown. His wings twitched with anticipation, his grin widening as he studied the broken stallion beneath him.

“Hmm.” he mused, tapping the tip of the knife against Brown’s scarred side. “What do you boys think? Should I take an ear? Or maybe carve out a nice chunk of his flank? He’s not much use for it anyway.”

The knife’s edge bit shallowly into Brown’s flesh, drawing a thin line of blood. Green Riot’s eyes glinted with amusement as he pressed the blade slightly deeper, just enough to make Brown’s muscles twitch involuntarily.

Before he could take it any further, a single barked word sliced through the chaos like a knife through flesh.

“Stop.”

The voice was deep, guttural, and carried a weight that froze everypony in place. Even Hunt and Richie, who had been grinning moments before, went rigid.

Jaws had arrived.

The massive rottweiler diamond dog entered the scene, his sheer size and presence enough to make even the most hardened prisoners shrink back. His black armoured vest clung to his massive frame, a stark contrast to the tattered striped jumpsuits around him. But it wasn’t just his size or his cold, calculating eyes that made everypony fear him.

It was the M240 machine gun slung casually over his shoulder.

The cafeteria fell silent as Jaws stepped into view, his massive frame dominating the space. The weight of his presence alone was enough to smother any lingering noise, but the viewers didn’t hesitate.

The screens had a fresh wave of comments, each one reflecting the audience’s mix of fear, awe, and excitement:

“Anonymous1234: Oh shit, it’s Jaws! Best part of the show!”

“Anonymous6789: The big dog’s here. Things are about to get good.”

“Anonymous1122: Jaws with the M240. ICONIC.”

“Anonymous4532: PLEASE use the gun! Light this place up!”

“Anonymous7777: Finally, some real fucking action. Show them why you’re the boss!”

“Anonymous9999: Jaws is my favourite. Nobody comes close.”

The comments kept rolling, the viewers growing louder in their demands:

“Anonymous1212: Use the gun! Come on, we want to see some carnage!”

“Anonymous3434: RIP to whoever pisses him off today.”

“Anonymous0101: Jaws is the only reason I watch this crap. King.”

“Anonymous5454: MAKE HIM USE THE GUN! LIGHT ‘EM UP!”

Jaws stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing like gunshots in the now-silent cafeteria. His dark eyes scanned the scene, taking in Brown’s battered form, the blood pooling beneath him, and the knife in Green Riot’s hand.

“What did I say?” Jaws growled, his voice low and venomous. “Make him suffer, not kill him.”

Richie and Hunt immediately stepped back, their laughter dying in their throats. Green Riot, however, didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation—or maybe he just didn’t care.

“Aw, come on, Jaws.” Green Riot said, his tone light but strained. “We’re just having a bit of fun. No harm in—”

“Shut. Up.”

The words were spoken softly, but the menace behind them was deafening. Jaws’s glare could have stopped a charging manticore, and Green Riot finally faltered, his cocky grin slipping.

Jaws didn’t wait. He closed the distance in two strides, his massive hand lashing out with bone-crushing force. The impact sent Green Riot sprawling to the floor, his head snapping back as blood sprayed from his nose and mouth. The pegasus groaned, clutching at his face as he struggled to push himself up.

But Jaws wasn’t finished.

The M240 came off his shoulder with a practiced ease, the deadly weapon gleaming as he levelled it at the downed pegasus. Green Riot barely managed to lift his head before the first deafening burst of gunfire tore through the air.

Bullets ripped into Green Riot’s body, shredding flesh and bone with horrifying precision. Blood sprayed in all directions, painting the walls, the floor, and even the nearby tables. The cacophony of gunfire drowned out everything else, the sheer brutality of the act leaving the entire room paralysed.

When the barrage finally stopped, what remained of Green Riot was barely recognizable—a mangled heap of blood and gore soaking into the cracked tiles.

Green Riot is dead…

“Anonymous6666: There it is! The beast is out!”

“Anonymous8765: THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!”

“Anonymous4444: RIP Green Riot loooooooooooool.”

“Anonymous2323: Jaws is untouchable. Bow down.”

Jaws stood over the body, his expression unreadable as he slung the smoking machine gun back over his shoulder. His dark eyes scanned the room, daring anypony to challenge him.

“Let this be a reminder.” Jaws said coldly, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. “If anyone doesn’t fear me, you die, if anyone dares to speak back, you die, if anyone thinks about stepping out of line or break an order, you die.”

At their table, Pup shivered violently, her hands clenched into fists as tears streamed down her face, her tail tucked between her legs. In front of her, Geek’s trembling hands clutched the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white, his glasses slipping down his nose.

Z, ever the pragmatist, kept his gaze firmly down, his body still and nonthreatening. He knew better than to attract attention in moments like this.

And Irela? She tore another piece of stale bread and chewed it slowly, her disinterest in the carnage as sharp as the violence itself.

As for Brown, he remained motionless on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, his battered body a silent testament to the endless brutality of this hellhole.

Richie and Hunt fell in behind Jaws like obedient hounds, leaving Brown crumpled and bleeding on the floor. Each step the massive rottweiler took was heavy, deliberate, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over the cafeteria.

Jaws didn’t have far to go. His predatory eyes scanned the room, but they quickly locked onto Pup, sitting stiffly at her table. Her usual playful demeanour was gone, replaced by a quiet, tense stillness. Her wide, frightened eyes snapped downward to the bread on her plate, as if avoiding his gaze might make her invisible.

But Jaws wasn’t one to ignore what he wanted.

He came to a stop behind her, towering over her seat, his breath heavy as his gaze lingered. “Pup.” he said, his tone thick with feigned politeness. “How’re we doing today, love?”

Before she could answer, his massive hand reached down through her jumpsuit, gripping one of her breasts with rough familiarity. The bulge in his pants pressed firmly against her back as he leaned closer, rubbing it slowly, his voice lowering to a suggestive growl. “Been thinking about you.”

Pup’s body tensed under his touch, her breathing shallow. “L-Later.” she said, her voice trembling but steady enough to form words. “We can… we can do it later. I’m eating right now.”

Jaws chuckled, his hand squeezing her breast slightly, his other hand sliding lower, tracing the curve of her side. “You’re shaking.” he muttered, his tone oddly soft for some dog so predatory. “I’m sorry, darling. Didn’t mean to upset you. Killing that punk just now… it was something I had to do, you understand, right?”

His hand moved lower, groping her ass with a possessive grip. “Come on, let me calm you down.” he purred, his voice deceptively soothing. “We’ll head to my cell. Just you and me. I’ll make it all better.”

Pup’s tail flicked nervously as she pressed her trembling hands to the table, her voice still shaky but steady enough to respond. “I… I want to eat first.” she said, her words careful, measured. “Then… then I’ll meet you. Okay?”

Jaws’s grip tightened slightly, and his tone darkened with irritation. “Eat? This shit?” He gestured dismissively at the stale bread on her plate. “Why are you even eating this garbage? You could be eating clean food in my cell. Real food. Not expired crap like this.”

His eyes flicked toward the others at the table—Geek, who sat frozen in terror, Z, who was carefully avoiding Jaws’s gaze, and Irela, who remained unconcerned as she chewed her bread. “And why are you sitting with these weaklings? They can’t protect you. They’re dead weight, Pup. You know that.”

Pup swallowed hard, forcing herself to look up at him. Her wide, frightened eyes softened, and she managed a calm, careful smile. Her hand reached up to his face, gently stroking his lower jaw with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Let me eat first.” she said, her tone shifting to something sultry, steady, and calculated. “Then I’ll come to your cell. And my body… it will be all yours to do as you wish, my big boy~.”

The tension in Jaws’s posture eased slightly, his irritation giving way to a low, rumbling chuckle. “That’s more like it.” he muttered, his hand finally releasing her. “I like it when you talk like that.”

He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, darling.”

With that, Jaws straightened, his towering figure still looming over the table. He didn’t leave, didn’t move, but the pressure of his presence remained heavy and suffocating.

But a much more heavier presence just arrived.

The cafeteria had begun to settle back into its grim routine, the bloodstains and tension just another part of daily life in the prison. But then, another presence entered the room, one that made even the most hardened criminals shift uncomfortably in their seats.

It was just a pony at first glance. Black fur, no horns or wings, nothing that should have set him apart. But there was something about him. The way he walked, carefree and casual, his hands clasped behind his back. The way his piercing red eyes scanned the room, sharp and playful, as though he was in on a joke that no one else knew.

And then there was his smile. It wasn’t wide or overtly threatening. It was small, calm, and utterly confident. The kind of smile that said, I don’t need to try because I’ve already won.

This was The Boss.

The room seemed to shrink around him as he walked further in, his steps unhurried, almost lazy. He didn’t carry a weapon, didn’t bark orders, didn’t even look like he belonged in the chaos of this place. And yet, his presence was heavier than the air after Jaws’s rampage.

Even Jaws stepped aside slightly, his hulking frame stiffening as The Boss passed by, the rottweiler’s cold eyes flickering with a trace of respect—and fear.

The screens in the cafeteria flickered again, lighting up with a flurry of comments as the viewers took notice of the figure.

“Anonymous0078: Oh shit, it’s him. The Boss is here.”

“Anonymous4590: You mean that guy? The black pony with the creepy eyes?”

“Anonymous3331: Hah, even Jaws looks nervous. What a pussy.”

“Anonymous8743: I saw this guy kill a dragon once. With ease. No joke.”

“Anonymous1245: Yeah, he’s a psychopath. Like, real deal. Doesn’t even blink when he’s killing.”

“Anonymous8263: Jaws > The Boss!”

“Anonymous9876: Nah, you’re all cowards. He’s just a pony. What’s he gonna do, smile me to death?”

“Anonymous4093: :0”

“Anonymous4455: Say that again when you’re in the same room as him. I dare you.”

“Anonymous1147: Dude’s got the whole room on edge. Look at them! No one’s even breathing.”

Finally, he stopped in the centre of the room, his voice breaking the tense silence like a knife through flesh.

“Good evening, everypony.” he said lightly, almost cheerfully. “I trust you’re all behaving?”

His words hung in the air, carrying a weight that shouldn’t have been possible with such a calm, casual tone.

The room was silent, the tension almost suffocating, as The Boss continued his stroll leisurely through the cafeteria. His red eyes scanned the room with sharp, playful interest, his hands clasped neatly behind his back as if he were on a casual evening stroll. Every step he took was deliberate, his carefree smile never faltering as he inspected the prisoners.

He nodded occasionally, as though approving or acknowledging their presence, even waving to the corner camera that streamed everything to the viewers. “Hello there, folks.” he said with a cheerful lilt. “Hope you’re all enjoying the show. I know I am.”

His attention drifted upward, locking on the screens displaying the scrolling comments. He chuckled, his rich voice speaking. “Anonymous this, anonymous that… You folks crack me up. Keep it up—I do love an audience.”

His pace slowed as he glanced down, his smile fading ever so slightly. At his feet lay the mangled, bullet-riddled corpse of Green Riot, blood pooling in thick, sticky rivers around the body. The Boss crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees as he inspected the mess.

“Tsk, tsk.” he tutted, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “What a damn shame.” He looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with Jaws. “Now, big guy, you mind explainin’ to me why in the sweet name of Tartarus you wasted all that ammo… on one pony?”

Jaws stiffened, his massive frame seeming to shrink under The Boss’s gaze. “I—uh—he was mouthing off—”

“Mouthing off?” The Boss interrupted, raising an eyebrow as if Jaws had just said something profoundly stupid. “Mouthing off. That’s your excuse? You do know you’ve got these things called hands, right?” He held up one of his own for emphasis. “With these, you can do something called ‘snapping a neck.’ Quick, quiet, efficient.”

Jaws sputtered, his composure slipping. “I—I just thought—”

“Uh-uh, no thinking for you.” The Boss said, wagging a finger as he stood up. “Thinking’s my job, remember?” He turned and began pacing around the corpse, his tone shifting to one of exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Now, let’s play a little game. I was down at the other end of the prison, havin’ a lovely evening with my wives, when I heard this bang bang bang.” He mimicked the sound of gunfire with a grin. “So I ask myself, ‘Where’s that coming from?’ And then it hits me: Jaws. My dear, lovable Jaws, throwing himself a goddamn fireworks show.”

He spun on his heel to face Jaws again, his grin sharpening. “Now, let me ask you this, buddy: If I heard it, who else do you think heard it? Hmm? Unity? The Blood Pact? Are pesky little rivals of ours? You are practically sending them an invitation to fuck us. Oh, and let’s not forget good ol’ Celestia up in her shiny palace. Oh, she must of heard that and thought ‘hmm, Jaws must be cranking out the good old machine gun again!’”

Jaws’s ears flattened, his normally fearsome presence reduced to a chastised pup under The Boss’s tirade.

“And for what?” The Boss continued, gesturing dramatically to the corpse. “For this! You emptied how many rounds into this sack of meat? Let’s count, shall we? One, two… Hell, I lost track after six.”

The Boss crouched again, this time grabbing Jaws by the back of his armoured vest and pulling him down toward Green Riot’s body. “Here’s what you’re gonna do.” he said, his tone dangerously sweet. “You’re gonna apologise. To him.”

Jaws’s eyes widened. “W-what?”

“You heard me.” The Boss said, his grin widening. “Go on, say it. ‘Sorry for wasting bullets on you when I could’ve just snapped your neck.’”

Jaws hesitated, his jaw clenching.

“Say it.” The Boss repeated, his voice dropping into something colder, sharper.

Jaws finally relented, his voice gruff and reluctant. “Sorry for wasting bullets on you when I could’ve just snapped your neck.”

“Good!” The Boss clapped his hands, his smile returning. Then, he tilted his head. “Now say it like you mean it.”

Jaws swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. “I’m… sorry for wasting bullets on you when I could’ve just snapped your neck.”

The Boss released him, standing back up with an air of satisfaction. “See? Wasn’t that hard, was it?”

As he turned to leave, he paused, glancing back at Jaws with a playful smirk. “Oh, and don’t forget—we’ve got an auction coming up soon. Get yourself ready. I’m feelin’ giddy about all the new ponies we’re gonna bring in.”

With that, he walked off, his hands clasped behind his back once more, his presence leaving the room heavy with fear and humiliation.

Jaws stood slowly, his massive frame rising from the blood-streaked floor. His jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack, his face twisted with barely restrained fury. His dark eyes swept the room, every prisoner averting their gaze as if his anger might strike them next.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ALL LOOKING AT?!” Jaws barked, his booming voice echoing through the cafeteria. The silence that followed was absolute.

No one dared to meet his eyes.

No one, except Pup.

Jaws’s gaze landed on her, and she stiffened immediately, her trembling hands clutching the edge of the table. He pointed a clawed finger at her, his voice dripping with venom. “Tonight.”

Pup nodded quickly, understanding exactly what he meant. She didn’t say a word, her wide, frightened eyes locked on the table in front of her.

With one last sweep of the room, Jaws turned on his heel and marched toward the exit, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. Hunt and Richie followed close behind him, their expressions carefully neutral, like they didn’t want to risk drawing any more of his ire.

As the cafeteria doors slammed shut behind them, the room seemed to exhale collectively. The tension lifted, and everypony began breathing a little easier, the oppressive weight of Jaws’s presence finally gone.

Irela was the first to break the silence, her voice low and dry. “Well, that was feckin’ intense.” She tore another bite off her bread, chewing slowly as if she were commenting on the weather.

Pup sprawled across the table, letting out a long, shaky sigh. Her heart was still pounding, and she clutched her chest as if trying to calm herself down. “I swear, one of these days he’s gonna kill me.” she muttered, her voice tinged with both fear and frustration. “And now I’ve gotta fuck him tonight. Great.”

Z, who had kept his gaze firmly down throughout the ordeal, finally looked up, his expression calm but with a faint edge of amusement. “You’re doing better than most.” he said matter-of-factly. “Four months in, and you haven’t been stabbed yet. That’s impressive.”

Pup shot him a glare, but there was no real anger behind it. “Gee, thanks, Z. That’s real comforting.”

Meanwhile, Irela finished the last of her bread and stood up, dusting off her hands. Her sharp green eyes turned toward Brown, who was still lying motionless on the floor, blood trickling down his face.

“For feck’s sake.” she muttered, stepping over to him. She grabbed him by the collar of his jumpsuit and hoisted him up with little effort, dragging him back to his seat. “Sit yer arse down, Brown. Don’t need ye lyin’ around makin’ the place look worse than it already does.”

Brown groaned weakly as she shoved him into the chair, his head lolling slightly as blood dripped from a split lip and a gash on his brow.

The screens overhead flickered, the viewers’ comments rolling in like clockwork.

“Anonymous4567: Damn, Jaws is pissed. I’d hate to be Pup right now.”

“Anonymous1234: LOL, did you see that? Brown looks like he’s one hit away from death.”

“Anonymous9876: I swear, that dog is gonna explode one day. Somepony should kill him already.”

“Anonymous2222: Nah, Jaws is the bes. Dude’s a legend.”

“Anonymous3445: I wish I could fuck Pup’s cunt, she has the best moans!”

“Anonymous2222: Best*”

“Anonymous5555: Brown’s like a zombie at this point. How is he not dead?”

Irela smirked at the comments, her sharp laugh cutting through the room. “They’re not wrong about ye, Brown.” she said, patting him roughly on the shoulder. “Yer like a feckin’ cockroach. Tough to kill, but not much else.”

Brown didn’t respond. He sat silently, his glazed eyes staring at the table in front of him, his bloodied body slumped in the chair like a broken doll.

Pup glanced at him, her expression softening slightly. “He shouldn’t have to deal with this.” she murmured, almost to herself.

Irela scoffed. “None o’ us should, but here we are.” She grabbed another piece of bread and tore into it, her focus already shifting back to her meal.

The cafeteria slowly returned to its grim normalcy, but the shadow of what had just happened lingered over the group, each of them feeling the weight of it in their own way.

Pup pushed herself up from her slouched position, her eyes still on Brown. The stallion was slumped in his seat, blood dripping steadily from the gash on his brow. With a determined breath, she walked around the table and knelt beside him, pulling a small packet of tissues from her jumpsuit pocket.

“Hold still.” she whispered softly, pulling out a tissue and carefully folding it. She pressed it gently against the bleeding wound on his head, her hand steady despite the tremble in her voice. “It’s going to be okay, Brown.” she murmured, her tone soothing, almost maternal.

Across the table, Irela snorted loudly. “Bullshite.” she muttered, tearing off another piece of bread. “Don’t lie to the lad. Ain’t nothin’ gonna be okay in this place.”

Pup shot her a sharp glare, her usually warm expression hardening for a moment. “Could you maybe, for once, not make it worse?” she snapped, her voice low but firm.

Irela shrugged, her green eyes glinting with indifference. “Just bein’ real. Lies don’t help anypony, least of all him.”

Ignoring her, Pup turned back to Brown, her voice softening again. “Come on.” she said, helping him to his feet with surprising gentleness. “Let’s get you to The Doctor. He’ll fix you up.”

Brown didn’t resist, his body moving almost mechanically as she led him away from the table. The cafeteria watched them for a moment, a few murmurs rippling through the crowd before the dull roar of conversation resumed.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Geek adjusted his glasses nervously, glancing at his sister. “Do you really have to be so… harsh with him?” he asked hesitantly. “I mean… maybe you could give him a break.”

Irela raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching into a humorless smile. “A break? What good’s that gonna do? Ye think he’s suddenly gonna perk up and start singin’ songs?”

“Better to be real.” Z interjected, his deep voice steady. “False hope’s dangerous in a place like this. Gets ponies killed.”

Geek sighed, his gaze drifting back to where Pup and Brown had disappeared. “I just… I don’t know. It’s hard to watch.”

“Then don’t.” Irela said bluntly, popping the last of her bread into her mouth. She chewed slowly, her green eyes scanning the room before she leaned back in her chair. “Better him than us. Remember that.”

Z gave a slow nod of agreement, his attention already returning to the chaotic hum of the cafeteria. Geek slumped in his seat, fiddling nervously with the edge of his glasses, but he didn’t argue further. Irela was brutal but, she knew better, he just hated that she was always right about everything.

And with that, the group fell into silence, the weight of the day pressing down on them like a familiar, unwelcome friend.

The trek to The Operating Room was a gauntlet of degradation and suffering. Brown stumbled again, his boots dragging against the cold floor as Pup struggled to keep him upright. The stallion’s weight pressed heavily against her side, forcing her to take short, unsteady steps.

“Come on, Brown.” she whispered, her tone gentle but firm. “Just a little further, okay? Stay with me.”

Brown didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to hear her. His glazed eyes stared blankly ahead, his breaths shallow and uneven.

The jeers started as they turned a corner.

“Well, well, look at this.” sneered a scruffy stallion leaning against a cell door. His grin was wide and toothy, his eyes lingering far too long on Pup. “Little Pup’s got herself a project.”

Another prisoner, a bulky mare with a chipped tooth, laughed from the shadows. “Careful, Pup. You keep dragging that deadweight around, you’ll trip and fall right into my lap.”

Pup ignored them, her jaw tightening as she adjusted her grip on Brown. But it didn’t stop there.

A sharp slap landed on her rear, making her flinch.

“Nice ass.” a voice snickered behind her. She didn’t turn around, didn’t look at the stallion who had done it. She couldn’t afford to.

“Bet Jaws ain’t the only one she’s got lined up.” another called, his laughter crude and loud.

Somepony tugged at her tail, and she stumbled slightly, her cheeks burning as the mockery followed her like a shadow.

“Keep walking.” she muttered under her breath, her voice tight.

A younger stallion leaned out of his cell, his grin as sharp as a knife. “Aw, don’t ignore us, Pup. We just wanna say hi. You’re gonna hurt our feelings!”

Her steps quickened, her focus narrowing to the heavy metal door ahead.

“Not worth it.” she whispered to herself. “Just keep moving.”

By the time they reached The Operating Room, her patience was frayed, her hands trembling slightly as she pushed the door open.By the time they reached the heavy metal door of The Operating Room, her patience was worn thin, her tail twitching in agitation. She pushed the door open, guiding Brown inside, and immediately froze at the sight before her.

The stench of blood hit her first—a metallic tang that clung to the air like a suffocating fog. Then her eyes fell on the table in the centre of the room.

The corpse of Crimson lay splayed open, his chest and belly carved wide, his organs exposed in a grotesque display.

The Doctor, a tall light grey pegasus, stood over the body, his gloved hands working with precise, almost delicate movements. His surgical gown was splattered with blood, and his bouffant-style cap and face mask made him look more like a butcher than a healer.

In one hand, he held a scalpel, expertly removing organs and placing them into clear plastic bags filled with water. Each bag was carefully labeled, the contents floating like grotesque trophies.

As the door creaked open, The Doctor looked up, his sharp, calculating eyes locking onto Pup. His expression shifted to one of pleasant surprise, though his scalpel slipped slightly in the process.

A jet of blood shot out from the corpse, splattering across his gown and mask. He cursed loudly in his native tongue, his voice rising with irritation. “Ach! Scheiße! Zis damned body! Always vith ze surprises!”

Despite the mishap, his expression brightened as he stepped away from the table, pulling down his bloodied mask to reveal a broad, unsettling grin.

“Ah, Pup!” he exclaimed, his thick accent dripping with cheer. “Vat a vonderful surprise! Mein favourite flesh of organs, you alvays brighten up my vorkspace.”

Pup’s ears pinned back, her eyes widening at the nickname. “Please… don’t call me that.” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

But The Doctor either didn’t hear her or didn’t care. He gestured grandly to the table, where Crimson’s empty eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, his mouth frozen in a silent scream.

“Come in, come in!” The Doctor said enthusiastically. “Ignore ze mess. Crimson is… how do you say… kaputt, ja? But I still have use for him.” He held up one of the plastic bags, the pale lump of a kidney floating inside. “Fresh organs, Pup! Zese vill keep for days!”

Pup swallowed hard, her stomach turning. “It’s not me.” she said quickly, nodding toward Brown, who leaned heavily against her. “He’s hurt. Badly.”

The Doctor’s grin widened, his sharp eyes flicking to Brown. “Ah, ze quiet vone.” he said, his voice filled with fascination. “You are alvays so… stoic. A fascinating specimen, truly.”

He gestured to the bloodied table with an eager wave. “Bring him here! Ve vill patch him up in no time. Or, at ze very least, make him less… dead-looking, ja?”

Pup hesitated, glancing at Crimson’s dissected body. “There’s no… other place?” she asked weakly.

The Doctor laughed, the sound unnerving. “Nein! Zis table is efficient! Ve vill share ze space. Crimson does not mind.”

Pup’s hands tightened on Brown’s arm, her heart pounding as she guided him forward.

The Doctor clapped his hands together, his grin never faltering. “Good, good! Now, let us see vhat ve can do. I promise, Pup—your friend vill not become… how do you say… leftovers. Not today, anyway!”

Pup watched as The Doctor hummed softly to himself, the tune light and whimsical, completely out of place amidst the blood and carnage. His gloved hands worked with precision, stitching up Brown’s battered body with the same calm efficiency he had shown while dissecting Crimson.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

She could never quite figure The Doctor out. The way he moved, the way he smiled, the way he hummed a cheerful little song while his hands were elbow-deep in flesh—it all felt… wrong.

But not dangerous.

Not exactly.

Pup’s gaze shifted to the open corpse of Crimson, still splayed out on the table, his insides meticulously picked clean. She swallowed hard, the metallic tang of blood thick in the air, and tried not to stare.

She didn’t understand why The Doctor did this. Why he spent hours cutting apart the dead like they were puzzles to be solved. She’d asked him once, half out of curiosity and half out of morbid fascination. His answer had been… unsettling.

“I vould have to kill you if I told you.” he had said with a playful laugh, his thick accent carrying a strange kind of cheer. “But do not vorry, mein liebste. You are too precious to me.”

The memory made her shiver. It wasn’t that she thought he would hurt her—she knew he wouldn’t. That was the odd thing about The Doctor. For all his gruesome hobbies, for all the blood on his hands, he wasn’t a bad pony.

Not like the others.

He wouldn’t hurt a fly if he didn’t have to. She was sure of that.

But there was something about him. Something in the way he carried himself, the way he smiled that too-wide smile, the way he seemed to enjoy his work just a little too much. It was enough to make her uneasy, enough to keep her on edge whenever she was around him.

And yet…

She trusted him.

Not fully, of course—she wasn’t stupid. But in a place like this, where betrayal and cruelty were constants, The Doctor’s strange, detached kindness felt almost safe.

Almost.

Pup shifted her focus back to Brown, watching as The Doctor stitched up a deep gash on his side. The stallion didn’t react, didn’t even flinch, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if the pain didn’t matter.

“You know.” The Doctor said suddenly, his voice light and conversational, “zis one is quite fascinating. Ze vay he endures… it is like he is already dead, ja? But alive at ze same time. A paradox! I vould love to study him further.”

Pup tensed at his words, but she kept her voice steady. “Just patch him up, Doc. That’s all.”

The Doctor laughed softly, shaking his head. “You have so little imagination, mein liebste.” he said, returning to his work.

Pup’s ears flattened, but she didn’t respond. She simply stood there, watching the strange, unsettling pony work, feeling that odd mix of unease and reluctant trust.

The Doctor stepped back with a theatrical flourish, gripping Brown’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “And… up you go!” he declared with mock fanfare, his tone as light as though they weren’t standing in a blood-streaked room.

Brown swayed unsteadily, his battered body clearly struggling to hold itself upright, but The Doctor steadied him with a firm grip. “There ve are.” he said, patting Brown’s shoulder. “A bit of stitching, a bit of painkillers, und you are almost as good as new. Almost. Zero, take ze painkillers, take zome every few hours.”

Pup stepped forward to help, her hands reaching out to support Brown. “Here, I’ll—”

The Operating Room doors slammed open with a deafening clang.

The sound made her freeze, her eyes widening as she turned toward the noise. But before she could fully register what was happening, a cold, sharp talon wrapped around her throat, and a razor-edged claw pressed against her skin.

She gasped, her body stiffening as her hands instinctively flew to the talon gripping her neck.

The Doctor and Brown both turned sharply at the sound, their eyes snapping to Pup.

Standing behind Pup, his talons pinning her in place, was Slasher.

The griffin stepped into the room with an eerie calm, his black body armor clinging to his wiry frame. His pale feathers gleamed under the dim light, and his sharp, predatory eyes glinted with sadistic amusement.

“Ah.” Slasher purred, his voice low and sinister. “Pup. So small. So fragile. So… delicious.”

Pup’s breath hitched as his talons flexed slightly, the sharp edges pressing against her neck. “P-please.” she stammered, barely able to get the word out.

Slasher leaned in closer, his beak curling into a wicked grin. “I can hear your heart racing.” he murmured, his voice dripping with malice. “So warm. So alive. Maybe I should see what it tastes like.”

The Doctor’s usual cheerfulness had evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “Slasher.” he said evenly, his voice steady and precise. “Pup is not on ze menu. If you vant fresh, I have somesing better for you.”

Slasher’s talon didn’t move, but his eyes flicked to The Doctor, his grin widening. “Better, huh?” he drawled, his tone teasing. “What could possibly be better than the heart I’ve already got right here?” His talon tapped Pup’s chest lightly, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.

“A freshly stored heart.” The Doctor replied smoothly, gesturing to the bag on the table containing the organ. “Clean, tender, und prepared vith care. I even added ze preservation salts for freshness.”

Slasher let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You always know how to sweeten a deal, Doc.” he said, his tone mockingly sweet. “But why would I settle for that… when this one is still beating?” He leaned closer to Pup, his breath hot against her ear. “So warm… so alive.”

Pup’s trembling intensified, her breaths coming out in short, uneven bursts.

The Doctor sighed, the sound heavy and deliberate. He pulled off his cap and mask, then stripped off his gloves and gown, revealing the black body armor beneath his jumpsuit. With a calm, deliberate motion, he reached under the steel table and pulled out an AK-47, leveling it at Slasher’s head.

“Zis is your last chance.” The Doctor said, his voice low and commanding. “Let her go, or I vill put you down like ze dog you are.”

For a long moment, the room was deathly silent.

Then Slasher chuckled, his talons slowly releasing Pup’s neck as he stepped back. “Relax, Doc.” he said with mock sincerity, raising his talons in a gesture of surrender. “I was just kidding.”

Pup stumbled backward, clutching her throat as she gasped for air. Tears streamed down her cheeks as her wide, terrified eyes darted between Slasher and The Doctor.

Slasher strolled to the table with the heart in its clear plastic bag, picking it up and inspecting it with a smirk. “I’ll take this instead.” he said lightly, turning toward the door. “For now.”

He paused in the doorway, glancing back with a sharp, predatory grin. “Take care, Pup. Wouldn’t want that pretty little heart of yours to stop beating… yet.”

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving an oppressive silence in his wake.

Pup stood frozen for a moment, her breaths coming in short, shaky gasps. Then, without a word, she turned and bolted for the exit, her sobs breaking free as she pushed through the door and disappeared into the hallway.

The Doctor watched her go, his expression unreadable. “Hmm.” he mused after a moment, setting the AK-47 back under the table. “A dramatic exit, but understandable.”

As the heavy steel door slammed shut behind Pup, The Doctor let out a slow, measured exhale. He glanced at Brown, whose battered figure stood unmoving, and then turned to one of the metal cabinets lining the room.

“You vill have to excuse me.” The Doctor muttered, pulling the cabinet open with a metallic creak. From within, he retrieved a carton of cigarettes, a lighter, a bottle of whisky, and two small shot glasses.

He lit a cigarette with one hand, the flame casting fleeting shadows across his bloodstained face. After taking a long drag, he set the glasses on the steel counter, pouring a shot of amber liquid into each. Turning back to Brown, he held out one of the glasses with an almost amused expression.

“Here.” he said with a faint smirk. “A drink for ze… survivor.”

Brown didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge the gesture.

The Doctor chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he brought the second glass back to the counter. “Smart.” he remarked, lifting his own glass. “Alcohol rots ze organs, und I need yours clean, mein friend.” He downed the shot in one practiced motion, following it with another deep drag of his cigarette.

He leaned back against the counter, his sharp eyes drifting toward Crimson’s mutilated corpse. “Do you know.” he began, his voice taking on a reflective tone, “zat zis… zis business of mine is not so simple? Picking ze right organs, ze healthy ones—it takes skill. Precision. Und patience.”

Brown’s gaze remained fixed on the floor, but The Doctor continued as if he had his undivided attention.

“You see, ze Black Watch pays handsomely for fresh organs. In return, ve get everyzing ze gang vants—guns, food, armor, you name it. But do you know vat frustrates me?” His tone grew sharper, the irritation seeping into his words.

He gestured toward Crimson’s dissected body with his cigarette. “Zis! Zis mess! Look at ze lungs—black as ze fecking abyss. Smoking, drugs, alcohol… zese ponies destroy themselves. Do zey not know zat zey are wasting my time?”

His voice rose as he began listing off ailments with growing fury. “Liver? Lacerated, cirrhotic, useless! Heart? Ruptured, dead before it even left ze chest. Kidneys? Failing, full of toxins. And ze cause? Chronic high blood pressure, trauma, dehydration—always self-inflicted!”

He slammed his cigarette into the ashtray, his anger boiling over. “Crimson here? A prime example. Lungs zat might as vell be made of charcoal!”

In one swift motion, The Doctor reached into Crimson’s chest cavity and tore out the blackened lungs. He held them up for Brown to see, his eyes blazing with frustration.

“Look at zis!” he shouted, his voice thick with anger. “Useless! Garbage!”

He hurled the lungs across the room, where they struck the far wall with a sickening splat before sliding to the floor. Breathing heavily, he turned back to Brown, his sharp gaze locking onto him like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You.” The Doctor said lowly, his voice dripping with disdain. “You are part of ze problem.”

Brown blinked, the faintest flicker of something crossing his face.

“Do you know vat Pup is? Hmm?” The Doctor leaned closer, his voice quiet but laced with venom. “She is a fool. She cares for ponies like you—weak, broken, desperate. Ponies who have given up. She gets fucked every day by zese animals, und somehow… somehow she still smiles. Still pretends zat zere is hope in zis place.”

He sneered, his words biting. “Pitiful. She cares for you. For me. For zese corpses. But no one cares for her. Not you, not me, not anypony in zis hellhole.”

The Doctor stood to his full height, his gaze never leaving Brown’s. “One day, I vill kill her. Or zey vill. Because zat kind of heart does not survive here. It cannot.”

He jabbed a finger toward Brown, his tone now commanding. “You. You vill tell her ze truth. You vill break zat kind heart of hers before it is too late. Show her zat zis world, zis place—it is not vorth caring about. Not you, not me, not anyzing.”

He turned away sharply, his boots clinking against the steel floor. “Now, get out.” he ordered, his tone final.

Brown didn’t argue. He turned silently and walked toward the exit, the weight of The Doctor’s words pressing heavily on him.

As the door creaked open and closed again, The Doctor picked up the second shot glass—the one he had poured for Brown. He stared at it for a moment before pouring the liquid onto the floor in front of him.

“Pathetic.” he muttered under his breath, his voice cold and dismissive.

Brown’s boots scraped against the grimy floor as he trudged down the dimly lit hallways. Most days, his mind was a blank slate, drifting into daydreams of nothingness, letting the hours melt away in the haze of survival. But today was different.

Today, he was thinking.

Thinking about Pup.

He agreed with The Doctor and Irela, as much as he hated to admit it. This place—this twisted, hate-filled prison where survival was a game and sacrifice was a currency—wasn’t okay. It wasn’t livable.

And Pup? She didn’t belong here.

Her optimism, her cheer, her strange resilience—it didn’t make sense. How could somepony endure everything this place threw at her and still smile? Still care?

She’s a fool, The Doctor had said. And maybe he was right.

But Brown couldn’t shake the weight of her kindness. The way she looked at him when no one else did. The way she pressed that tissue against his bleeding head, whispering that everything would be okay, even when it was clearly a lie.

Was it pity? Desperation? Or was she just clinging to something—anything—that reminded her of what life was like before this nightmare?

His thoughts spiraled as he climbed the creaking metal stairs to the prison catwalk. The cold steel felt unsteady beneath his feet, matching the turmoil in his mind.

How could he help her?

Should he just tell her the truth? Rip away her illusions, shatter her hope, make her see that nothing here was worth holding onto? Would that even work?

Or… should he do something worse?

The thought made him falter, his step pausing briefly on the stair. His fingers clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms.

Something horrible, he thought, the idea twisting in his mind like a blade. Something that would break her spirit completely, leave no room for her to care for anypony or anything ever again. Maybe that was the only way to save her.

But could he do it?

Brown’s glazed eyes lifted as he reached the top of the catwalk. The narrow walkway stretched out before him, its rails rusted and worn. Below, the echoes of the prison’s chaos filtered up—shouts, laughter, screams.

He was close to her cell now.

His steps slowed, his mind still racing. What would he say? What would he do?

For once, Brown wasn’t just drifting through the motions. He was thinking, deeply, painfully, about the choices ahead.

As Brown approached Pup’s cell, unease tightened in his chest all of a sudden. The faint murmur of voices reached his ears—male voices, casual, crude. His pace quickened instinctively, his battered body protesting each step, but he didn’t stop.

Her cell door was open. That alone was enough to send a chill through him.

The voices grew louder as he drew closer, their words sharper, crueler.

“Come on, bitch. Just a quickie.” one voice sneered, followed by a low chuckle.

“Don’t make us wait, sweetie, this is going to happen one way or another.” the second added, his tone mocking and cruel.

Brown’s eyes narrowed as he reached the threshold.

“Jaws didn’t say anything about you two today, you have to ask him first.” Pup’s voice quavered, laced with confusion and fear.

“Fuck Jaws.” the first voice snapped, a loud click following—unmistakably the sound of a gun being cocked.

“Get on your knees.”

Brown’s blood ran cold.

“P-please, no.” Pup begged, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.

The sharp crack of a slap echoed down the corridor, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

Brown stepped into the doorway, his glazed eyes taking in the scene.

Inside the cell, Pup lay crumpled on the ground, one hand clutching her cheek where the hit had landed. Her wide, tear-filled eyes darted up toward her assailants—two stallions standing over her, their pants pulled halfway down, their flaccid dicks exposed.

The pink pegasus, Spunk, smirked down at her, his wings twitching in anticipation, pistol in hand.

Beside him, Razor Vex, a teal earth pony with a menacing grin, casually twirled a knife in his hand.

Razor and Spunk turned toward the doorway, their expressions shifting from smug to irritated when they noticed Brown standing there. Razor’s knife gleamed as he tapped it against his hand, his teal eyes narrowing.

“Fuck off.” Razor growled, his voice low and full of menace. “Unless you want me to carve you up too.”

Spunk leaned against the cell wall, his wings fluttering lazily as he smirked. “Yeah, what’s the matter, Brownie? Lose your cell or something?” He let out a short laugh, his tone mocking. “Ain’t nothin’ for you here. Go on, get lost.”

Brown didn’t respond, his body stiff in the doorway. His glazed eyes scanned the scene in front of him—Pup crumpled on the floor, her body trembling, her hand clutching her bruised cheek.

Her dark eyes found his, wide and glistening with tears. She didn’t say a word, but the plea in her gaze was clear as day.

Please… help me.

For a moment, Brown felt his resolve waver. He could feel the weight of her kindness pressing on him—the way she had patched him up, the way she spoke to him when no one else did, the way she tried to make him believe that there was still something good left in this world.

But kindness didn’t belong here.

The Doctor’s words echoed in his mind like a cruel mantra. Break her spirit. Show her the truth.

Brown’s jaw tightened. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was how he could teach her. He didn’t need to say a word. All he had to do was turn around and walk away. Let her feel the sting of betrayal. Let her see the truth of this place—that no one cared, that no one was coming to save her.

Razor noticed the hesitation and sneered, stepping closer. “What’s it gonna be, Brown? You wanna be a hero? Go ahead. Try it. See what happens.”

Spunk laughed, shaking his head. “Look at him. He ain’t got the balls. He’s just gonna walk away like the little bitch he is.”

Brown’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. Without a word, he turned away.

His boots scraped against the floor as he walked back down the hallway. Each step felt like dragging a dead weight, the sound of Pup’s panicked breathing echoing behind him.

“See?” Spunk jeered. “Even Brownie knows his place. Good boy.”

“Please!” Pup’s voice cracked, the sound of her desperation cutting through the air. “No! Get off me! Don’t do this!”

Brown’s steps faltered.

Her voice grew louder, panicked, trembling. “Stop! Please! I’ll do anything! Just stop!”

Razor snickered. “Oh, you’ll do anything? That’s what we’re counting on, sweetheart.”

Brown stopped, his body stiff as a board. The jeers from the cell grew muffled, but Pup’s cries rang clear, each word sinking into him like a blade.

“Help me!” she shouted, her voice breaking completely.

Brown’s jaw tightened. He stood frozen for a long moment, his fists trembling at his sides. For the first time that day, something flickered in his dull, lifeless eyes.

“Fuck.” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and bitter.

Brown turned back toward the cell, his fists clenched and his eyes burning with a quiet, simmering rage.

Brown stepped into the cell, his heavy breathing the only sound he made as he took in the sight before him. Spunk was gripping Pup’s hands, forcing them toward his exposed crotch with a cruel grin plastered across his face.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Spunk sneered, his voice dripping with mock affection. “Be a good girl and get to work. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Pup whimpered, her head turned away as she tried to pull back, her whole body trembling with fear and revulsion.

Brown’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching as a surge of something foreign—anger—coursed through him. Without hesitation, he crossed the space in two long strides and grabbed the back of Spunk’s collar with one hand.

“Wha—” Spunk barely had time to react before Brown yanked him backward, the force causing him to stumble.

Brown’s other fist came down like a hammer, slamming into Spunk’s stomach with brutal precision. The sound of the impact echoed through the cell, followed by Spunk’s sharp gasp as the air was knocked from his lungs.

“Ugh—what the fuck?!” Spunk wheezed, doubling over and clutching his stomach. His wings twitched involuntarily as he stumbled back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Before Brown could turn, a sharp hiss cut through the air. “Big fucking mistake.” Razor growled, lunging forward.

The blade in Razor’s hand glinted under the dim light, its sharp edge slicing toward Brown in a deadly arc. Brown’s instincts kicked in, and he stepped back just in time, the blade missing him by mere inches.

Razor snarled as he adjusted his stance, his teal eyes burning with rage. “You really think you can walk in here and play hero? You’re dumber than I thought, Brown.”

Brown shifted his position, his battered body aching with every movement, but he refused to let it show. He planted himself firmly between Pup and the two stallions, his fists raised and ready.

Spunk straightened up, still clutching his stomach but grinning through the pain. “Look at this guy.” he sneered, his voice strained. “The quiet little punching bag thinks he’s got balls all of a sudden.”

“You’re a dead stallion.” Razor snapped, twirling his knife menacingly. “A fucking dead stallion.”

Brown’s voice was low, steady, and filled with quiet defiance. “You’re not touching her.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for the first time, Spunk and Razor hesitated.

Spunk wiped the spit from his mouth, his wings spreading slightly as he glared at Brown. “You think this is gonna end well for you, Brownie? You’re not walking out of this cell in one piece.”

“I said.” Brown repeated, his tone unwavering, “you’re not touching her.”

Razor tilted his head, his grip tightening on the knife. “You really think you’re gonna stop us? Look at you. You can barely stand. What’re you gonna do, Brown? Cry us to death?”

Spunk let out a short, harsh laugh. “That’s cute. You think this is a fair fight?”

Brown didn’t respond. His fists remained clenched, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The sudden hum of the screen on the wall interrupted the standoff, and the cell was bathed in the pale glow of flashing comments.

Anonymous4782: “HOLY SHIT, BROWN IS ACTUALLY FIGHTING BACK!”

Anonymous2311: “Who the hell is this guy?!”

Anonymous6790: “50 bits says he gets his ass kicked in 10 seconds.”

Anonymous9823: “Nah, I’m betting on the quiet guy. He’s got crazy vibes.”

Anonymous4412: “This is the best episode yet! Don’t let us down, Brown!”

Spunk glanced at the screen, his grin widening. “Looks like we’ve got an audience.” he said, his tone mocking. “Guess they’re about to see how much of a joke you really are.”

Razor adjusted his stance, the knife glinting menacingly. “You’ve got one chance, Brown. Get the fuck out of here, or I’m gonna carve you up and feed you to the rats.”

Brown remained silent for a moment, his gaze flicking briefly to Pup. She was huddled on the floor, her tear-streaked face filled with terror as she stared up at him.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet but resolute. “I’m not leaving. And you’re not touching her.”

The comment screen exploded with activity, the viewers going wild:

Anonymous1239: “Hell yeah! Brown’s finally growing a spine!”

Anonymous7420: “This is what we’ve been waiting for!”

Anonymous9853: “Somepony get this guy a knife! Let’s go!”

The tension in the cell was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken threats. Brown didn’t waver. For the first time, he wasn’t backing down.

It had been years since Brown had been in a fight. His heart hammered furiously in his chest, beads of sweat rolling down his face as his breathing deepened. He could feel the years of neglect weighing on him—his muscles weak, his body barely functioning from years of starvation and apathy. He wasn’t in the best shape. Far from it.

He didn’t fancy his odds. Not in the slightest.

So why was he doing this? Why had he turned around when he’d told himself earlier that letting Pup’s spirit break was the best thing for her survival?

It didn’t matter now.

The past couldn’t be changed. The present couldn’t be paused. All that mattered now was that he was here.

Taking a deep, measured breath, Brown exhaled slowly. He relaxed his shoulders, letting his body untangle from the tension. With deliberate motion, he let his arms hang loosely by his sides, his stance open and seemingly defenceless.

To anypony watching, it looked like madness.

The screens in the hallway flickered to life, the viewers’ comments flooding in:

Anonymous4930: “What the fuck is this guy doing? No guard? No brain?”

Anonymous6803: “Does he even know how to fight? He looks like he’s about to pass out.”

Anonymous9021: “LMAO! Razor’s gonna make him into ribbons!”

Anonymous3287: “Finally, some action. But this guy’s dead meat.”

But then, a new comment popped up, standing out against the tide of mockery:

Anonymous1072: “Wait. That’s not random. That’s the Hands Down stance.”

The flood of comments paused briefly before erupting again.

Anonymous8341: “Hands what now?”

Anonymous5023: “Dude, shut up. He’s just standing there like an idiot.”

Anonymous1072: “No, seriously. Hands Down or commonly known as Low Guard is a legitimate fighting style. Look at him. His arms are loose, his stance is open. It’s meant for evasion, not blocking. Keeps the body agile and less fatigued during prolonged attacks.”

Anonymous9002: “No way. He’s been a punching bag for years. This guy doesn’t know shit.”

Anonymous1072: “You think so? Look closer. He’s not guarding because he knows he doesn’t have the strength to block. His whole focus is on dodging and countering. This isn’t just random—he knows what he’s doing. It’s smart, especially for somepony in his condition.”

Anonymous4821: “Holy shit. Is this guy actually smart?”

Anonymous3421: “Doubt it. Even if he knows what he’s doing, he’s still gonna get wrecked. Look at him. He’s skin and bones.”

Anonymous7711: “Doesn’t matter. Razor’s got a knife, and Spunk’s probably gonna jump in. He’s dead.”

Anonymous1072: “Don’t be so sure. If he’s using Hands Down, he’s relying on speed and precision. If he lands one good counter, it could turn the tide.”

Anonymous6123: “So you’re saying this guy has a chance? Against them? LOL!”

Anonymous1072: “I’m saying we’re about to find out.”

Brown tuned out the comments, his focus sharp and singular. His breathing steadied, his body loose but ready. He didn’t need to explain himself to anypony—not Spunk, not Razor, not the audience.

Razor’s grin widened as he stepped closer, spinning the knife in his hand with practiced ease. “What the fuck are you doing, Brown? You think standing there like that’s gonna scare me?”

Spunk’s laughter echoed through the cell. “He’s wide open! I’m gonna enjoy tearing him apart. Come on, Brownie, show us what you got.”

Brown said nothing. His body remained steady, his eyes fixed on Razor and Spunk.

The screen flashed with more activity:

Anonymous3245: “Is it just me, or does this actually look kinda badass?”

Anonymous2210: “Nope, just you. He’s toast.”

Anonymous1072: “Y’all don’t understand. This is gonna be good.”

Anonymous5678: “Either he dies or he wins. Either way, this is entertainment.”

Brown’s heart steadied. His stance was set.

The fight was about to begin.

Spunk’s smirk widened as he raised the pistol, the cold metal glinting under the dim light. “So, what now, Brownie?” he sneered, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. “Still gonna play tough?”

Brown didn’t flinch. His eyes flicked to the weapon, then back to Spunk, his expression unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, his voice calm and steady. “You gonna waste a bullet?”

Spunk’s grin faltered.

Brown continued, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. “You should know how the boss feels about wasting bullets… especially on our own.”

Razor’s eyes darted to Spunk, uncertainty flashing across his face. The two exchanged a glance, weighing Brown’s words.

After a tense moment, Spunk let out an annoyed growl, lowering the pistol. “Fine.” he spat, shoving the gun back into his waistband. His lips curled into a sneer as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of scissors, the blades stained with old, dried blood. He snapped them open and shut with a sharp metallic click. “Guess I’ll just have to get my hands dirty.”

Brown’s heart pounded in his chest, but his breathing remained steady. This was it. Time to see if he still had it.

He adjusted his stance a bit more, planting his feet firmly on the ground, legs spread apart. His body leaned slightly forward, his knees bent just enough to keep his balance fluid and ready. Every muscle in his body tensed with focus as he locked eyes with Razor, who was already circling him like a predator.

Razor struck first.

The knife in his hand sliced through the air in a quick, deliberate arc, aimed for Brown’s midsection. Brown’s body reacted instinctively—he leaned back just far enough to avoid the blade. The moment the knife passed him, he snapped forward with a straight right punch, his fist connecting squarely with Razor’s nose.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed in the cell as Razor stumbled back, blood streaming from his nostrils.

“Motherfucker!” Razor cursed, clutching his face with one hand while the other held the knife tightly.

Spunk saw his opening and lunged forward, thrusting the scissors toward Brown’s head.

But Brown was ready.

He sidestepped the attack with a fluid motion, his longer reach giving him the edge. His fist shot out again, this time connecting with Spunk’s cheek in a powerful blow. The impact sent Spunk sprawling to the floor, the scissors clattering from his hand as he groaned in pain.

The screen in the corner of the room lit up with a flood of comments:

Anonymous4390: “HOLY SHIT! Did you see that punch?!”

Anonymous6721: “Brown’s actually fighting like a pro!”

Anonymous2210: “I thought this guy was a deadbeat. What the hell is going on?”

Anonymous1072: “Hands Down. I told you. This guy knows what he’s doing.”

Brown stood his ground, his breathing steady, his body ready for whatever came next.

Razor spat a glob of blood onto the floor, his face twisted in rage. “You’re fucking dead, you hear me? DEAD!” he snarled, his voice trembling with fury. He gripped the knife tighter, his knuckles white, and charged forward, the blade flashing dangerously under the dim light.

The first slash was wild, easy for Brown to sidestep. The second came faster, grazing his collar and tearing the fabric, narrowly missing his skin.

But Razor’s third slash was his undoing. Brown’s fist shot out like a piston, a quick jab that connected with Razor’s already broken nose. Razor staggered, his footing thrown off.

Brown didn’t hesitate. He stepped in and delivered a devastating right straight to Razor’s face, the impact shattering what was left of his nose. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the cell as blood poured freely from Razor’s nostrils.

“Argh! FUCK!” Razor screamed, the knife slipping from his grip as he clutched his mangled face.

Spunk rushed to his side, helping him regain balance. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, breathing heavily, their eyes blazing with hatred as they glared at Brown.

But Brown didn’t move. He held his ground, his stance steady, his fists ready.

The screen in the cell flickered to life, and the viewers’ comments flooded in like a torrent of bloodlust:

Anonymous2341: “WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?! DID HE JUST BREAK HIS NOSE AGAIN?!”

Anonymous6721: “RAZOR, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!”

Anonymous9087: “BROWN?! THIS GUY’S STILL GOT IT!”

Anonymous7423: “NO, FUCK THAT! RAZOR AND SPUNK NEED TO KILL HIM NOW!”

Anonymous5555: “RAZOR’S A JOKE. I BET BROWN FINISHES HIM IN THE NEXT MOVE.”

Anonymous1072: “You morons still don’t get it, do you? That jab? That wasn’t luck. That was a setup.”

Anonymous3489: “Shut the fuck up, 1072. He’s just flailing!”

Anonymous9021: “Yeah, setup my ass. Razor’s just trash!”

Anonymous1072: “Razor’s not great, but Brown knew exactly where to hit. That jab wasn’t just about hurting Razor—it was about creating an opening for that right straight. That’s textbook counterfighting.”

Anonymous4421: “YOU THINK THIS GUY IS A BOXER OR SOMETHING? HE’S BEEN A PUNCHING BAG FOR YEARS!”

Anonymous1072: “Exactly. He’s been hit so much he knows how to read attacks. Watch his stance. He’s waiting for them to fuck up again.”

Meanwhile, in the cell, Spunk cracked his knuckles, his wings flexing angrily. “You’re fucking dead, Brown.” he spat. “We’re gonna tear you apart.”

Razor wiped the blood from his face, his voice a low, menacing growl. “I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.”

The two began circling Brown, but he didn’t flinch. He watched them carefully, his body loose and ready.

More comments exploded onto the screen:

Anonymous1113: “JUST FUCKING KILL HIM ALREADY! I WANT BLOOD!”

Anonymous8888: “BROWN’S A MONSTER. HOW IS HE STILL STANDING?!”

Anonymous2341: “RAZOR, USE THE FUCKING KNIFE! PUT IT IN HIS GODDAMN THROAT!”

Anonymous1072: “And there it is. Look at Razor’s fist. He’s pissed off, sloppy. He’s going to overcommit again, and Brown’s going to capitalise on it. Just watch.”

Anonymous9921: “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, 1072?! PICK A SIDE!”

Anonymous1072: “I’m not picking a side. I’m just telling you what’s about to happen. Brown isn’t winning because he’s strong. He’s winning because these two don’t know how to fight. They’re predictable.”

Anonymous4510: “FINISH HIM! I WANT TO SEE BLOOD!”

Anonymous8721: “BROWN IS A FREAK. SOMEPONY PUT HIM DOWN!”

Anonymous9876: “RAZOR, STOP FUCKING AROUND AND KILL HIM!”

Brown’s heart pounded in his chest, his breaths steady but deep. He knew the truth of it: Razor and Spunk weren’t skilled fighters. They were brutes, driven by rage, charging in without a plan.

But if they decided to work together, to attack him as a team? That would be different. One solid hit to his battered body, and he was finished. He was already running on fumes, the pain from the cafeteria beating still weighing on him.

All he could do now was wait.

Get sloppy, he thought. Get frustrated. Make the wrong move.

The tension in the room was suffocating, the air thick with malice.

The viewers couldn’t look away.

Brown’s yellow eyes drifted downward, catching the glint of Razor’s knife lying near his feet. He could’ve picked it up, turned it into a weapon, ended the fight decisively.

But no. That wasn’t the move.

Instead, he kicked the blade across the cell, the scrape of metal against concrete slicing through the tension. It skittered to a stop near Razor’s boots.

Razor’s bloodied face twisted into confusion, his hand trembling as he looked from the knife to Brown. Spunk’s cocky grin faltered, his wings twitching uneasily.

The two exchanged glances, and when their eyes returned to Brown, it was like they were seeing him for the first time.

For years, they had seen him as nothing more than a punching bag—a hollow shell of a stallion who absorbed their rage. But now, standing there battered, unarmed, and unyielding, he wasn’t a victim.

He was a predator.

Razor hesitated, his fingers twitching as he bent down to pick up the knife. His grip was shaky as he pointed the blade’s tip toward Brown, his voice trembling with fury. “Watch your back.” he snarled, though there was an edge of fear in his tone.

Spunk nodded quickly, his bravado gone. “Yeah… y-you’re fucking dead, Brownie. This ain’t over.”

The two turned and left, their steps quick and uneven as they disappeared down the hallway.

Brown stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway.

Then, as the tension drained from the air, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. One hand shot up to clutch his ribs, his face contorted in pain as the earlier beating roared back to life in his body.

The screens mounted on the walls exploded with viewer comments:

Anonymous6754: “NO WAY. HE JUST GAVE THE KNIFE BACK. WHAT IS THIS GUY ON?!”

Anonymous8912: “BRO’S PLAYING 4D CHESS WHILE EVERYPONY ELSE IS PLAYING CHECKERS.”

Anonymous4621: “WHY DIDN’T HE FINISH THEM OFF? IS HE STUPID OR JUST INSANE?!”

Anonymous1072: “Mind games, idiots. Kicking the knife back wasn’t about mercy. It was psychological. It made them hesitate, and it worked.”

Anonymous4423: “Worked?! HE’S ON THE GROUND NOW. THAT LOOKS LIKE IT HURT.”

Anonymous2123: “LMAO! BRO FUMBLED THE BAG BUT STILL GOT THE W.”

Anonymous9999: “Brown’s got that silent killer energy. Dude doesn’t even need weapons to scare the shit out of these guys.”

Anonymous5678: “WHY DIDN’T HE JUST STAB THEM?! COWARD!”

Anonymous3402: “Nah, he wanted them to suffer. That was ice cold.”

Anonymous2221: “BRO JUST HIT THEM WITH THE UNO REVERSE CARD.”

Anonymous4510: “THIS GUY’S A PSYCHO, AND I’M HERE FOR IT.”

Anonymous1072: “Exactly. You don’t win every fight by brute force. Brown knew his limits. That knife kick was a calculated gamble.”

Anonymous8765: “CALCULATED? HE JUST LUCKED OUT!”

Anonymous1072: “If it was luck, they wouldn’t have walked out. Think about it. They saw the look in his eyes. They thought he was nothing, but now they’re scared. They didn’t see a punching bag. They saw a murderer.”

Anonymous4021: “Why does 1072 keep simping for Brown?”

Anonymous1072: “Not simping. Just acknowledging skill. Stay mad.”

Meanwhile, Brown sat on the floor, his body trembling from the pain as he fought to catch his breath. The knife kick had been a gamble, one that almost didn’t pay off. If Razor and Spunk hadn’t backed off, if they had pressed the attack…

He wouldn’t have had the strength to keep going.

But they didn’t.

And for the first time in years, Brown had won.

Brown’s breathing was shallow and uneven, his body trembling from the pain that radiated through every muscle. He clutched his ribs, his vision swimming slightly as he tried to focus. The pounding in his head from his injuries was nothing compared to the chaos in his mind.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through his haze. Before he could react, Pup dropped to her knees beside him, her tear-streaked face coming into view.

“Brown!” she cried, her voice breaking as she reached for him, her hands hovering uncertainly, afraid of hurting him further.

His glazed yellow eyes shifted toward her, faintly registering the sheer panic in her expression. Tears streaked her cheeks, her lips trembling as she knelt before him. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice shaking as her gaze darted over his battered body.

For a moment, Brown didn’t respond, his breathing too laboured to form words. Instead, he gave a slight nod, though his jaw remained tight, and he couldn’t meet her eyes.

Pup’s hands trembled, hesitating before she gently placed them under his arm to help him up. “Come on.” she whispered, her tone firm despite the tears in her voice.

Brown didn’t resist as she lifted him to his feet, his body sagging against her slightly. She guided him carefully across the cell to her bed, lowering him onto the edge. The mattress creaked under his weight as he sat hunched over, his hands still clutching his ribs.

Pup knelt in front of him again, her eyes scanning his face with concern. “Just stay still.” she murmured, her voice softer now.

Her fingers moved deftly to the buttons of his striped jumpsuit, undoing them one by one. She hesitated for a moment, glancing up at him as if silently asking permission, before pulling the fabric down to his waist.

Underneath, his thin white shirt clung to his body, stained with sweat and a few streaks of dried blood. She lifted it carefully, revealing the mottled bruises that painted his ribs and stomach—a painful tapestry of dark reds, purples, and blues.

Pup inhaled sharply, her expression crumpling at the sight. “Oh, Brown…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hands hovered near his side, unsure if touching would hurt him more.

“Your painkillers.” she said quickly, her voice steadier as she refocused.

Brown wordlessly reached into his pocket and pulled out the small bottle, placing it in her hand. She twisted the cap off and shook out two pills, holding them up to his lips. “Here, take these.” she instructed gently.

He obeyed, swallowing them dry without protest.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Pup remained kneeling in front of him, her hands resting on her knees as her eyes lingered on his bruised torso. Her mind swirled with emotions—confusion, fear, anger, gratitude—all blending into an overwhelming tide.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, trying to calm her trembling breath. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice soft but filled with pain. “Why… why did you turn to leave?”

Brown flinched inwardly, the question striking deeper than any wound he’d suffered. His gaze dropped, his head hanging low as his eyes fixed on the floor.

The guilt was suffocating. How could he explain what he had almost done? That he had been ready to abandon her to the wolves, to let her suffer alone for the sake of teaching her a cruel lesson? He couldn’t.

Silence stretched between them as Pup waited, her tear-filled eyes searching his bowed head for an answer.

Then, slowly, her hands reached out. With a gentleness that made Brown’s breath hitch, she cupped his face, her fingers brushing against his bruised skin.

“Brown.” she said softly, lifting his head to meet her gaze. Her hands didn’t waver, even as his yellow eyes flickered with shock and self-loathing.

Before he could process what was happening, she leaned forward, her lips pressing against his in a soft, tender kiss.

For a moment, Brown froze, his body stiff with surprise. The kiss wasn’t long, but it carried an intensity that made his heart stutter—a warmth he hadn’t felt in what felt like a lifetime.

When Pup pulled away, her lips hovered inches from his, a warm and small smile on her lips, her breath mingling with his as she whispered, “Thank you… for coming back.”

Her words lingered in the air, wrapping around Brown like a quiet, fragile embrace. For the first time in years, he let himself breathe.

Brown tried to make his way back to his cell, his steps slow and unsteady, but every time he moved, Pup was there, her hands gently but firmly guiding him back to her bed. She refused to leave him alone, her concern overriding his attempts to resist.

It wasn’t just concern—it was relentless care. She hovered over him like an overprotective mother fussing over a sick foal, adjusting the covers around him, ensuring he was comfortable, and bringing him what he needed before he even asked.

“Stay.” she said softly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she pulled the blanket higher over him.

Brown lay there, unsure of how to feel. It was strange—almost nice. She brought him food that wasn’t stale, water that was clear and clean, and even offered a kind word or two. It was more attention than he’d had in years, and while he didn’t know how to react, The Doctor’s words rang loud in his mind: Break her spirit. Make her see the truth.

Still, the painkillers she gave him were strong. For the first time in hours, the ache in his ribs and the pounding in his head dulled to a manageable throb. He let himself sink into the mattress, letting the numbness take over.

When Pup stepped out for a moment, Brown let his eyes wander. The screen at the far wall caught his attention, its glow casting a faint light across the cell. The viewer comments scrolled rapidly, filled with a mixture of curiosity, mockery, and theories about what had just happened in the fight. He didn’t focus on the words too much; they were just noise.

His gaze shifted around the room, taking in Pup’s cell for the first time. It was so much… more.

Her cell was larger than his, with a proper bed and a mattress that didn’t feel like it was made of rocks. She had cabinets stocked with personal items and necessities, a working sink, and a toilet that wasn’t just a rusted bucket. Compared to his barren space—nothing more than a worn mattress, a rusty bed frame, and the ever-present screen—her cell seemed luxurious.

Brown wasn’t one to complain, but the contrast was glaring. He hadn’t realised that some cells could be like this.

The sound of the door opening snapped him out of his thoughts. Pup walked in, a towel draped over her neck. She smelled clean, a subtle hint of soap and something floral lingering in the air. It was such a stark contrast to the usual stench of the prison that Brown blinked in surprise.

She lowered herself to sit on the bed beside him, her tail wagging slightly as she gave him a small, warm smile. “Feeling any better?” she asked gently, her eyes scanning him for any signs of discomfort.

Brown gave a small nod, his usual silence holding firm.

Pup tilted her head slightly, her smile growing just a bit. But before Brown could relax, he realised something—she was undressing.

He quickly averted his eyes, his face blank but his mind racing.

The sound of fabric hitting the floor filled the room, and after a moment, Pup’s voice broke the silence. “You can look now.”

Hesitantly, Brown glanced up, and his gaze landed on Pup. She was completely naked, her fur smooth and clean, her D sized white furred breasts glistening from the screen light, the nipples poking, her legs crossing each other in an attempt to block Brown view of her vagina, showing her curves down to black furred ass, her body shyly posed as she rubbed her arm, her cheeks tinged a soft red. She didn’t meet his eyes, her own averted as if she was nervous about his reaction.

“So… what do you think?” she asked softly, her voice almost a whisper.

Brown’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say. His voice finally broke through the tension, rough and uncertain. “What… what are you doing?”

Pup stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate as she leaned down toward him. Her eyes met his, her lips curving into a small, tender smile.

She kissed him gently, her lips brushing against his with a softness that startled him.

When she pulled back, her face was mere inches from his, her breath warm against his skin. Her voice was low, almost trembling, as she murmured, “I’m going to thank you properly, stud~.”

Pup carefully climbed onto the bed, slipping under the covers with Brown. Her movements were gentle, but there was a deliberate intention to each step. She straddled him, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips, her weight settling on him with cautious care.

Brown’s body stiffened, unsure of how to react, his breath hitching as Pup leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest. Her warm, bright eyes locked onto his, searching for something in his gaze.

“You can relax, you know.” she whispered, her lips curving into a soft smile. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his in a delicate kiss. It was brief, almost testing, before she pulled back to gauge his reaction. Brown’s face remained blank, though his body was tense beneath her.

“Still the quiet type, huh?” Pup teased, her voice light but trembling slightly. She kissed him again, this time more confidently, lingering longer before pulling back. She smiled at the faint flicker of surprise in his expression.

She moaned softly as her hips began to rub, her bare pussy moving rhythmically against his bulge in his pants. The friction was slow and deliberate, her breath hitching as she moved needily.

“You know…” she began, her voice quieter now, tinged with emotion. “Nopony’s ever stood up for me like that before. Not here. Not anywhere.”

Brown blinked, his gaze fixed on her as she continued.

“In this place.” Pup said, her voice breaking slightly, “everyone just… looks the other way. Back when I needed someone the most, when I was scared, when I was alone… no one cared.” She paused, her movements slowing as she bit her lip. “I stopped expecting them to.”

Her eyes softened as she looked down at him, her cheeks flushed. “But you… you fought for me. You didn’t just walk away. You didn’t let them have their way. You made me feel…” She hesitated, her words catching in her throat. “You made me feel like I mattered.”

Her hands moved to his, her fingers curling around his wrists as she guided them upward. Slowly, she placed his hands over her chest, pressing his palms against the soft curves of her breasts. Letting a satisfied “Mmm~”

Brown’s jaw tightened slightly, his yellow eyes flickering with a mix of hesitation and confusion as he let her guide him.

Pup let out a shaky breath, her lips tugging into a small, playful smile. “What do you think?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Brown’s gaze darted between her flushed face and the vulnerability in her eyes. “You don’t have to do this, you know?” he finally managed, his voice rough and uncertain.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “I’m thanking you, Brown. This is how I want to thank you. For fighting for me. For not leaving.”

She kissed him again, her lips pressing against his with more intensity. As she pulled back, she bit her lip, her voice trembling slightly as she added, “I just… I want you to know how much that meant to me.”

Her hips pressed down a little harder, feeling the bulge grow bigger, her folds wetting the fabric, her body moving against his in a slow, deliberate rhythm. “You’re different.” she murmured. “I don’t know why, but… you’re not like them.”

Pup shifted above Brown, her movements slow and deliberate as she pressed her hips against him. She felt the tension in his body, the way his arousal betrayed the stoic expression he always carried. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she lifted herself slightly, her hands moving to the waistband of his pants.

But before she could pull them down, Brown’s hand gripped her wrist, firm but not harsh.

“Wait.” he said, his voice low, cracking slightly.

Pup froze, her ears perking up as she looked at him, confusion flashing across her face. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly, her voice hesitant.

“Jaws.” Brown muttered, his gaze shifting to the side. “He… wanted you tonight.”

At the mention of Jaws, Pup’s entire body stiffened. The small, playful smile she’d worn vanished instantly, replaced by a shadow that darkened her features. Her hands slowly fell to her sides as her gaze turned toward the clock on the wall.

The red digits glared at her: 20:00. 30 minutes left.

Her breath hitched, and she let out a shaky sigh, her shoulders slumping. “Yeah.” she said quietly, her voice heavy with resignation. “He did.”

Brown watched her carefully, his yellow eyes scanning her face as her usual bright and playful demeanour crumbled.

“I don’t want to go.” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I never want to go.”

She shifted off him slightly, sitting back as her hands gripped the edge of the blanket tightly. Her fingers trembled as she struggled to keep her composure. “He… he hurts me, Brown.”

Her words hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. She glanced down, her eyes avoiding his as she continued, her voice barely audible. “Every smile I make… every laugh, every little cheerful thing I do—it’s all fake. It has to be. Because if it’s not…”

Her hand moved instinctively to her throat, rubbing the spot gently. “He chokes me. Not because he’s angry, not because I’ve done something wrong. He just… does it. Like it’s fun for him. Like it’s part of it.”

She let out a shaky, bitter laugh that was more like a sob. “And he keeps saying… he wants me to have his kids. He’s trying to force me. Every time I think it can’t get worse… he finds a new way to break me.”

Her voice cracked, and she clenched her fists tightly, her knuckles turning white. “It’s not fair.” she murmured, her tone shifting to anger as tears welled in her eyes. She looked up at Brown, her gaze glassy and desperate. “It’s not fair. Why do I have to keep pretending? Why do I have to smile and act like it doesn’t hurt? Why can’t he just drop dead?”

Her voice broke completely, and she let out a quiet sob, covering her face with her hands.

Brown didn’t move, his body still aching from his own injuries. He didn’t have words to comfort her, didn’t know if there was anything he could say. But he felt the weight of her pain, the despair that seemed to crush her even as she sat there trying to hold herself together.

Pup sniffled, lowering her hands slightly as she wiped at her tears. She glanced at him, her expression softening slightly despite the anguish in her eyes. Without saying a word, she crawled back under the covers and nestled against him, wrapping an arm over his chest, pressing herself to the side of him.

Her head rested lightly on his shoulder, her body pressing close as her tail curled around her legs. “I’m sorry.” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have dumped all of that on you. You’ve been through enough.”

Brown remained silent, his body stiff at first, but as the moments passed, he relaxed slightly.

Pup’s breathing steadied, her voice breaking the quiet. “You don’t have to say anything.” she said softly. “Just… stay here with me. Please.”

Her arm tightened slightly around him, her body shifting into a half-spoon position as she clung to him gently, seeking comfort in his presence.

Pup’s hand moved slowly, her fingers grazing the hidden scars beneath Brown’s brown fur. She traced along the lines and dips of his chest, her touch featherlight as though she feared breaking him. When her fingers brushed over the bruises on his ribs, she slowed even more, her breath steady but soft.

“You’ve been through so much.” she whispered, her voice almost a murmur. “It’s all written here.”

Brown didn’t say anything, his eyes staring at a distant point past her.

Pup rested her hand flat against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. “Relax.” she said gently, her tone soothing. “You can hold me… touch me, if you want. I don’t mind.”

For a moment, Brown remained still, his arm stiff at his side. Then, hesitantly, he moved. His arm came up and wrapped around her, his hand landing carefully on her waist.

Pup let out a soft hum of approval, her body shifting closer to his as she nestled against him. Her tail brushed lightly against his leg as she adjusted herself, her breathing steadying as she found comfort in his touch.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” she asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. Her voice carried a mix of awe and curiosity.

Brown glanced down at her, his expression unreadable.

“I mean, at first, I thought you were going to just… take it.” she admitted, her voice dropping slightly. “You always do, right? But then…” Her voice brightened as she continued, “You didn’t. They couldn’t touch you, Brown. And then—bang!”

She lifted her hand, mimicking a punch as a small grin tugged at her lips. “You broke Razor’s nose like it was nothing! It was incredible.”

Brown shifted slightly, his yellow eyes narrowing faintly. “It wasn’t incredible.” he said, his tone flat.

Pup tilted her head, confused by his response. “What do you mean? You took on two of them—two guys who’ve beaten you down how many times? And you won. That’s amazing.”

Brown shook his head. “I was lucky.” he said, his voice gruff. “If either of them knew how to fight—just half-decent—I wouldn’t have stood a chance. My body’s…” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “It’s not in any condition for that kind of thing anymore.”

Pup’s expression softened, her hand moving back to his chest. Her fingers traced one of his scars as she spoke. “Even so, you did it.” she said quietly. “Luck or not, you fought back. That’s something, Brown. That’s more than anyone else would’ve done.”

Brown didn’t reply, his gaze shifting away from hers.

Pup continued, her voice gaining a quiet conviction. “You’re stronger than you think, you know. You keep acting like you’re… broken. Like you’re just here to survive. But I saw it today. You’re not just surviving. You’re still fighting, even if you don’t see it.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. Brown’s hand shifted on her waist, pulling her slightly closer.

Pup let out a soft hum, resting her head against his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You might not believe it, but… you matter, Brown.”

Brown’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t respond.

Pup closed her eyes, her breathing steady as she nestled against him, her hand continuing to trace his scars. For now, the silence between them was enough.

Pup’s smile softened, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes as her hand moved to Brown’s. She clasped his hand gently, guiding it from her waist and down the curve of her body. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as though savouring the moment.

When she placed his hand on her ass, she gave it a slight press, her body leaning closer against his. Her lips hovered near his ear, her warm breath brushing against him as she spoke.

“Don’t be shy.” she whispered, her voice sultry but tender. “You can enjoy yourself, Brown. This… this is what you deserve.”

Brown tensed for a moment, his hand resting where she had placed it, his mind racing. But Pup leaned forward, her lips capturing his in a kiss that was soft yet filled with unspoken approval.

As she pulled back, her teal eyes met his, her smile deepening further. “And if you want.” she murmured, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “you can go even lower.”

Her tail flicked slightly, brushing against his leg, a playful motion that contrasted with the sincerity in her gaze.

“One day.” she said, her tone almost reverent, “I’ll thank you properly. You’ll see.”

For a moment, the air between them seemed to hum with a quiet connection. Pup’s body relaxed against his, her hand still resting over his, as though grounding them both in this fleeting moment of comfort.

Ah, Brown. The quiet, broken stallion I once called a bad product. Five years I’ve had him in this game. Five years of silence, submission, and absolutely nothing of interest. I thought he was a mistake, a waste of bits, sold to me as a criminal, a murderer. Yet here he’s been, a ghost of a pony, doing nothing but surviving—if you can even call it that.

But tonight? Tonight, something changed.

For the first time in five long years, he made a sacrifice. Not somepony else. Not the system. Not the rules. Himself.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’ve seen this play before. The hero rising to defend the innocent, the selfless act of bravery. It’s a tired cliché, one that usually bores me to tears. But coming from Brown? From the stallion who’s been beaten down more times than I can count, who’s done nothing but fade into the background of my little game?

It wasn’t boring.

No, it was… exciting.

He risked his life for a diamond dog who probably doesn’t even realise how doomed she is. And why? Guilt? Hope? A flicker of something that still burns inside that hollow shell of his? I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care. What matters is that he did it. He fought back.

And now, I can’t help but wonder—what comes next?

Brown made his first move on the board tonight. What will his next move be? Will he rise further, or will the weight of his choices crush him back into nothingness?

Tomorrow brings the auction. A fresh influx of ponies to this game, new faces, new sacrifices to be made. And Brown? I’ve never been more curious to see how a “bad product” might finally prove me wrong.

Stay tuned, dear reader. I think things are about to get very, very interesting.

Footnote!

Welcome, Brown, to the Sacrifice Games.

For the first time in five years, you’ve gained EXP in this twisted game!

EXP Earned: 97 EXP.

Level Up Progress: 97/100 EXP.

Just 3 more EXP to level up and earn a skill. Keep pushing forward.

Skill Points Gained:

Your heart hasn’t raced this much in years! +4 HRT.

You endure beatings daily, yet somehow you stand back up—even if you’re shaken. +2 VIT, +2 STM.

But all that punishment takes its toll. -2 DEF, -2 STR.

New Companion Unlocked!

Bonus Perk: A Dog’s Loyalty.

Pup, the diamond dog, has earned your trust—and you’ve earned hers. For standing up for her, she now sees you as her protector and will defend you with all her strength. Effect: +3 DEF, +3HRT.

Keep surviving, Brown. The Sacrifice Games are just beginning.

Knowing your place.

Oh, you’re here again, dear reader. Good. I’ve been meaning to explain something to you.

You see, despite the chaos of the Sacrifice Games—the bloodshed, the tears, the screams echoing in those narrow hallways—there is order. Not rules. No, rules imply fairness, justice, even morality. I don’t deal in such mundane things. What I’ve created is a system. A beautifully crafted, self-sustaining machine that ensures these ponies, diamond dogs, zebras, and whatever other poor souls end up in here, will always dance to the tune I play.

This system is simple. It doesn’t demand obedience. It demands survival.

Let’s talk about the essentials, shall we? Food? Sparse. A few moldy loaves of bread, a handful of canned goods past their prime. Enough to keep them from dropping dead, but never enough to stop the gnawing hunger in their bellies. Water? Oh, it’s there, but clean water? That’s a luxury. Most of it is murky, metallic, or downright undrinkable. I find dehydration brings out such… creativity.

Medical supplies? Ha! You’re more likely to find a rusty shiv than a bandage. I’ve seen prisoners stitch their wounds with dirty needles and fishing line, drinking their own blood to keep from fainting. Beautiful, isn’t it?

Then there are the other necessities. Clothing wears thin. Shoes fall apart. Tools? Scarce and fought over like gold. Even the most basic of comforts—a pillow, a blanket—become treasures worth dying for. And die they do.

But here’s the genius of it: I give them opportunities. Auctions. Death Games. Trials. Scavenging missions. I mix things up for the sake of entertainment—both for myself and the viewers—and for them, the poor wretches who cling to the faint hope of a reward.

Oh, the rewards. Food, clean water, weapons, even the rare taste of freedom… I provide whatever their little hearts desire. But only if they play the game. Only if they sacrifice.

You see, desperation is the key. When ponies are desperate, they reveal their true selves. Strip away the pretence of civility, and you’ll see who they really are. A lover will betray. A friend will stab. A parent will abandon. It’s inevitable. Sacrifice becomes their salvation, and I… I am their god of deliverance.

The gangs? Ah, yes, the gangs. I expected them. They’re the natural byproduct of my system. Once, there were seven. Now, there are three. The Revenants, Unity, and The Blood Pact. The rest? Either raided into oblivion, murdered to the last member, or consumed by their rivals.

The Revenants thrive on violence. They’re the reapers, the executioners, the ones who make the walls bleed. Unity pretends to be better—a community, a family—but their unity crumbles when the food runs out. And The Blood Pact? Oh, they are my favourite. They’ve taken my philosophy to heart: blood binds. Blood leads. Blood wins.

They play their roles perfectly. They survive, they fight, they sacrifice. And they keep this machine running.

So tell me, dear reader, isn’t it magnificent? Isn’t it perfect?

Stay tuned. The Sacrifice Games are just beginning.

Outside the prison, where the sun may shine brightly on the hottest of days or the rain may pour relentlessly on the coldest, life went on. Across nations and races, families worked to provide for their loved ones. Some chased their dreams of stardom, hoping to become celebrities or influencers. Foals ran through the streets, playing with friends, and perhaps discovering their cutie marks.

Out there, the sky was the limit.

For Serenity, though, time was limited. Every passing second was precious, dedicated to a single, all-consuming task: uncovering the whereabouts of a live stream that had gripped the underworld in a vice five years ago.

But after all this time, she wasn’t any closer than she had been when she started.

Serenity, an aging unicorn with pale white fur, deep blue eyes, and a long, messy grey mane, sat in her small office. The early morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across the cluttered room. A cup of steaming coffee rested on one side of her desk, a laptop glowing in front of her, and a half-eaten chocolate bar sat forgotten on the other side.

Her cheek leaned heavily against the palm of her hand as her tired eyes stared at the screen. The Sacrifice Games played out before her—another brutal day, another round of blood, guts, and death. It had all become routine, a grotesque normalcy that had numbed her long ago.

Serenity had seen it all before.

For decades, she had been a brilliant detective, solving high-profile cases, saving lives, and bringing criminals to justice. But this case? It was eating her alive.

The endless hours of watching the live stream, chasing fruitless leads, and analysing every gruesome detail had taken a toll on her. All she did was sit, watch, eat, drink, and sleep. Her mental and physical health had deteriorated, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Lighting a cigarette from the carton on her desk, she took a long drag, the smoke curling lazily around her head. She muttered under her breath, “Maybe after this one… after I solve this case, I’ll finally call it quits.”

The sharp vibration of her phone interrupted her thoughts. Pulling it from her pocket, her brows lifted slightly in surprise when she saw the caller ID: Hubby.

Her husband’s pseudonym name brought a rare softness to her features. She answered quickly.

“Hey, hun.” she said, leaning back in her chair, her tone immediately warmer. “What’s up?”

“Mom!” Her daughter’s voice said, full of excitement.

The corners of Serenity’s mouth curled into a rare smile hearing Pip’s young, innocent tone. “Oh hey, sweetheart.”

“Guess what? I have a surprise for you when you get home!”

Serenity chuckled softly, taking another drag of her cigarette. “A surprise, huh? You know I’m not a fan of surprises, Pip. Can’t you just tell me now?”

“Nope!” Pip giggled, the sound light and carefree. “You’ll just have to wait. But trust me, you’re gonna love it!”

“Alright, alright.” Serenity replied with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll try to finish up early tonight. Don’t stay up too late waiting, okay?”

“I won’t.” Pip promised, her voice softer now. “But, Mom… you really need to stop working so hard. We miss you at home.”

Serenity’s smile faltered slightly, the weight of the case settling back onto her shoulders like a familiar burden. “I’ll be home soon, Pip. I promise.”

“Okay.” Pip said quietly, though there was still a note of cheer in her voice. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

As the call ended, Serenity found herself staring at the phone for a moment longer. The quiet buzz of the laptop screen brought her back, the chaos of the Sacrifice Games still playing out in front of her.

She stubbed out her cigarette, her fingers hesitating briefly before returning to the keyboard.

Another day. Another clue to chase—or so she hoped.

The soft creak of the office door broke Serenity’s concentration as a light custard-furred pegasus with a Prussian blue mane and green eyes entered the room. He carried himself with a bright, almost infectious energy that was completely out of place in the dim, smoke-filled space.

“Detective Serenity?” he asked, his voice upbeat and chipper.

Serenity barely glanced up, her eyes still glued to the screen in front of her. “That’s me.” she muttered, taking a drag from her cigarette.

The young stallion stepped closer, his smile widening. “I’m Feather Light. I’m your new partner.”

Serenity’s brow raised slightly, though her gaze remained fixed on the live stream of The Sacrifice Games. Feather Light’s enthusiasm was glaringly at odds with the grim scenes of bloodshed and death playing out on the screen.

He continued, undeterred by her lack of reaction. “I’ve heard so much about you! You’re a legend in the force, you know? Solving high-profile cases, bringing in the big criminals… I mean, wow. It’s an honour to work with you!”

Serenity finally turned her head, her tired eyes scanning him from head to foot. Fit, energetic, bright-eyed—he looked like he should be playing hoofball, not sitting in an office watching ponies die for hours on end. She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.

“Too loud.” she muttered, taking another drag of her cigarette.

Feather’s smile faltered slightly, though he quickly recovered. “I, uh, was just saying I’m excited to be working with you!”

“Uh-huh.” Serenity replied, turning her attention back to the screen.

Feather hesitated, his eyes darting to the screen as well. Suddenly, the live stream cut to a series of underground advertisements. Guns, drugs, and other illicit goods flashed across the screen, accompanied by flashy slogans and discount offers. It was almost comical—like watching hoofball commercials during halftime, except the products being advertised could end lives.

Serenity let out a humourless chuckle. “The irony.” she muttered under her breath.

Feather shifted uncomfortably beside her. “So… uh, how long have you been watching this case?”

“Five years.” Serenity replied bluntly, not looking at him.

His ears flicked back, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s… a long time.”

“Yep.”

Feather stood there for a moment, clearly unsure how to proceed. “Well.” he said finally, forcing a smile, “I guess I better get settled in. It’s going to be great working with you, Detective.”

Serenity hummed noncommittally, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Feather let out a small sigh, moving to the other side of the room to set up his station.

“Welcome to the case.” Serenity muttered under her breath, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Serenity sat at her desk, her pen tapping against a stack of papers as Feather Light’s voice filled the office. For what felt like hours—but was probably closer to 45 minutes—he had been talking.

Not about the case. Oh no, that would have been productive. Instead, Serenity had been treated to the highlights of Feather’s life.

“So, yeah, I didn’t make it as a hoofball player.” Feather said with a shrug, his voice still irritatingly chipper. “I mean, I was really good in school, but the pro leagues? Totally different level, you know? But hey, things worked out! Met my marefriend on a stag do before my best friend’s wedding. That was wild.”

Serenity hummed noncommittally, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.

“Oh! Did I tell you I broke a world record once?” Feather grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Smashed the most watermelons with my head in one minute. Twenty-six. The old record was twenty-four. Yeah, they called me ‘The Melon Smasher’ for weeks.”

Serenity blinked slowly, her pen stilling in her hand. “You don’t say.” she muttered, her voice flat.

“Totally! I’ve got a certificate and everything.” he added proudly, clearly oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm.

That was it. Serenity had had enough. She straightened in her chair and waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Feather.” she said, cutting him off mid-ramble. “Go. Get me… something. I don’t care what. Coffee, paperclips, whatever you can find. Just… go.”

“Sure thing, Detective!” Feather said with a salute, bolting out the door with the speed only a Pegasus could manage.

Serenity let out a long, slow exhale, savoring the silence. It lasted all of ten minutes before Feather returned, errand completed and smile intact.

Now, he was sitting at the desk across from her, clicking his pen rhythmically. Serenity glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching as he balanced the pen above his lip, holding it there like a mustache.

She let out a low groan, leaning back in her chair to stare at the ceiling.

Five years, she thought bitterly. Five years of chasing shadows, of getting nowhere. All those hours spent watching that damn live stream, and for what?

The thought of her failure stung. The Sacrifice Games had become her obsession, and the weight of the case had taken its toll. She’d given up so much—time with her family, her health, her peace of mind—all for a case that remained maddeningly out of reach.

Her gaze shifted back to Feather. Young, energetic, and blissfully unaware of the darkness she had waded through for years. He was the exact opposite of her—an innocent idiot, in many ways.

But maybe that was the point.

Serenity straightened, a new thought forming in her mind. Feather wasn’t jaded or overworked. He hadn’t spent years drowning in blood and despair. He had fresh eyes, untainted by the endless horrors of the case.

“Feather.” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He looked up, the pen falling from his face. “Yeah?”

She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “What do you see? When you look at this?” She gestured to the screen, where the Sacrifice Games played out in all their grim glory. “What stands out to you?”

Feather blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Uh… well…”

Serenity leaned back, watching him closely. Let’s see what the rookie has to say, she thought.

Feather suddenly leaned forward, his green eyes narrowing as he focused intently on the screen. His hand hovered over the keyboard, and he began cycling through the prison cameras. He clicked through each feed rapidly, his sharp gaze scanning every detail. Occasionally, he grimaced and skipped past scenes of dead bodies or prisoners engaging in illicit acts, his discomfort evident.

Meanwhile, Serenity leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. She sipped occasionally, watching Feather with a mixture of detachment and mild curiosity. His focus was impressive, she had to admit, but his energy was exhausting.

She had enough time to pull out her phone and scroll through the latest news. A headline caught her attention:

~ A Potential Star in the Rough! The Reds HC are monitoring the transfer situation of 19-year-old earth pony striker Redsica from Havencroft HC, no negotiations between agent or club. Other teams from different leagues are eyeing the striker in the Winter Transfer Market, but the striker is set to snub any advancements or offers. ~

Serenity hummed softly, a small smile forming. Being a Reds supporter, the news gave her a momentary distraction from the grim realities of her work.

“Alright.” Feather finally said, his voice breaking her thoughts. He sat back in his chair, his wings fluttering slightly as he turned to face her.

Serenity set her phone down, taking another sip of her coffee before meeting his gaze. “What did you see?”

Feather adjusted his position, clearly eager to share. “A few things stood out.” he began. “First, the clocks in the prison—they match Canterlot’s time zone. That might be something, or it might be nothing.”

Serenity gave a small nod, prompting him to continue.

“Then there are the weapons. They’re not all from one source. I saw Equestrian designs, Zebrican craftsmanship, weapons from the Badlands, and even gear that looked like it came from the Griffin military. A real mix.”

“Go on.” Serenity said, her voice even.

“The jumpsuits.” Feather added, his tone sharpening with intrigue. “They’re color-coded by gang. The navy blue and white stripes? Those are The Revenants. The orange ones belong to Unity. And the blue jumpsuits? The Blood Pact.”

Serenity nodded again, her expression unreadable.

“And the population.” Feather continued. “It’s mostly ponies from the Badlands and Equestria. That’s not too surprising—ponies are everywhere. But what got me thinking was the dragons.”

“Dragons?” Serenity echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Feather confirmed, his voice growing more thoughtful. “They’re from the southwestern regions of Equis, right? Their nation doesn’t have alliances with anypony else, and there’s no official transport in or out of their territory. So how did they end up here? Unless…”

He trailed off, his wings twitching slightly as he pieced it together. “Unless the prison is somewhere nearby. The closest regions to the dragons are the Griffin Lands, the Badlands, and Equestria.”

He finished with a small shrug, leaning back in his chair. “That’s all I’ve got. Just connecting dots with what I know.”

Serenity studied him for a moment, her tired eyes scanning his face. “Not bad.” she said finally, her voice neutral.

Feather’s face lit up slightly, a hint of pride creeping into his expression.

“But.” Serenity added with a sigh, “I already knew all of that.”

His enthusiasm deflated slightly, though he tried to hide it. Serenity took another sip of her coffee, her gaze drifting back to the screen.

“Still.” she said after a pause, her tone softening, “At least your caught up somewhat.”

Feather leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slightly as he muttered to himself. “Who in their right mind comes up with this stuff? A twisted death game… and not just that, but streaming it to the world? It’s sick. Demented.”

Serenity didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still fixed on the screen. Her silence wasn’t dismissive, though; there was a flicker of inquisitiveness in her tired eyes.

“Feather.” she said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

He glanced at her. “Yeah?”

“Have you ever watched The Sacrifice Games before?” she asked, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “Or did you know anything about it before this case?”

Feather shook his head quickly. “No, ma’am. Chief Bright sent me in blind. Said it was a confidential case, and that was about it.” He paused, his ears flicking back slightly. “I mean, I knew of it. You’d have to be living under a rock not to hear whispers about it. Ponies talk. You hear rumors—about the deaths, the gangs, the… horrors. But watching it?” He shook his head again. “Never. Not until now.”

Serenity hummed softly, nodding to herself. “I see.” she said, more to herself than to him.

Feather watched her carefully. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair and tapping the ash from her cigarette into the tray. “I guess I could waste some time filling you in. You might as well know what we’re dealing with.”

She crossed her legs, her voice taking on a slightly reflective tone as she continued. “It all started five years ago…”

Serenity lit another cigarette, her voice calm but edged with quiet bitterness as she began. “It all started off so… calm. A civil little community of eighty souls. Infants, foals, adults, elders—half of them ponies, the rest a mix of species. They made it work, at first. Supplies came weekly: food, water, weapons. Barely enough to keep half alive for another week, but somehow, they found balance. A system.”

Feather sat still, his usually chipper demeanour replaced by a stoic focus. “How?” he asked, his voice low.

“The young and the infants took priority.” Serenity replied. “The rest? They rationed. Fasting to ensure everypony got just enough to scrape by. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. For three months, they survived.” She paused, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Then the mastermind behind it all decided that survival wasn’t entertaining enough.”

Feather didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened slightly. “What did they do?”

“They introduced more prisoners.” Serenity said simply. “Every week, new faces showed up. The system they built—already fragile—crumbled. Supplies didn’t stretch far enough. Hunger turned to desperation. Desperation turned to chaos.”

Feather’s green eyes remained locked on her, unwavering. “So, what? They fought for scraps?”

Serenity nodded. “They stole. Lied. Betrayed. Killed. The first blood spilled over the last piece of bread, and that was it. The beginning of the end. And, wouldn’t you know it, the viewers ate it up. The ratings skyrocketed.”

Feather’s wings shifted slightly, his only visible reaction. “And the community?”

“Split.” Serenity answered flatly. “One group became two. Then three. By the end of the first year, there were seven factions. And that’s when the real wars began. Raiding. Fighting. Killing. They didn’t care about the foals or the elderly anymore—no one was spared.”

Feather’s voice was quiet but firm. “What happened to the factions?”

“Two of them didn’t make it past the second year.” she replied. “Cannibalism became a choice—sometimes the only choice. Male dominance took over, and the females who couldn’t fight? They were…” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. “They were tortured. Raped. Turned into prostitutes. Slaves. Their spirits broken until the only escape they had was suicide.”

Feather’s gaze darkened, but his tone stayed even. “And the masterminds? They just let it happen.”

“Let it happen?” Serenity echoed, her voice sharp with grim humour. “They encouraged it. This place isn’t about survival—it’s about sacrifice. Sacrificing others. Sacrificing yourself. Sacrificing what little morality you have left.”

For a moment, the office was silent, save for the faint hum of the laptop. Feather’s eyes returned to the screen, his expression unreadable. “And this… is what we’re chasing.” he said finally.

Serenity took another drag of her cigarette, her gaze distant. “It doesn’t stop there, kid.” she muttered, making Feather sigh. “The third year.” she began, her voice steady and detached, “is when everything changed. The Auction and The Arena were introduced. Another faction didn’t make it out alive.”

Across the desk, Feather Light sat with his forelegs crossed casually, his green eyes on her but unreadable. He nodded slightly, a gesture that could have been acknowledgment or simply politeness.

“The Auction.” Serenity continued, her voice laced with faint disdain, “was meant to keep the gangs running. Supplies, tools, even prisoners—it became a marketplace for survival. The mastermind wasn’t satisfied with ponies dying too quickly. This was their way of drawing it out. Feeding the system.”

Feather’s wings shifted almost imperceptibly, the only sign he was still listening. “Makes sense.” he said quietly, his tone devoid of judgment.

“And then there’s The Arena.” Serenity added, taking another drag before exhaling a plume of smoke. “A 1v1 fight to the death. No weapons allowed, but anything else goes.”

Feather tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting momentarily to the cigarette in her hand. “And if a foal is chosen?”

Serenity’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The mother can take their place. That’s part of the game—forcing them to make the sacrifice. Save your child and die, or let them fight and hope they live. Either way, the viewers win.”

Feather’s mouth twitched, as if he were about to respond, but he simply gave a small nod, his expression carefully neutral.

Serenity leaned back in her chair, her eyes dark and distant. “The fourth year saw the death of two more factions.” she continued. “That left The Revenants and The Blood Pact. With fewer prisoners left to kill, they managed to coexist for a while. A truce.”

Feather hummed faintly, his gaze flicking back to the screen. “How long?”

“Not long.” Serenity said, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Male dominance was still rampant, and then there was the racism.”

“Racism.” Feather echoed softly, almost to himself.

Serenity nodded. “Toward zebras. Always the scapegoats. They and the deer formed their own faction: Unity. That’s what broke the truce. Once Unity appeared, The Revenants and The Blood Pact couldn’t stand the balance tipping. The rivalry reignited.”

Feather glanced at her briefly, his face calm but unreadable. “And so it started again.”

“It never really stopped.” Serenity said with a humourless chuckle. “It’s a cycle. Violence, alliances, betrayals. It’s not about survival—it’s about breaking them down. Turning them into what the mastermind wants.”

Feather’s wings twitched again, his green eyes flicking back to the screen. “Sacrifices.” he said, his tone flat.

Serenity nodded, taking another slow drag of her cigarette. “Exactly.”

Feather leaned back in his chair, his expression calm, maybe thoughtful. Serenity glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but if there was anything beneath his composure, he wasn’t showing it.

Serenity’s voice was low, almost a murmur, as she continued. “Unity’s leader is… something else. They call her Nia. She’s a zebra with black fur, yellow stripes, and red eyes. That combination—it’s rare. Revered. In their culture, zebras like her are seen as… chosen. Sacred, maybe. Something we don’t understand.”

Feather sat motionless across from her, his green eyes locked on her face. His expression gave nothing away, but the faintest twitch of his ear betrayed his interest.

“She’s not like the others.” Serenity said, her cigarette trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. “She’s cold when she has to be, but fair. Those who show her loyalty get it back in full. She doesn’t allow preying on others—not unless they’ve wronged her or her followers. And she keeps track of debts. Every. Single. One. She’ll repay them, good or bad.”

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights. Serenity took another drag, her eyes narrowing. “She’s the only reason Unity hasn’t collapsed into chaos. She’s the heart of that group. But hearts…” She paused, exhaling smoke through her nose. “…are fragile things.”

Feather’s wings shifted slightly, the only sign of movement. “And The Revenants?” he asked quietly, his tone smooth, his curiosity veiled beneath his calm exterior.

Serenity studied him, her gaze sharp and unblinking. “The Revenants’ leader…” she began, her voice trailing into a faint hum of contemplation.

But before she could say more, the heavy creak of the office door broke the silence. Chief Bright stepped inside, his presence casting a shadow over the dimly lit room.

“Progress report.” he said flatly, his tone clipped.

Serenity stubbed out her cigarette, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Nothing to report.” she said after a pause, her voice tinged with quiet frustration.

Bright’s expression darkened. He sighed heavily, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Five years.” he muttered. “Five years of this, and we’re no closer to anything.”

The envelope was plain, save for her name scrawled across it in what looked disturbingly like dried blood. Serenity took it without a word, her hands steady as she tore it open.

Inside was a photograph. Her daughter and son were in the background, their laughter frozen in time. Her beloved stood nearby, stoic and vigilant, a cigarette between his lips as he scanned their surroundings. The image was taken from a distance, the angle too deliberate, too calculated.

At the bottom of the photo, written in red ink—thick and bold—were the words:

“Don’t get too close to the truth, Serenity…”

For a long moment, Serenity said nothing. She stared at the photo, her face unreadable. Then she exhaled slowly, muttering under her breath, “He shouldn’t be smoking around the foals.”

Bright frowned, his concern etched deep into his features. “Serenity.” he began, his voice low but firm. “You need to stop. This case—it’s consuming you. These letters, these threats—they’re getting worse. If you push too far, they’re not just coming after you. They’ll come after your family.”

Serenity’s head snapped up, her icy blue eyes locking onto his. She rose to her feet abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “A word, chief.” she said sharply, her tone brooking no argument.

Bright hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Feather, who remained silent and still. Then he nodded. “Fine. My office.”

Serenity followed him out without another word, the door closing heavily behind them, leaving Feather alone in the dimly lit room. The faint hum of the laptop filled the silence, but even that seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet.

As the heavy office door clicked shut behind them, Chief Bright sank into his chair with a weary sigh. He reached for the mug of coffee on his desk, taking a slow sip as his sharp eyes studied Serenity. The air was heavy with unspoken tension, but Serenity wasted no time.

She stepped forward, placing both hands firmly on his desk, a confident grin spreading across her face.

“I’ve got a lead…”

The impact rattled through Brown’s body as his back slammed against the cold concrete wall of the prison bathroom. The dull thud echoed through the tiled space, the flickering fluorescent light above casting sickly shadows over the row of grimy toilet stalls beside him. His breath hitched, a strangled wheeze escaping his lips as he doubled over, saliva dripping from his mouth, coughing harshly. His arms instinctively wrapped around his midsection, cradling the spot where the vicious kick had landed. His ribs screamed in protest.

He didn’t need to look up to know who had just sent him crashing into the wall. But he did anyway.

Standing before him, smirking like he had already won, was Buster. The light blue unicorn cracked his neck with a casual tilt of his head, his mane—a mess of varying shades of blue—tied back in a loose ponytail. The wicked gleam in his royal blue eyes was unmistakable: amusement, cruelty, hunger for violence. His leg was still raised from the expertly executed side-kick he’d driven into Brown’s gut, his balance and precision that of somepony who knew how to hurt.

Behind him, Razor with cotton buds in his nostrils and Spunk stood with grins stretched across their smug faces, both still sporting the bruises from their last encounter with Brown. They were enjoying this. This was their moment of payback.

A few ponies crowded around the doorframe, watching, some entertained, others indifferent. They weren’t here to stop it. They weren’t here to save him. They were here for the spectacle.

Buster took a step forward, his boots scuffing against the tiled floor, his voice dripping with condescension.

“C’mon, ‘champ’.” he taunted, his smirk widening. “Where’s that fight now, huh? The way you laid into these two bastards, you had some fire in you.” His horn flickered with a faint glow before fizzling out, showing that he didn’t need magic for this. “So show me.”

Brown swallowed, his breath still uneven. He didn’t respond. He just pressed himself against the wall, his body aching from the pain, his mind already shutting down.

Buster’s grin twitched. He took another step forward.

“Fight.” he demanded.

Brown said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t react.

Buster’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before twisting into a sneer. His nostrils flared as he loomed closer, his voice dropping into something lower, something more threatening.

“Fight back, you piece of shit.” he growled. “Where’s that fire? That spark? You had it when you fought for her, didn’t you?” His head tilted mockingly. “What, you only fight when it’s for some bitch?”

Razor and Spunk chuckled at that, but Buster wasn’t laughing anymore.

Brown just stood there, unmoving, unreadable.

Because there was no point.

Pup had needed him. That had been different.

This? This wasn’t a fight he needed to win.

This wasn’t a fight at all.

It was just another beating.

And he knew better than to resist.

Buster’s eye twitched. His grin returned, but there was something else in it now.

Frustration.

Disappointment.

And most of all—anger.

He let out a slow exhale before chuckling under his breath. “Tch. You really are a pathetic little punching bag.”

Then, without another word, Buster’s fist connected with Brown’s face, the impact sending a dull ringing through his skull. But before Brown could even process the pain, Buster’s grip was on him again—this time around his throat.

Brown choked as the unicorn’s strong fingers tightened, forcing him against the cold concrete wall. His body tensed instinctively, his hands grasping at Buster’s wrist, but the unicorn only grinned wider, his teeth bared in a wicked sneer.

“You’re really testing my patience here, Brown.” Buster murmured, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous edge. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Brown’s face. “I don’t mind beating the shit out of you—I like it, actually. But you know what I’d like even more?”

Brown’s yellow eyes flickered with something—disgust, wariness—but he still said nothing.

Buster chuckled darkly. “If you don’t start fighting back, I think I’ll grab a few of the boys… pay Pup a visit.”

Brown’s breath hitched, his battered chest rising and falling rapidly.

Buster’s smirk widened. He could see the shift in Brown’s expression.

“That’s right.” he purred. “We’ll beat her to near death—real slow, too. Then, we’ll use every. Single. Hole. She has.” His grip on Brown’s neck tightened as his voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “Over. And over. And over again.”

Something inside Brown snapped.

Buster saw it—the shift, the barely contained rage flashing behind Brown’s dull eyes. And he loved it.

“That’ll wipe that stupid grin off her face, huh?” Buster taunted. “I’ll break her for good—”

Brown’s knee shot up, driving into Buster’s midsection with brutal force.

The impact sent Buster stumbling back, his grin twisting into a pained grimace as the air was momentarily knocked from his lungs. But Brown didn’t stop there. In a fluid motion, he surged forward, using the space he created to close the gap instantly, leaping into a flying punch aimed straight for Buster’s skull.

But Buster was faster.

With precise footwork, he ducked under the punch, weaving past Brown’s wild strike with ease. Before Brown could recover, Buster was already manoeuvring himself behind him, light on his boots, bouncing on the tips of his toes, his stance shifting.

He was ready.

Brown turned sharply, his breathing ragged, his ribs screaming from the previous beating, but his mind was no longer hazy. No longer detached.

He dropped into a stance—but not the same one he had used against Razor and Spunk.

This time, his arms were tucked in tighter, his fists protecting his jaw, his elbows close to his ribs, his movements compact, calculated.

A peekaboo stance.

The viewers went wild.

Anonymous4325: YO, WE GOT A FIGHT LET’S GOOOOO

Anonymous7110: FINALLY, BROWN DOING SOMETHING OTHER THAN GETTING HIS ASS BEAT

Anonymous2304: This ain’t even gonna be close. Buster’s gonna embarrass him.

Anonymous1072: …Interesting. That’s not the stance he used before. Peekaboo is a boxer’s stance. He’s a boxer.

Anonymous7452: Bro’s actually a boxer? LMAO HE STILL LOSING

Anonymous6205: Buster finna style on him with them kicks, Brown’s not gonna get close enough to even touch him.

Anonymous1072: That depends. Buster knows taekwondo—that means his strength is in distance and kicks. If he keeps Brown at range, he wins easily. But if Brown closes the gap… maybe he has a chance.

Anonymous9939: 1072, my guy, let’s be real—Buster’s better at taekwondo than Brown is at boxing. This ain’t even a debate.

Buster’s grin returned, but this time, it wasn’t mocking—it was excited.

“Ohhh, so you can fight.” he cooed, bouncing lightly on his boots, his movements loose, controlled. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

Brown said nothing, his eyes locked on Buster’s every twitch, every shift in weight. He already knew—he was at a disadvantage.

Buster’s footwork was fast, fluid. His reach wasn’t in his arms—it was in his legs.

If Brown didn’t get in close, he was done.

And Buster knew it, too.

The fight was about to begin.

The real fight.

Buster kicked first.

Buster moved like a predator.

The second he saw Brown drop into his stance, he exploded forward, his body twisting mid-air—snap! His heel whipped out with a jump back kick, a move meant to test Brown’s guard.

BAM!

Brown barely had time to brace as the impact rattled his forearms, the sheer force shaking his ribs. His breath hitched, but he stood firm. He had to close the gap. Now.

He surged forward.

Buster smirked. Predictable.

CRACK!

A reverse side kick slammed into Brown’s midsection before he could even react, the force hitting like a sledgehammer to the gut. His body lurched backward, pain exploding in his ribs—

And then—

SWOOSH!

Buster’s supporting leg snapped up in an instant reverse hook kick, his heel connecting flush against Brown’s jaw.

BANG!

The impact sent stars across Brown’s vision. His world tilted.

His balance vanished.

The whole room seemed to shift. The lights above, the cracked ceiling, the laughter—all of it swayed like he was underwater.

He caught himself before he hit the ground, his foot sliding across the grimy tile floor, barely keeping him upright.

Buster just laughed.

Loud. Mocking. Cruel.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his limbs like he was just warming up.

“Damn.” Buster grinned, licking his teeth. “That all you got?”

Brown didn’t respond. He was still processing the hits.

Buster cocked his head, watching Brown struggle to regain his footing. His smirk twisted into something meaner, something hunting for weakness.

“You thought your little boxer stance was gonna save you?” he scoffed, cracking his neck. “Too slow, punching bag. You can’t catch me.” He tapped his own temple. “Your whole thing? It only works if you get in close. But guess what?”

He flashed a wicked smile.

“I ain’t letting you.”

The viewers went feral.

Anonymous432: OH SHIIIIIT! BUSTER’S DANCING AROUND HIM!

Anonymous711: FIGHT’S NOT EVEN CLOSE, THIS A SLAUGHTER💀💀💀

Anonymous230: BRO GOT SENT TO THE SHADOW REALM AFTER TWO KICKS, NAH THIS IS BAD

Anonymous745: “TOO SLOW, PUNCHING BAG” HOLY SHIT HE’S COOKING HIM ALIVE

Anonymous993: THROW THE TOWEL. THROW THE DAMN TOWEL.

Anonymous1072: …Brown’s in real trouble.

Anonymous620: DID YOU SEE THAT SECOND KICK? HIS HEAD DAMN NEAR CAME OFF LMFAOOO

Anonymous1072: He can’t get in close. And if he doesn’t… this fight’s already over.

Buster smirked as he read the room, the comments, the faces watching. He was winning.

But something felt… off.

Brown was still standing.

He should’ve collapsed by now. Should’ve given up. Should’ve been curled up on the ground like a good punching bag.

Instead, he was staring.

Not at him.

At his feet.

Buster’s eyes narrowed slightly, bouncing lightly on his boots. “What’s wrong, huh?” he teased, tapping his chin. “That it? You done already?”

Brown exhaled. Slowly.

Something about the way he settled into his stance made the air shift.

Buster’s smirk twitched.

Something’s different.

Brown wasn’t rushing in anymore.

He was waiting.

Why?

Buster’s fingers clenched into fists.

He didn’t like this.

Brown was changing something.

But he’d break him before he could figure it out.

Buster charged again.

And Brown was ready.

Buster moved like lightning.

He spun mid-air, his body twisting into a 540-degree turn kick, the momentum behind it lethal. His heel came down fast, aimed to crush Brown the second it connected.

But Brown didn’t back away.

Instead—

His fist was already pulled back.

Not at Buster’s body.

Not at his face.

At his shin.

CRACK!

A brutal hook punch collided with Buster’s striking leg, landing right on the shin just before the kick could reach him.

The impact sent a shockwave through the bathroom.

Buster’s eyes widened.

His kick—stopped dead.

The force threw his balance into chaos. His limbs flailed, and his body twisted wrong, sending him tumbling to the grimy tile floor with a loud thud.

The viewers ERUPTED.

Anonymous432: HOLY FUCK! HE DROPPED HIM! HE ACTUALLY DROPPED HIM!

Anonymous711: THAT WAS RAW AS HELL, DID YOU SEE THAT TIMING?!

Anonymous230: HE PUNCHED HIS DAMN LEG MID-KICK?! WHAT KIND OF MANIAC—

Anonymous745: HE OUTSMARTED HIM?! BROWN OUTSMARTED HIM?!

Anonymous993: HE STRUCK FIRST WTF—

Anonymous1072: …I’ll admit, that was impressive.

But the victory was short-lived.

Buster wasn’t down for long.

He rolled onto his knees and pushed himself back up, but as soon as he planted his foot, a sharp hiss escaped his lips.

He wobbled.

His leg—his kicking leg—was limping.

Brown had hurt him.

But Brown wasn’t celebrating.

Because he was in worse shape.

His fist throbbed violently. Blood dripped from his knuckles, a searing pain shooting up through his fingers. He clenched his hand instinctively, but the moment he did, a fresh bolt of agony ripped through him.

He had tried to break Buster’s leg.

Tried to shatter his shin.

But the moment he connected, it had felt like he had punched solid steel.

Buster saw the pain.

And he laughed.

Not a chuckle.

Not a smirk.

A full-bodied, hysterical laugh.

His head tilted back as his shoulders shook, his hands clapping together as if he had just witnessed the funniest thing in the world.

“Holy shit, Brown!” Buster howled between laughter. “You really tried to break my leg?! MY leg?! Ohhh, that’s rich, that’s fucking golden!”

Brown’s breathing was heavy, his mind racing through the pain, but Buster just kept going.

“Oh, Celestia—” He wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. “You actually thought that’d work?” He planted his foot again, testing it—there was a twitch, a limp, but he didn’t seem concerned.

Instead, his grin grew wider.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was smooth, dripping with amusement. “I’ve broken my legs too many damn times to count. Snapped, shattered, fractured—over and over again.”

His smile turned sinister.

“They don’t break anymore.”

His royal blue eyes gleamed with something cruel.

“All you did—” He cracked his knuckles. “—was piss me off.”

The viewers went wild.

Anonymous432: OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT—

Anonymous711: BUSTER’S ABOUT TO GO FULL PSYCHO MODE WTF—

Anonymous230: BROWN MIGHT HAVE JUST SIGNED HIS DEATH WARRANT LMAO

Anonymous745: HE BROKE HIS LEGS TOO MANY TIMES??? WHO THE FUCK EVEN SAYS THAT?!?!

Anonymous993: BROWN, RUN BRO. RUN.

Anonymous1072: …This is bad. Very, very bad.

Buster cracked his neck, his fingers flexing, rolling his shoulders loose.

Buster’s grin vanished.

The moment his eyes locked onto Brown’s pained, bleeding hand, his whole posture changed. The cocky arrogance, the taunts, the mocking laughter—it was all gone.

Now?

Now, he just wanted to hurt.

He launched forward, his stance shifting, but this time, Brown noticed something different.

Buster’s usual movements—the precise, controlled footwork of a taekwondo fighter—were suddenly gone.

This wasn’t the light, bouncing rhythm of a kicker anymore.

This was stalking.

And then—

His knee lifted.

His foot snapped forward—

A teep kick.

The ball of his foot slammed into Brown’s gut, knocking him backward with an explosive force that sent him staggering, barely keeping his footing.

It hurt.

But that wasn’t what shocked him.

It was the move itself.

A teep kick? That wasn’t a taekwondo move.

The viewers roared.

Anonymous432: BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!

Anonymous7111: FUCK HIM UP, BUSTER! FUCK HIM UP!

Anonymous230: LMAOOO HE CAN’T DO SHIT, BUSTER’S JUST BETTER

Anonymous745: STOMP THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUND!

Anonymous993: OH THIS JUST GOT UGLY—

Anonymous1072: …That wasn’t taekwondo. That was Lethwei.

Anonymous6207: ??? The fuck is Lethwei???

Anonymous432: Ayo wtf does that mean???

Anonymous1072: It means we severely underestimated him.

Anonymous711: Nah, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN THO?!

Brown gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay standing, but his mind was racing.

Lethwei.

The pieces clicked together.

The steel-like bones. The comment about breaking his legs too many times. The brutal durability.

Buster didn’t just know taekwondo.

He knew Lethwei.

A bare-knuckle combat style from the Griffin Lands, a fighting style copied from the zebra’s Muay Thai, but far more savage. Unlike other striking arts, Lethwei fighters deliberately condition their bones—by breaking them, letting them heal, breaking them again—until they harden like iron.

If Buster was trained in both Taekwondo and Lethwei—

Then Brown wasn’t just fighting a kicker.

He was fighting a fucking monster.

Anonymous1072: This is bad. Very, very bad.

Anonymous993: How bad we talkin???

Anonymous1072: If Buster keeps Brown at a distance, he’ll butcher him. And if Brown somehow closes the gap—

Anonymous230: ??? Then what?!

Anonymous1001: Brown is so fucked!!

Anonymous1072: Buster’s elbows and headbutts are just as deadly as his kicks.

Brown exhaled sharply, shaking out his arms, blinking through the pain.

This fight just got a whole lot worse.

And Buster?

He was still smiling.

Buster’s grin twisted into something downright sadistic.

His stance was no longer purely Taekwondo—no—this was a hybrid. A predator adapting to its prey. A deadly mix of calculated kicks and brutal, bone-breaking close-quarters combat.

Brown saw it. He felt it. The shift in rhythm. The change in flow.

But there was no time to react.

Because Buster moved first.

WHAM!

A jumping switch kick crashed into Brown’s ribs, his body folding as the impact sent a sickening shockwave through his chest. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, his lungs struggling to pull in air—

Then—

CRACK!

Before he could even straighten up, a spinning back elbow slammed into the side of his skull.

His vision exploded into white noise.

The whole world wobbled, like reality itself was tilting.

His knees nearly buckled—

But Buster wasn’t done.

Not even close.

WHACK!

A devastating side kick drove into his stomach, the force lifting him off the ground slightly before slamming him back down onto unsteady feet.

Brown doubled over, gagging, bile rising in his throat. His entire body screamed, every nerve alight with agony—

Then he felt it.

Hands.

Gripping the back of his head.

Oh no.

Before he could even think—

BANG!

A Lethwei-style headbutt crushed his nose.

CRUNCH!

Blood splattered instantly. His skull felt like it had cracked in half. His knees finally gave out, but Buster didn’t let him fall. He held him in place, still gripping his head, still keeping him locked in the clinch.

It was like being caught in a steel trap.

Anonymous4320: WHAT THE FUCK DID HE JUST DO?!

Anonymous711: BRO JUST GOT FUCKING CAVED IN HOLY SHIT—

Anonymous2304: DID ANYPONY ELSE HEAR THAT CRUNCH?! THAT WAS HIS NOSE RIGHT???

Anonymous745: BUSTER SAID FUCK DEFENSE, HE’S JUST MURDERING THIS DUDE

Anonymous1072: That’s a Lethwei clinch + headbutt. It’s one of the most dangerous and illegal moves in most combat sports.

Anonymous620: LMAO ILLEGAL MOVES DON’T EXIST HERE THO 💀💀💀

Anonymous1072: …Yeah. That’s why Brown is done.

Brown staggered, barely conscious, his legs moving on autopilot just to keep him upright. His whole face throbbed, his nose was definitely broken, and his arms felt like lead.

But he couldn’t just stand here.

With whatever strength he had left—

He swung.

A right hook, fueled purely by desperation.

SMACK!

It landed.

A solid connection. Right to Buster’s jaw.

Brown swayed, blinking rapidly, his body screaming at him to shut down—

Then he saw it.

Buster.

Not phased.

Not even shaken.

He just… stood there.

Rolling his jaw. Testing it. Feeling the spot where Brown’s fist had landed.

Then—

He grinned.

A wicked, bloodthirsty grin.

“Ohhh.” Buster purred, licking the trickle of blood from his lip. “That was adorable.”

Brown’s stomach sank.

Buster chuckled, stretching his neck from side to side. “Lemme show you what a real hit looks like.”

And then—

BANG!

A spinning heel kick tore through the air, colliding directly with the side of Brown’s head.

The last thing Brown registered was the sheer, devastating force—

Then—

Nothing.

Everything shut off.

His body collapsed.

Weightless. Boneless. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

The floor rushed up to meet him.

Then—

Darkness.

Anonymous432: OHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Anonymous711: HES FUCKING DEAD. HE’S DEAD. BUSTER FUCKING KILLED HIM.

Anonymous230: THAT WAS FUCKING SAVAGE HOLY SHIT—

Anonymous7262: Buster>The Boss!

Anonymous745: 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Anonymous993: NAH BUSTER DIDN’T EVEN CARE ABOUT THAT PUNCH, HE JUST STRAIGHT UP MURDERED BRO

Anonymous1072: …It’s over.

Brown was unconscious.

Buster stood over him, rolling his shoulders, shaking the stiffness out of his arms.

Then, casually, he spat on Brown’s motionless body.

“I was told you were a killer… to think I got excited over a punching bag.” he muttered, before turning to Razor and Spunk.

“Come on.”

And with that, he walked away.

Buster had won.

Brown’s eyes cracked open to the dull, flickering light overhead. His head was pounding, his body heavy, aching in ways that felt deep, almost permanent. The cold tiles pressed against his cheek, gritty with filth.

He didn’t move.

Not because he couldn’t—though that was part of it—but because there was no point.

He had lost.

Badly.

How long had he been out?

A few minutes? An hour?

It didn’t really matter.

The distant hum of the prison, the occasional echo of laughter or a distant scuffle, told him time hadn’t stopped just because he had. The world had kept moving while he lay crumpled on the bathroom floor like a discarded rag.

Brown let out a slow breath through his nose, wincing as his ribs protested.

He had been stupid.

What did he think was going to happen? That he’d throw a few punches and come out on top? That he could take on somepony like Buster in his condition?

He wasn’t that guy anymore.

Hadn’t been for a long time.

So why did he fight?

Why had he reacted so violently to Buster’s words about Pup?

He wasn’t her hero. He wasn’t anypony’s hero.

And yet, the second Buster had threatened her—he acted.

Like it mattered.

Like he could stop it.

Stupid.

Maybe they had gone to her cell anyway. Maybe Pup was lying in a heap on her floor, just as broken as him.

He exhaled sharply, trying to push the thought away, but it stuck like a dull ache in his chest.

And then there was the other thing.

The part that made his jaw tighten.

A unicorn had beaten an earth pony.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

Earth ponies were stronger. More durable. Built to take hits, to endure. Unicorns? They had their magic, their tricks, but physically? They were weak.

Or at least, they should’ve been.

But Buster wasn’t weak.

And Brown wasn’t strong.

Not anymore.

He shifted slightly, testing his limbs, feeling the dull throb of bruises, the sharp protest of his ribs, the swelling in his knuckles. His body worked, just barely.

He could get up. Eventually.

But for now, he just lay there, staring at the stained tiles, letting the quiet settle around him.

Thinking.

Waiting.

And hoping—though he wouldn’t admit it—that Pup was still okay.

The sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the dimly lit, grimy bathroom, followed by the slow creak of a stall door swinging open. The scent of urine, sweat, and old blood hung thick in the air. Brown barely managed to turn his head, every movement sluggish and weighed down by exhaustion. His body was a wreck—throbbing ribs, a swollen eye, knuckles torn raw. His head still pulsed with the aftermath of Buster’s last, brutal kick.

Out of the stall stepped Z, the zebra moving with an unhurried, almost lazy grace. He adjusted his jumpsuit’s collar with one hand as he walked to the sink, the flickering overhead light casting shadows across his striped frame. He didn’t react to Brown right away. Instead, he ran his hands under the weak stream of water, rubbing them together methodically, letting the silence stretch. The way he moved, the way he took his time—it was as if he belonged to a different world entirely, detached from the chaos and suffering that ruled this prison.

Finally, as he dried his hands on a rag from his pocket, he turned his sharp green eyes onto Brown. Calculating.

“Still breathing, huh?” he mused, almost to himself. “Impressive. Lethwei’s no joke, especially when you’re in no shape to fight.”

Brown didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just lay there, staring blankly at the cracked tiles above him, listening.

Z leaned against the sink, crossing his arms. “Didn’t see the fight firsthand. Was busy reading the viewer comments in the cafeteria.” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “They loved it, you know. Can’t get enough of watching you get your head caved in. It’s funny to them.”

His voice was calm, detached, but there was something beneath it. Something unreadable.

“Peekaboo wasn’t a bad idea, though. Clever, considering what little you had to work with. Maybe if it weren’t for that Lethwei shit, you could’ve done something.”

He tossed the rag into the sink, rolling his shoulders before strolling toward Brown. He crouched down next to him, resting his arms on his knees, his gaze level. For a long moment, he just studied him.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I like you, Brown.”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made Brown finally shift his eyes toward him.

Z’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze. “Most ponies don’t see it. Some don’t even realize it. But there’s a reason you’ve survived five years in this shithole.”

His voice dipped lower, more measured. “You keep getting beaten. You keep getting knocked down. And yet, every time—”

“You get back up.”

There was no mockery in his tone. No amusement. Just a quiet, matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the truth.

Brown stared at him, unreadable.

Z let out a small breath through his nose. “Is that a life worth living? Can’t say I think so. But the fact remains—you’re still here. The longest-running player in the Sacrifice Games. And for whatever reason, you finally decided to fight back.”

A pause.

Then, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Z’s lips.

“I respect that.”

He straightened, stretching his arms above his head as if shaking off a lingering thought. Then, without warning, he extended a hand down to Brown.

“So here’s my offer: I’ll train you.”

Brown’s fingers barely twitched. His whole body was wrecked, yet his mind latched onto the words with cautious curiosity.

“I’ll get your body back into shape. Put some muscle on you. Won’t turn you into a Lethwei monster like Buster, but I’ll make you something useful again.”

For the first time, Brown’s voice croaked out, rough from pain.

“Why?”

Z’s smirk deepened slightly.

“Don’t worry about that.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he hauled Brown up, effortlessly shouldering his weight, moving with a casual strength that made it clear he had done this before.

Brown could feel the solid frame beneath Z’s prison jumpsuit. He wasn’t as bulky as some of the others, but he had power in his form—power that didn’t come from brute force, but from something more refined. Z was strong in his own right too.

As Z carried him out of the bathroom, his voice came low and even.

“This benefits me too, trust that. But first, let’s get you patched up. Then… we start.”

Brown let his head lull against Z’s shoulder, his mind clouded, his body heavy.

Training.

A chance to be something other than a punching bag.

Maybe it was foolish to believe it would change anything.

But maybe, just maybe—

This was the start of something different.

The showers hissed with steam, the air thick with the scent of cheap soap and stale humidity. Water cascaded down onto the cracked tiles, the steady rhythm filling the space, a sound that, for a moment, drowned out the reality beyond these walls.

A trio stood beneath the lukewarm spray—a mix of quiet routine and tired camaraderie.

Gritt, the slender griffin, hummed a light tune as he rinsed the grime from his feathers, the melody soft and almost carefree. His black-feathered body was wiry, lean rather than powerful, built for speed rather than brute strength. His wings stretched out slightly, the orange primary feathers stark against the dark plumage, a rare splash of colour on his otherwise shadowy form.

But it was his face that drew the most attention.

His right eye was gone, an empty, sunken socket where the organ used to be, the right side of his face sagging slightly, a wound that happened outside the prison once upon a time. He was small for a griffin, lacking the broad, intimidating bulk of others of his kind, but he carried himself with an easy confidence, unbothered by his size, his injury, or the world around him.

His voice wasn’t particularly strong, but it filled the space nonetheless—a stark contrast to the weight of their reality.

Beside him, Green, a green rounded pegasus with deep emerald fur, stood with her eyes closed, letting the water wash over her face, down her shoulders, over her breasts, rinsing away the lingering filth of another night spent in forced company. Her expression wasn’t one of sorrow or misery—just boredom. Routine. This was life now, and she had accepted it, even if she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore.

Across from them, Rhythm, a blue unicorn with striking green eyes, rubbed a hand down her damp body, exhaling a long, weary sigh.

She flicked her short, wet mane back, watching the water swirl into the drain before muttering aloud:

“Another day of being fucked senseless.”

Her voice was hollow, devoid of anger, lacking even resignation. Just a cold, unfeeling acceptance of reality.

No one disagreed.

Because it was true.

And the viewers knew it, too.

The cameras, embedded in the corners of the showers like watchful, unblinking eyes, captured everything. The ever-present screen at the end of the showers flickered with a cascade of comments—some thirsting, some mocking, others laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Anonymous7821: “Goddamn, look at that ass. If I was in there, I’d be hitting that shit every night.”

Anonymous3190: “Rhythm sounding extra dead inside today. Kinda hot ngl.”

Anonymous1903: “Bro, Green’s tits are fuckin’ immaculate. It’s not fair.”

Anonymous5406: “Another day, another fuck lmao. What’s for breakfast? Cock.”

Anonymous6074: “Bet Rhythm cries when she gets dicked down. That’s why it’s hot.”

Anonymous2839: “Yo, why is Gritt even here? Bruh, ain’t nobody wanna see his gay ass.”

Anonymous1072: “You guys are brain-dead. Gritt’s carrying the entertainment. A male griffin getting railed is peak content.”

Anonymous4321: “I’d fuck ‘em all except the fag.”

A meme edit of Rhythm’s blank expression was already making its rounds, with the caption:

“When ur only purpose is getting fucked”

Some laughed. Others probably jerked off to it.

Rhythm didn’t need to see the comments. She already knew what they said. They were as predictable as the sun rising and setting. The same hungry stares from behind screens. The same worthless fantasies spewed into the void by anonymous nobodies.

Nothing changed.

Just another day.

The sound of running water filled the showers, steam curling around the trio as they stood beneath the lukewarm spray. The cracked tiles beneath their feet were slick, the dim, buzzing light above barely cutting through the thick fog.

Gritt glanced over his shoulder at Rhythm, his tone light, casual, almost playful. “You’re doing well, babe. You should be used to it by now—been almost a year, right?”

Rhythm let out a slow, tired sigh, rolling her shoulders as she ran her fingers through her short, damp mane. Her green eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Easy for you to say.” she muttered, voice low but sharp. “You actually enjoy getting rammed up the ass by stallions.”

Gritt let out a chuckle, shrugging as he turned back to the stream of water, ruffling the damp feathers along his arms. “Ain’t exactly the worst way to spend a night.” he admitted, flexing his claws slightly. “Some of ‘em even got the decency to be gentle.”

Rhythm scoffed, rubbing her arms as if scrubbing away something that would never fully disappear. “I’m a lesbian, Gritt. I don’t want them touching me. It just—” she exhaled sharply. “It feels wrong.”

Gritt’s smirk faded slightly. He turned, stepping closer, the dampness of his fur and feathers brushing against Rhythm’s bare back as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. The hug was firm but warm, his beak close to her ear.

“I know.” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I know it ain’t fair. But you got me, babe. You got Green too.”

At the mention of her name, Green, the emerald-coated pegasus, hummed lightly in acknowledgment, still facing the showerhead. She dragged a hand down her face, wiping water from her eyes, her posture relaxed despite the conversation.

Gritt tightened his hold around Rhythm slightly, resting his chin against her damp mane. “Others too.” he reminded her. “You ain’t alone in this.”

Rhythm swallowed, standing stiffly in his hold before her shoulders sagged. “I know.” she muttered.

Gritt pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his talons brushing against her arms. “Sex ain’t special here. It’s just a chore.” he told her, his tone calm, measured. “Annoying. Makes you wanna sleep in, makes you wanna shut your brain off. But that’s all it is. A chore.”

Rhythm closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to process that, to make herself believe it. She had known this, of course. Logically, she knew it. But sometimes, her mind would wander—would reminisce, would drift into thoughts of what sex was supposed to be.

She barely realised she had started thinking about it when Gritt suddenly nudged her temple with his beak, snapping her out of it.

“Don’t go there, babe.” he said, a little firmer now. “Stop seeing it as somethin’ important. Somethin’ that belongs to lovers. It’s not. Not here.”

Green finally turned to face them, rubbing her neck, her expression unreadable. “He’s right.” she murmured. “Thinking about it like that… it just makes it worse.”

Rhythm exhaled, nodding slightly, but the weight in her chest didn’t fully lift.

Still, as Gritt let her go, she shook her arms out, forcing herself to relax. Another day. Another chore.

Trying to shift the mood, Gritt stepped up behind Rhythm, his talons light against her damp shoulders. With practiced ease, he began to knead slow circles into the tense muscles at the base of her neck, his touch both familiar and careful.

“So.” he started, his tone deliberately chipper, as if the conversation moments before had never happened. “Who you got today?”

Rhythm let her head tilt forward slightly, allowing him better access as she exhaled through her nose. She thought for a moment, rubbing the water from her arms absentmindedly.

“Let’s see… Vicky said I had Hunt this morning.” she muttered, closing her eyes briefly as Gritt worked out a particularly stiff knot. “Scava in the evening… and Green Riot tonight.”

Gritt hummed, his claws flexing slightly as he moved down to her upper back.

“Hunt, huh? Big cock on that one.” His tone was casual, almost amused, as if they were discussing some minor inconvenience rather than the reality of what she had to endure.

Rhythm snorted softly. “Tell me about it.”

“Scava, though—” Gritt tapped his beak thoughtfully. “That one’s easy. Doesn’t last long. You might even get to enjoy some alone time after.”

Before Rhythm could respond, Green, who had been rinsing her hair beneath the steady stream of water, suddenly spoke up.

“Riot’s dead.”

Rhythm blinked, lifting her head slightly as she turned toward the pegasus. Green ran her fingers through her wet mane, squeezing out excess water as she elaborated, her voice as indifferent as if she were commenting on the weather.

“Jaws gunned him down in the cafeteria. Whole thing was a mess.”

There was a brief pause before Gritt clicked his tongue, his talons momentarily pausing against Rhythm’s skin before resuming their slow, soothing motions.

“Well, shit.” he murmured, sounding entirely unbothered. Then, with a grin, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the side of Rhythm’s head, his beak brushing against her damp fur.

“Guess that means you don’t have to fuck anyone tonight, then. Congratulations, babe.”

Rhythm let out a short, breathy laugh, the first real smile she had shown all morning.

“One less scumbag.” she muttered.

Gritt gave her shoulders a final, affectionate squeeze before stepping back under his showerhead, sighing in contentment as the water ran through his feathers.

Gritt’s sharp green eyes flicked over to Green, his gaze lingering.

She was, objectively, perfect.

Natural curves, smooth emerald fur clinging wetly to her skin, her perky, well-shaped tits glistening under the dim, flickering light. Her toned stomach led down to the kind of ass that turned heads—round, firm, the kind that looked sculpted rather than earned. The kind of body that could have landed her a cushy life under different circumstances. A model, an actress, a trophy wife—any mare or stallion would be lucky to have her.

But here? In this shithole?

She was just another product.

“Who you got today, gorgeous?” Gritt asked, his tone casual, his beak clicking slightly as he spoke.

Green ran a hand down her stomach, brushing off the lingering soap, flicking the water from her fingers before stretching her arms above her head. The motion made her chest lift slightly, her muscles subtly flexing.

“Just Richie.” she answered simply, her voice smooth, unbothered. “Fucked Bandit and Heist this morning.”

She sighed, shaking her head slightly as she ran her fingers through her damp mane, squeezing out excess water. “This is my third shower today.”

Gritt hummed, stepping closer, his feathers ruffling slightly as a smug grin spread across his beak. “Damn, babe.” he mused, tilting his head. “You workin’ your pussy overtime, or are you just tryin’ to get those stallions outta the way so you can have the rest of the day to yourself?”

Green smirked, shifting her weight onto one leg, her posture loose, relaxed. “Just wanna get the fucking out of the way.” she admitted with a shrug. “Then I can chill.”

Gritt chuckled at that, nodding as if in approval. “Fair enough.” he said, his voice light, playful. But as he stepped behind her, his claws found her ass, groping the firm flesh with an easy familiarity.

“Just don’t work yourself too hard too quickly.” he murmured, his talons pressing in just slightly, his grip lingering. “Stallions won’t want to use you if you get too loose.”

Green only hummed, unphased, barely reacting to his touch as she rinsed the last of the suds from her fur.

“I know.”

Her tone was indifferent, her body language relaxed. She wasn’t offended. Wasn’t disgusted. This was just how it was.

The moment Gritt’s talons sank into Green’s ass, the comment section exploded.

Anonymous7821: “FUCK I wish that was me gripping all that ass.”

Anonymous5406: “IMAGINE THE SQUISH. MY DICK IS THROBBING.”

Anonymous6074: “Green got that perfect fat-to-muscle ratio. I’d sell my left nut just to squeeze it once.”

Anonymous7021: “Just once? Weak. I’d risk death to tap that.”

Anonymous2839: “BRUH I’M ACTUALLY ABOUT TO CUM.”

Anonymous9910: “If Gritt gets to grope her, I better see some more action in a minute.”

Anonymous7363: “Vicky better tho.”

Anonymous7986: “I can hear the squish through the screen.”

Anonymous9837: “STOP TOUCHI GN HER SHEES MINE.”

Anonymous9837: “YOU FUCKING PEICE OF SHIT I SWEAR TO FUCC.”

Anonymous9837: “I WIL KILL YOI. I WILL SKIN YOU ALKIVE.”

Anonymous4321: “Bro ain’t even appreciating what he got in his hands. No reaction is wild.”

Anonymous9837: “I HOOPE YOU GET RAPED AND TORTURED. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.”

Anonymous6074: “LMAOOOO who’s this dude losing his mind?”

Anonymous7986: “Chill out, virgin.”

Anonymous9910: “Holy shit, he’s actually having a stroke.”

Anonymous9837: “IM NOT JOKING I HATE YOU I HATE YOIU I HATE YOUUU.”

The water continued to run, washing away the sweat, the touch, the filth.

At least, for now.

Green, still rinsing off, turned her head slightly, her emerald eyes locking onto Gritt with a smirk. She reached back, running her fingers through her damp mane, flicking droplets to the floor before tilting her hips just enough to make a teasing show of her curves.

“So, little slut.” she purred, her voice playful, mocking, “who you got today?”

Gritt didn’t flinch at the name—he’d heard worse, embraced worse. Instead, he let out a hum, rolling his shoulders as he lazily stretched his arms over his head, claws flexing.

“Let’s see…” he mused, counting off on his talons. “Fang, Drake… oh, and Jaws.” He paused for a moment, tapping his beak in thought. “Might pick up a few more stallions too, just to earn myself some extra food. Supplies have been lookin’ a little thin lately.”

At that, both Green and Rhythm stopped what they were doing. They exchanged a brief glance before Green turned back to him, blinking.

“Hold up.” Green started, narrowing her eyes. “Did you just say Jaws?”

Gritt flicked his tail, giving her a lazy grin. “Yeah. What about it?”

Rhythm, still standing beneath the running water, crossed her arms under her chest, her expression skeptical. “I thought Jaws was straight.”

Gritt let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he ran a claw through his damp feathers. “Jaws is straight.” he admitted, his voice lighter than it should’ve been. “But Jaws also just… likes power. He doesn’t fuck for pleasure—he fucks to remind you who’s in charge.”

His smirk faltered slightly. His beak clicked once, barely noticeable, but Rhythm caught it.

“He’ll fuck anything smaller than him, mare or not.”

For the first time, the teasing edge in his tone was gone.

Gritt exhaled through his nose, his tail flicking again—a tell.

“Been fucked by him before.” he muttered, running a claw absentmindedly over his arm. His usual casual demeanour dimmed slightly, something unreadable passing over his face. “He’s too damn rough. Doesn’t do it once, either. Does it as many times as he wants, until he’s satisfied, doesn’t help that he gets off on making us suffer. Not exactly my idea of a good time.”

There was a pause.

Green went silent.

She understood.

She had been there too.

Rhythm clenched her jaw, looking away.

The comment section lit up like a wildfire the moment Gritt mentioned Jaws and his twisted appetites.

Anonymous5406: “Oh shit, poor Gritt. Getting wrecked by Jaws is a death sentence with extra steps.”

Anonymous7021: “Dude’s built like a tank and fucks like a demon. RIP Gritt’s ass.”

Anonymous6074: “He’s not just rough; he’s a goddamn sadist. ‘Til he’s satisfied’? What the fuck does that even mean?!”

Anonymous7986: “Did you see the way he rubbed his arm? Dude’s legit traumatized.”

Anonymous2839: “Yeah, and for Gritt to admit it? That says a lot.

Anonymous7986: “Bruh, imagine Gritt trying to walk the next day.”

Anonymous4321: “You couldn’t pay me to survive that. I’d just fucking die.”

Anonymous9910: “Gritt better hope Jaws doesn’t decide to ‘share’ him with the boys.”

Anonymous9837: “HE DESERVES IT I HOPE HE DIES SCREAMING.”

Anonymous9837: “I HATE HIM. I HATE YOU ALL.”

Anonymous9910: “Lmao, he’s back. Dude’s got issues.”

Anonymous7986: “Gritt gets railed by Jaws and this guy’s the one having a meltdown.”

With a huff, Green broke the tension the only way she knew how.

She grinned, stepping forward, her hips swaying slightly as she reached out and gave Gritt’s ass a firm slap.

“Well.” she purred, tilting her head, “I could always warm you up for him.”

Gritt let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed the spot where she smacked him. “Babe, you don’t got the tools for that.”

“Oh, please.” Green rolled her eyes, grinning.

“Nah.” Gritt mused, stepping back under the stream, letting the water soak into his feathers. “Fang and Drake will be a good enough warm-up. Figure I might as well get my body ready for the main event, y’know?”

It was a joke—a bad one—but it was all he had.

And the way Green and Rhythm chuckled, shaking their heads, told him that they understood.

Because at the end of the day, that’s all they could do.

Make light of it.

Rhythm lingered under the stream, her green eyes flickering toward Gritt, watching as he casually scrubbed himself down, his movements slow, methodical, unbothered.

After a moment, she swallowed and spoke, her voice low, hesitant but firm. “Hey… speaking of warming up… could you help me warm up?”

Gritt blinked, tilting his head slightly, before his sharp green eyes flicked toward her fully.

She had shifted, leaning against the shower wall, her body exposed, her tail moved aside in clear invitation, her soaked pussy exposed. A faint blush dusted her damp cheeks, but there was no hesitation in her posture.

“I’m not looking forward to Hunt.” she muttered, her voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

Gritt hummed at that, rinsing off the last of the shampoo that Green had passed to him. He didn’t react with surprise or hesitation—just acceptance, the same way he accepted everything in this place.

“Yeah, babe.” he said nonchalantly, shaking the water from his feathers before running a talon down his chest. “Give me a sec.”

Rhythm nodded, shifting slightly, bracing herself against the wall.

Anonymous5406: “Wait… WHAT?! I thought Gritt was gay?”

Anonymous7021: “Same. Bro’s been taking dick since day one. Now he’s fucking mares too?”

Anonymous6074: “Gritt’s pansexual, you morons. He’ll fuck anyone. This isn’t new.”

Anonymous7986: “Nah, this is different. Dude was all about stallions before. Now he’s fucking Rhythm? Plot twist.”

Anonymous2839: “Rhythm is such a whore, holy shit.”

Anonymous3190: “Lmao, who isn’t she fucking at this point?”

Anonymous7021: “Gritt speedrunning the prison dating sim.”

Anonymous9910: “Typical. Lesbians are only lesbians until they need dick or claws.”

Anonymous4321: “Hunt hasn’t even touched her yet, and she’s already lining up Gritt? Weak.”

Anonymous7986: “Imagine being this desperate for a ‘warm-up.’ Pathetic.”

Anonymous5406: “Achievement Unlocked: Pansexual Playboy.”

Gritt took his time, letting the warm water cascade over him for a few seconds longer before stepping toward her. As he did, his gaze traced over her form—her curves, her posture, the slight tension in her muscles. He could feel himself responding naturally, his body preparing itself for what was expected of him, his red shaft slowly rising from its sheath.

He exhaled through his nose, resting a clawed hand on her hip, his talons tracing faint circles against her damp fur before sliding upward, cupping a feel of her cute breasts, pinching the nipples playfully, making Rhythm shift from pleasure. After a moment, his talons slid back down, firmly on her firm ass, making her squirm. With his tool fully out, he took aim at her pussy, poking her entrance.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice softer now, less playful.

Rhythm nodded, biting her lip. “Just… be gentle, okay?”

“Of course.” he murmured, shifting closer.

Slowly and gently, the tip of his cock started to penetrate and immediately Rhythm’s morning walls tightened around Gritt’s cock, making her breath stutter at the feeling. Gritt pushed it all the way in, grunting at the feeling of Rhythm’s vaginal walls hugging him. He held it there, unmoving, waiting for her morning pussy to adjust to his cock, preparing her for the day.

This wasn’t about pleasure.

This was just a helping hand.

After a few second of staying in that position, Rhythm shifted slightly, looking over her shoulder. “You can move now, keep it slow, please.”

“Alright, hun.” Gritt started to move as soon as Rhythm indicated the go-ahead, the thrusts in and out deep but light, Gritt’s pelvis practically tapping against her ass, her panting quiet but her heart racing. “There we go, nice and easy.” He said, more to himself than to Rhythm.

As the rhythmic motion continued, Green, having finished her own shower, smirked at the sight before her. With a sharp, playful slap to both of their asses, she made Rhythm yelp, making Gritt chuckle through his motions.

“See you two sluts later.” she teased, tossing her damp mane over her shoulder as she stepped toward the exit.

“See you on the other side.” Gritt replied smoothly, never breaking pace.

Rhythm let out a quiet breath, trying to steady herself as Green disappeared into the mist of the showers.

Rhythm exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead lightly against the shower wall, her body still as she let herself focus on the sensation of Gritt’s cock. His claws rested firmly on her hips, his hold neither forceful nor demanding—just steady.

She let out a quiet breath, murmuring under her breath.

“I wish they all fucked me like this…”

Gritt let out a quiet chuckle, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. His hands flexed slightly against her damp fur, his grip adjusting as he smirked.

“Babe, if they all fucked you like this, you’d be stuck with them all day and night.” he teased, his tone light despite the weight of their situation.

Rhythm huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Might not be so bad.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gritt murmured, tilting his head. “You say that now, but trust me—” his fingers gave a teasing squeeze against her hips, his claws dragging lightly along her curves ”—you’d get bored real fast.”

Her green eyes flickered half-lidded as she let out a quiet exhale.

“You can speed up…” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Gritt let out a low chuckle, the sound gravelly, almost teasing, as his talons flexed against her hips, shifting his grip.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

His movements sharpened, his breath hitching as the heat building inside him started to coil, tighten, burn.

His pace sped up and the sounds that came from it all got faster and louder; the regular ‘plap-plap-plap’ the clearest example of that, but the ‘shlick’s of his cock could be heard picking up as well. That was all accompanied by the sensations of those actions getting stronger and more fervorous, with the smacks of his hips against Rhythm’s butt feeling more harder and more solid, and the way his cock plunged into the mare’s depths, the tunnel sliding across his length while squeezing it in...

Gritt could feel the tension in his loins rising to a feverish point, and he could tell her own orgasm was just ahead, and so he sped towards the finish line. Thrusting his hips yet harder, his cock rammed into Rhythm’s squirting snatch faster, her mouth open in a quiet scream as she came.

And then finally, Gritt pulled out suddenly as he felt that tension in his loins burst, and waves of pleasure rolled over him as he came, feeling his cock surging with cum, and shooting it straight at the wall beside her, ropes of his orgasm being wiped away off the wall by the raining shower.

Both were breathing heavily, their bodies still pressed against the shower wall, water cascading over them, washing away the sweat that mixed with the steam.

Rhythm let out a long, satisfied sigh, her fingers running through her soaked mane, her body buzzing in the afterglow.

As the cameras in the shower captured Gritt and Rhythm’s climax, the viewer comments descended into unrestrained chaos. The comment section lit up with lust, mockery, and outright disturbing fantasies.

Anonymous5406: “WHAT. A. SHOW.”

Anonymous4321: “I’d tie her to the wall and fuck her until she begged for mercy.”

Anonymous7021: “Damn, Gritt’s got some stamina. I would’ve busted after five thrusts.”

Anonymous3190: “I would’ve filled her up. Over and over again.”

Anonymous2839: “I came AGAIN. Rhythm’s moans are like music to my ears.”

Anonymous7986: “Rhythm’s ass is just chef’s kiss. No wonder he couldn’t hold back.”

Anonymous2839: “WHY DIDN’T HE CUM INSIDE?! WASTED OPPORTUNITY.”

Anonymous7986: “Meanwhile, I’m out here alone, dry as a desert.”

Anonymous9910: “Why is Gritt even pulling out? They’re all gonna die anyway—may as well breed her before she’s gone.”

Anonymous6074: “Gritt doesn’t deserve that mare. I’d wreck her every single day, and she’d love it.”

Anonymous7986: “Imagine being Gritt right now. Fuck, I need a cold shower.”

Anonymous7021: “This show is better than anything on Neighflix.”

Anonymous3190: “How does Gritt get all the mares and the stallions? Life’s not fair.”

Anonymous2839: “Bet Rhythm liked it more than she’s letting on. Slut.”

Anonymous1072: “Peak entertainment. Two prisoners banging in a shower while the world burns. Truly, we’re living in the golden age of morality.”

“Thanks.” she murmured, her voice breathless.

Gritt grinned lazily, his feathers ruffled from exertion.

“Anytime, babe.”

Rhythm pushed off the wall, shaking out her fur as she straightened up, her mind already shifting back to the day ahead.

No time to linger.

She had chores to do.

And so, with one final glance over her shoulder, she left the showers, stepping back into the cold air beyond the steamy haze.

With Rhythm now gone, the space suddenly felt quieter—emptier. There was still grime clinging to him, the invisible filth that no amount of hot water could fully wash away so, he stayed a little longer. But as he scrubbed at his arms and chest, his thoughts drifted.

Something felt… off.

It wasn’t anything immediate—just a small, nagging feeling at the back of his head.

Then, as he stood there, rinsing out the last of the soap, it finally hit him.

He looked around.

Scanned the showers.

Counted the bodies, the usual faces that filtered in and out.

Someone was missing.

His brows furrowed, his beak clicking slightly as he muttered,

“Where the fuck is Pup?”

The steady hiss of the shower faded into the background as Gritt’s ears twitched, picking up something unusual beyond the steam-filled room.

A commotion.

The distant shuffle of hurried steps, the unmistakable tone of panic, whispers of whimpering, rushed and urgent.

His gut sank.

Without hesitating, he turned sharply toward the exit, his talons clicking against the damp tiles as he moved. The moist floor made his steps treacherous, his claws scraping for purchase as he nearly slipped rounding one of the small connecting hallways.

As he closed the distance, the sounds became clearer.

Rhythm’s voice—worried, soft.

“Pup? Oh fuck, are you okay?”

Green—angry, demanding.

“Who the fuck did this to you?!”

And then—sobbing.

Heavy, ragged, broken.

Gritt’s stomach twisted. He reached the dressing room entrance, pushing past the damp curtain shielding the space.

The sight made him freeze.

Green, Rhythm, and a third mare—Rosy, an earth pony with purple fur, bright pink eyes, and long pink bangs framing her face—all stood in a semi-circle, hovering around a small, trembling figure.

Rosy looked nervous, her hands fidgeting, her expression twisted into one of helplessness.

And in the centre, sitting on the bench, curled in on herself, was Pup.

Her hands trembled against her lap, blood smeared across her maw and face, staining her fur, her jumpsuit ruined with deep, dark red.

The scent of iron clung thick in the air, mixing with the fading steam of the showers.

Her shoulders heaved with every breath, the sobs tearing out of her raw, choked throat.

Gritt’s mind raced.

What the fuck happened?

Pup winced, rubbing her sore rear end as she limped forward, her ears drooping in exhaustion.

“Fucking hell…” she muttered under her breath, her tail twitching weakly between her legs. Every step ached, every movement stiff, her body protesting after a long, brutal night.

Sticky.

She could feel it.

The mess still clung to her fur, her inner thighs matted from under her attire, the discomfort unshakable. She groaned, pressing her forehead against the cool concrete wall of the corridor for a moment before pushing herself forward again.

“I swear, I wouldn’t mind not bein’ his favorite for once.” she mumbled with a yawn, rolling her aching shoulders.

But that wasn’t how this worked.

Not for her.

Not with Jaws.

Last night was horrible…

Pup had stepped into his cell like she always did—head high, hips swaying, smile practiced and perfect.

She knew the game.

And she played it well.

The first thing she did was stroke his ego, wrapping herself around him like a good, obedient little bitch.

She had to.

She knew what happened when she didn’t.

Pup stripped down to nothing, her body pressed flush against his, her fur soft against his thick, heavy bulk of fat and muscle.

“Mmm, missed you, baby.” she had purred, nuzzling into his thick neck, her voice sultry, sweet, calculated.

Her hands roamed over him, tracing every roll, every scar, the way he liked.

Jaws let out a low chuckle, smoke curling from his nostrils as he exhaled a thick drag of his cigarette, his free hand gripping her ass, his claws digging in.

“That’s a good girl.” he had muttered, roughly kneading her flesh.

Pup had bit his ear playfully, letting out a soft, teasing whimper, her tail wagging as if she were enjoying it.

Pretending.

She knew what he liked.

She knew how to keep him pleased.

She knew that if she played her role right, he would stay calm.

At least for a little while.

But Jaws never stayed calm for long.

And last night?

Last night, he hadn’t been merciful.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke and the cheap, artificial scent of shampoo, Jaws’ nostrils flared.

Something else was there—something faint, something wrong.

The scent of a pony.

A stallion.

His grip on Pup’s ass tightened, claws pressing in deeper.

His smile faded.

His eyes darkened.

“Why the fuck do you smell like another stallion?” His voice was low, dangerous, the words dragging from his throat like a slow-burning fire.

Pup froze.

Her ears twitched, her tail stiffening as her heart skipped a beat.

“Wha—? What are you talking about, baby?” she asked, forcing a small, nervous laugh, trying to sound innocent, confused.

She already knew what he was talking about.

Brown.

Fuck.

She had gotten too comfortable. Too close.

She should have been more careful.

Jaws sniffed again, his thick fingers tightening around her waist, his grip no longer teasing—but punishing.

“Don’t fucking play dumb with me, bitch.”

His voice boomed, rattling in her ears, making her fur stand on end.

Then—a sharp slap across her face.

The force made her head snap to the side, a sharp sting blooming across her cheek, her breath catching as she swallowed a cry.

“I said—tell me the fucking truth.”

Pup trembled, her ears flattening, but she couldn’t lie.

Not anymore.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her body tensing as she owned up.

“It was nothing.” she whispered, hurriedly, desperate to keep him from getting angrier. “I swear, baby, I didn’t do anything—I just—”

Jaws growled.

He didn’t care.

Her words meant nothing.

His massive hand shot out, gripping her by the hair, yanking her violently backward, making her yelp.

“You think I give a fuck what you did?” he snarled, dragging her across the room.

Her feet scrambled against the floor, her hands clawing at his wrist, trying to ease the searing pain in her scalp.

“J-Jaws, please—”

But he wasn’t listening.

He threw her against the wall, her back hitting cold stone, knocking the wind from her lungs.

Above her, a pair of rusted iron cuffs hung from chains, swaying slightly from the impact.

She knew what was coming.

Her breath hitched.

“Baby, wait—wait, please, let’s talk, I—”

Cold metal clamped around her wrists.

Tight.

Too tight.

She whimpered, tugging weakly, but there was no give.

No escape.

She was trapped.

Jaws stepped back, admiring his work, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

Then—he grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

“You wanna act like a cheap fucking whore?” he sneered.

His fingers dug into her cheeks, his claws pressing against her skin.

“Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Then came the pain.

Not the kind that made her shudder in pleasure.

Not the kind that was rough, but bearable.

Not even the kind that left her aching, but able to walk away afterward.

This was different.

This wasn’t sex.

This was punishment.

This was violence.

It was raw.

It was hatred.

There was nothing pleasurable about it—nothing for her.

It was brutal, it was relentless, and no matter how much she sobbed, how much she begged him to stop, how hoarse her voice became, he didn’t stop.

He used her over and over, each time leaving her hanging there, leaking of his cum, broken, his filth dripping down her trembling legs.

And sometimes?

He’d leave.

Just like that.

He wouldn’t even close the cell door.

He’d walk out, leave her exposed, leave her defenceless, leave her open—an invitation to whatever sick, looming stallion happened to pass by.

Just to remind her.

Just to prove a point.

She belonged to him.

And no one else.

Pup sighed, her legs threatening to give out beneath her, wobbling with exhaustion.

That night… that night had been one of the worst.

Jaws had always been rough, always been cruel, but something about last night had been different—meaner, more punitive, as if he had needed to prove a point with every degrading thrust, every degrading word. It was always an act of dominance, but last night? Last night, it was personal.

The cameras zoomed in on Pup’s limping figure, her exhaustion and pain evident with every step.

Anonymous4321: “That’s what happens when you play favorites, slut. Should’ve stayed loyal to Jaws.”

Anonymous1072: “Brown and Pup? Laughable. She’s not a partner; she’s a toy. And toys don’t get to cheat.”

Anonymous5406: “She wanted Brown, now she gets to limp like him. Karma’s beautiful.”

Anonymous7021: “She’s not even limping from pain—she’s limping from guilt. Jaws should’ve fucked it out of her harder.”

Anonymous9910: “She deserves to crawl, not walk. Let’s see her beg for Jaws’ forgiveness next time.”

Anonymous7986: “Cuddling up to Brown like he’s some knight in shining armor? You earned this.”

Anonymous6074: “She probably moaned more for Brown’s hand on her waist than for Jaws. What a joke.”

Anonymous2839: “Her thighs are sticky for Brown? Guess Jaws made sure they’re his now.”

Anonymous2839: “Cheating whore. Jaws gave you purpose, and this is how you repay him?”

Anonymous3190: “She thought she could cuddle a broken stallion and get away with it? Nah, Jaws fixed that real quick.”

Anonymous7986: “Bet she’s still thinking about Brown. Cute. Wonder how Jaws will top last night.”

Anonymous4321: “Loyalty? Never heard of her. Pup’s just a cumdump looking for pity now.”

Anonymous7986: “Pup’s walking like a whore on a guilt trip.”

Pup didn't read the comments, instead she focused on her goal—the showers.

The thought of warm water cascading down her fur was the only small mercy she could cling to. She wondered if the dry, crusted filth clinging between her legs would wash off, or if she’d have to pick at it.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She quickened her steps.

But then—her thoughts drifted.

Something else occupied her mind, something… better.

Something that, for the first time in a long, long time, gave her a feeling that wasn’t dread or disgust.

Brown.

Before she had to go to Jaws, she had been with Brown.

She remembered the way his body had felt, the warmth of him, the way she had pressed herself against his side, one leg draped over his, her head resting on his shoulder. His chest had risen and fallen calmly, steady, unbothered, while her own raced—not out of fear, not out of arousal, but out of something else entirely.

She had never been close to a male in that way before.

It wasn’t sexual.

It wasn’t transactional.

It was just closeness.

And when she had teased him, whispering that he could let his hands roam lower, he hadn’t.

Instead, he had simply stroked her, with a care she had never known.

With a care she hadn’t even realised she had craved until that moment.

That was what made him different.

That was what made him special in a place like this.

Every other stallion saw her as something to use, as a thing, as a toy, a cumdump, a body to fuck and discard.

But Brown?

He didn’t.

He hadn’t.

And she needed that again.

She needed that warmth.

That touch.

Not sex, not lust—just him.

Every day, she decided, she would seek him out. Before she served stallions, after she served them, she would crawl into his arms, press into him, steal whatever warmth he had left to give.

And when it came time for Jaws?

She would wash the scent of Brown off her before heading to him.

But even if Brown would never truly be hers, even if the world they lived in would never allow it, she could have this.

She could have him, even if just for moments.

And so, despite everything, despite the filth, the pain, the bruises, Pup smiled.

A daily routine of Brown snuggles.

That was something worth looking forward to.

Suddenly, noise faded in with each step she took, the plap-plap-plap echoed through the corridor, slow, deliberate, each wet smack of flesh against flesh a rhythm that had long since become background noise in this prison.

Pup’s ears twitched, but she didn’t flinch. She knew what that sound was—just another mare or maybe Gritt, earning their keep, making sure they stayed under the gang’s protection. It wasn’t her business. Not her problem. Just another chore being done, another transaction taking place.

She kept walking, limping slightly, her muscles still sore, her mind drifting back to the thought of warm water, of scrubbing away last night, of getting rid of the filth clinging to her fur. She wasn’t paying attention, not really, but then—something made her glance to the side.

Her gaze flicked toward the half-open cell door, and she froze.

The cell was dark, but her eyes adjusted quickly.

At the farthest wall, shackled in place, spread out, broken—was the new unicorn mare.

The same young mare she had seen before.

The same mare Buster had claimed the first night.

She was naked, her fragile, thin frame marred with bruises, fresh and ugly, spreading across her pale grey fur like ink bleeding into paper. A full day’s worth of abuse.

Her arms hung limp, the rusted cuffs biting into her wrists, trapping her the same way Pup had been trapped the night before.

And the stallion inside with her?

A scruffy, old bastard, his fur matted, his mane unkempt, his body reeking of booze and sweat.

A half-empty bottle of beer swayed in one unsteady grip, while his other held one of the mare’s legs up, keeping her open, keeping her positioned just right as he thrust into her, his hips moving sluggishly, drunkenly.

He muttered, slurred, grunted, talking in half-finished words, giggling to himself like this was nothing but some casual amusement, some fun little game.

And the mare?

She didn’t move.

She didn’t resist.

She just stared past him, her eyes dull, her expression completely empty—as if she had already left her body, as if her mind had given up long before her body did.

A defeated look.

A hollow look.

Pup knew that look.

She had seen it too many times.

She had worn it herself.

The plap-plap-plap continued.

Steady. Uncaring. Unbothered.

Pup’s breath was shallow, her feet rooted to the floor, but deep inside, something coiled, something hot, something ugly.

She could walk away.

She should walk away.

But would she?

Pup’s hands curled into fists, her nails pressing into her palms.

How long had this mare been in here?

When had she last eaten?

Where the fuck was Vicky?

She was supposed to be managing the new girls, supposed to be keeping track of them, watching over them, making sure they survived long enough to be useful. That was her job. That was what she was good at.

Had she forgotten?

Or worse—had she just not cared?

Pup’s jaw clenched.

She never liked Vicky from the beginning.

The way she paraded herself, the way she acted like a queen among the others, smiling for the cameras, sucking up to the viewers, keeping her place as the prison’s favourite whore. She thrived in this system, not in spite of it—but because of it.

But this?

This wasn’t just neglect.

This was unforgivable.

Not just from Vicky.

Not just from the bastard inside that cell.

But from every single stallion, every single pony who had used that girl and left her like this.

Like she wasn’t even a person.

Like she was just a thing to be passed around.

Pup’s breathing shallowed, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She could feel the heat rising in her chest, the same kind of rage she tried to bury every day, the same kind that she had learned never to act on.

But right now?

She didn’t care.

Anonymous7986: “Oh, look, Pup’s found the new toy. Maybe she’s jealous?”

Anonymous5406: “Do it, Pup. Rip his throat out. I want to see it.”

Anonymous5406: “Poor Vicky’s probably busy earning her keep. Pup’s just mad she’s not top whore anymore.”

Anonymous4321: “What’s the problem, Pup? You’ve been there before. She’ll get used to it—eventually.”

Anonymous2839: “Why’s Pup acting all high and mighty? She knows how this works. Vicky’s probably doing her a favor—less competition.”

Anonymous9901: “LMAO, this mare’s got ‘free use’ written all over her. Literally. Someone get Vicky in here for a pep talk!”

Anonymous9901: “Imagine risking your life for a mare who’s already dead inside. Couldn’t be me.”

Anonymous3190: “Oh, please, like she’s gonna fight. She’ll just cry about it later, like always.”

Anonymous7986: “POV: You realize you’re not the favorite whore anymore.”

Anonymous7021: “Pup’s about to go all hero mode. Bitch, you’re not saving anyone. Get over it.”

Anonymous1072: “Wait… is she actually going to do something? Pup, sweetie, don’t. You’re not built for this.”

Anonymous7021: “Finally, some entertainment. I’m betting 100 bits she gets her ass kicked.”

Anonymous6074: “She looks delicious. If I were in there, I’d be next in line. Bet she’s tighter than Pup by now.”

Anonymous2839: “If she’s smart, she’ll walk away. That mare’s already gone—what’s the point?”

Anonymous6074: “Pup’s about to fight for a corpse. Classic L.”

Anonymous1072: “If she actually fights, I’ll admit… she’s got balls. But I’m not holding my breath.”

Anonymous2839: “Pup: ‘I’m gonna fix her.’ Reality: Nah, bitch.”

Anonymous7986: “She’s about to learn the hard way—heroes don’t survive in this game.”

Pup’s voice cut through the sickening noise of flesh meeting flesh.

“Blert.”

The old stallion barely reacted, his movements sluggish, his beer-dulled mind slow to register her presence.

Pup stepped closer, her stomach twisting at the sight of the bruised, unmoving mare, her body limp, her eyes empty.

“Blert, that’s enough.” Pup said firmly, trying to keep her tone even despite the rage boiling underneath her skin. “Let the poor mare breathe. Let her recover.”

Blert stopped mid-thrust, his bloodshot eyes finally rolling toward her, barely able to focus on her face.

Then, he grinned, a yellow-toothed, drunken grin, and chuckled.

“Slut.” he slurred, waving the half-empty bottle in his grip before taking another messy sip. “Fuck off. Or I’ll rape you next.”

He laughed, turning back to his prey as if Pup didn’t exist.

Something in Pup snapped.

She lunged forward, reaching for him, grabbing at his shoulders, trying to pull him away—but Blert elbowed her in the face before she could even get a proper grip.

Pain exploded in her nose.

She staggered back, falling hard onto the filthy floor, a trickle of blood already leaking down her lips, the metallic taste hitting her tongue.

Blert let out a mocking snicker, still holding onto the mare’s leg before slowly pulling out of her, his disgusting, filthy cock still erect and moist.

“What’s the matter?” he grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want a turn? You wanna get fucked that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

He reached over to the bed, his fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, his movements lazy but intentional.

Pup’s heart kicked into overdrive.

Blert stepped forward, knife in one hand, cock still hanging out, dripping, as he took a slow, casual step toward her.

Pup didn’t think—she just reacted.

She kicked her boot up, the hard rubber sole slamming into his stomach, knocking the air out of him instantly.

Blert doubled over, his gagging breath choking in his throat before he vomited violently onto the floor in front of him, the beer and bile splattering across the stone.

Pup didn’t hesitate, she scrambled to her feet, rushing toward the exit of the cell, but just as she reached the threshold—

Blert tackled her.

Her back hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her, her vision blurring for a moment.

Blert was on top of her, his weight pressing her down, his disgusting cock grinding against her belly.

Pup gagged, her arms shooting up, trying to push him off, but his filthy, sweat-soaked body felt like dead weight.

Then—

He raised the knife.

Pup saw the blade glint in the dim lighting just before it came down toward her chest.

Her hands shot up, her fingers catching his wrist just in time, the blade hovering inches from her skin.

But he was stronger.

His other hand came up, both of his arms pressing down, forcing the knife closer, the cold metal tip almost touching the fabric of her jumpsuit.

Blert’s breath was hot and foul against her face as he leaned down, sneering.

“I’m going to kill you, bitch.”

His voice was steady now, focused, his drunken haze lifting with the thrill of control.

“Then I’m going to use every hole you got.”

The blade inched closer.

Pup’s arms trembled, her strength failing as he pushed down harder.

Blert’s grin widened.

“And when I’m done?”

The tip of the knife kissed the fabric of her jumpsuit.

“I’m passing your corpse to the next stallion.”

Anonymous3190: “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”

Anonymous837: “Goodbye Pup!”

Anonymous73: “Shouldn’t have betrayed Jaws, Bitch! This is what you deserve!”

“Pup!”

A desperate shout echoed down the corridor, cutting through the haze of Pup’s frantic struggle.

Her eyes snapped to the sound, barely able to turn her head against Blert’s crushing weight, but she saw her—

Rosy.

She was at the far end of the hallway, bolting toward them, her pink mane bouncing with each hurried step, her eyes wide, filled with panic.

Pup’s heart pounded, her arms shaking, her grip on Blert’s knife-wielding hand slipping inch by inch.

She just had to hold on.

Just a little longer.

With a guttural snarl, Pup forced every ounce of strength she had left, winning the strength battle momentarily, pushing the blade back, gritting her teeth through the strain.

Blert let out a frustrated growl, his drunken stupor fading, replaced with pure murderous intent.

Then—

Rosy reached them.

She lunged, grabbing Blert’s shoulders, yanking him back with everything she had.

For a moment, his grip faltered, his body jerking backward, his weight lifting off Pup’s chest just enough for her to gasp in air—

But then he snapped.

With a wild, drunken flail, Blert’s knife slashed through the air—

The blade met Rosy’s cheek with a sickening rip.

She let out a sharp yelp, her body jerking back, her hands flying up to clutch the fresh wound, blood already seeping through her fingers, her knees buckling as she stumbled away.

Blert turned back to Pup, his eyes wild, his knife raised again.

But he didn’t get a chance to swing it down.

Because Pup moved first.

Instinct took over.

Her muscles coiled, her body lurched up, her jaws unhinged, and she lunged.

Her teeth—her sharp, canine fangs—sank deep into Blert’s throat.

There was no hesitation, no thought—

Just raw, animalistic survival.

Blert’s eyes widened, his whole body tensing, his breath coming out in a wet, garbled gasp.

His hands twitched, fingers shaking, still holding the knife—

But Pup didn’t let go.

With a forceful yank, she ripped her jaws sideways—

And Blert’s flesh tore open like wet paper.

Blood exploded from his jugular, warm, sticky, metallic, squirting in thick spurts, drenching Pup’s face, splattering onto her jumpsuit, onto the floor, onto everything.

Blert made a choked, gurgling sound, his hands flying up, instinctively trying to clutch his throat, but—

There was nothing to hold.

Just a gaping, torn hole, blood gushing between his fingers, spilling down his chest in heavy, pulsing streams.

His mouth opened and closed, his lips forming silent words, but nothing came out—

Just a wet wheeze, a final, broken breath.

Then, his knees buckled.

His body collapsed—

Right on top of Pup.

She let out a soft grunt, pinned beneath his dead weight, his body still warm, his limbs twitching slightly as the last traces of life bled out of him.

For a moment, everything was silent.

The only sound was the drip-drip-drip of blood pooling onto the cold concrete floor.

Pup stared up at the ceiling, her breathing heavy, her mouth slick with blood, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the metallic taste still thick on her tongue.

Blert was dead.

And she had killed him.

As the cameras zoomed in on the grisly aftermath, the chat erupted into chaos.

Anonymous7986: “HOLY SHIT SHE DID IT!”

Anonymous7021: “Blert’s last thought: ‘Wait, this wasn’t part of the plan.’”

Anonymous1072: “Let’s not pretend she planned this. That was pure instinct. She’s still weak.”

Anonymous4321: “Imagine the adrenaline rush during sex with her after that. Hot.”

Anonymous9901: “She fucking ripped his throat out! RIPPED. HIS. THROAT. OUT.”

Anonymous5406: “RIP Blert. He thought he was the predator, but Pup said, ‘Nah, fam.’”

Anonymous4321: “That’s the most badass thing I’ve seen all week.”

Anonymous7986: “I’d still fuck her, blood and all.”

Anonymous7021: “She’s just lucky Rosy was there. She’d be dead without her.”

Anonymous6074: “Okay, Pup. You’ve got my respect. That was brutal as hell.”

Anonymous9901: “Sure, she won this time, but how much more can she take before she breaks completely?”

Anonymous6074: “POV: You’re Blert, thinking you’re about to rape her, but she turns into a fucking werewolf.”

Anonymous5406: “I take back everything I said about her being useless. She’s a fucking savage!”

Anonymous2839: “That’s one way to deal with a stallion. Damn, girl.”

Anonymous3190: “One kill doesn’t make her a fighter. Calm down, simps.”

Anonymous9901: “She’s a biter, huh? I’d let her take a chunk out of me any day.”

Anonymous2839: “She fought back. That’s what matters. But in this place, that’s not always a victory.”

Rosy rushed forward, her hands trembling as she shoved Blert’s lifeless body off Pup, the dead stallion rolling onto his side with a sickening squelch, his open throat oozing blood onto the floor.

She turned back to Pup, her face painted with concern, scanning her expression—

Pup just sat there, frozen, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her yellow eyes wide, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.

Her maw was still clenched shut, the chunk of Blert’s torn flesh still caught between her teeth.

Rosy could see it clearly, the jagged, shredded muscle and veins, the blood still dripping from her lips, staining her fur red.

“Pup…” Rosy’s voice was gentle, coaxing, but filled with urgent worry. “You—You gotta spit it out.”

Pup’s jaw trembled, her breath shaky, as if she didn’t even realize what was in her mouth.

Rosy reached out, cupping Pup’s cheek, forcing her to look at her, to pull her back to reality.

“Pup. Spit. It. Out.”

Something snapped back into place in Pup’s mind, her body shuddering violently before she turned her head and spat the torn flesh onto the floor, a thick glob of saliva and blood following after.

She gagged, her hands shaking, but Rosy quickly lifted her up, keeping her steady.

“You okay?” Rosy asked, eyes searching hers, her own cheek still leaking blood from the gash Blert had given her.

Pup just nodded numbly, but her body betrayed her—her hands were trembling, her legs felt weak, her heart slammed against her ribs like a caged animal.

Rosy frowned, tightening her grip on her arm. “C’mon, let’s get you to the showers—”

“No.”

Rosy blinked. “What?”

Pup took a deep, shuddering breath, then shook her head. “I have to—we have to free her first.”

She turned toward the grey unicorn, still hanging limp against the wall.

Rosy’s stomach twisted.

Now that she wasn’t focused on Blert, she could see the full extent of what had been done to the mare.

Pup stepped closer, her gut churning at the sight of her naked, broken body, covered head to foot in bruises—some fresh, some faded, layered over each other in a sickening tapestry of suffering.

The mare’s arms hung uselessly, her wrists still chained to the wall, her head slumped forward, her mane sticky with sweat, filth, and drying blood.

Pup reached out, cupping her cheek gently, lifting her head up—

The unicorn’s lips were split, her mouth slightly open, a small trail of blood leaking from the corner.

One of her eyes was swollen shut, the other a vacant, lifeless green, staring at nothing.

Pup’s stomach turned violently when she saw the words—

The writing.

Scrawled across her body.

CUMDUMP.

FREE USE.

COCK SLEEVE.

USE ME.

I LOVE COCK.

CUM IN HERE.

BREED ME.

FUCK MEAT.

And then—

The tally marks.

All over her thighs. Her stomach. Her chest.

Pup’s blood boiled, her hands shaking violently as she tried to unlock the cuffs, but they wouldn’t budge.

She gritted her teeth, cursing under her breath.

“We need a key.” she muttered, spinning toward Rosy. “Check Blert. Maybe he had it on him.”

Rosy quickly moved, kneeling next to Blert’s corpse, patting down his bloodstained jumpsuit, searching his pockets, his belt, even under his filthy mattress—

“Nothing.” Rosy said grimly, shaking her head.

Pup turned back to the unicorn, her heart clenching.

She knelt, her hands gripping the mare’s face, her thumbs brushing over her bruised cheeks, her voice soft, almost pleading—

“Hey, listen to me.” she whispered. “I’m gonna find help. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’ll get you cleaned up, I’ll get you some proper food, I—”

She stopped.

Her voice fell flat.

Because the unicorn wasn’t responding.

Pup’s breath hitched, a terrible dread seeping into her bones.

She hesitated, then slowly parted the mare’s lips, peering inside—

And her stomach dropped.

Her tongue.

Her tongue was barely hanging on, a ragged piece of flesh, dangling by a thin, bloody strand.

Pup’s entire body went cold.

The unicorn had bitten through her own tongue.

She had killed herself.

Blert had been fucking a corpse.

The moment the cameras captured the horrifying realisation on Pup’s face, the chat ignited into a storm of reactions.

Anonymous9901: “HOLY SHIT. NO WAY.”

Anonymous7986: “This is just… wrong. Like, beyond wrong.”

Anonymous4321: “Necro vibes. Lmao.”

Anonymous1072: “Blert: ‘Why isn’t she screaming anymore?’”

Anonymous9901: “Blert’s a reminder that in this place, the dead are just as exploited as the living.”

Anonymous1072: “This is what happens when you’re broken beyond repair. She ended it the only way she could.”

Anonymous7986: “Bruh, Blert was fucking a corpse? That’s next-level messed up.”

Anonymous9901: “What the actual fuck is wrong with this place?”

Anonymous6074: “Necrophilia speedrun: Blert%.”

Anonymous5406: “A corpse? Damn, Blert’s standards were low.”

Anonymous6074: “Imagine dying and still getting used like that. Blert was truly bottom-tier scum.”

Anonymous2839: “I feel sick… but I can’t look away.”

Anonymous7021: “Dude really said, ‘Any hole’s a goal.’”

Anonymous2839: “That poor mare didn’t even stand a chance here.”

Anonymous5406: “Heard she was dead and thought, ‘Eh, still warm.’”

Anonymous2839: “Pup can try to save them, but this world doesn’t let anyone survive intact.”

Pup’s hands fell away from the unicorn’s face as her own legs gave out, her knees hitting the cold, blood-slick floor.

Her chest tightened, her vision blurred, her whole body wracked with a deep, shaking sob.

She didn’t even realise she was crying until she felt the tears dripping down her bloodstained cheeks.

This place—

This fucking place.

It just kept taking and taking and taking.

And for the first time in a long time, Pup felt like she had nothing left to give.

Survival.

It ain’t just about strength.

It ain’t just about who’s got the sharpest blade, the fastest fists, or the most bullets to burn through.

No, no, no.

Survival—real survival—is about understanding the rules.

Not the rules written down on paper. Not the laws of the land. Not the pretty little guidelines that keep society clean and orderly.

I’m talking about the real rules. The ones that govern power, the ones that separate prey from predator, the ones that decide who lives and who gets carved up like a fresh steak on the butcher’s block.

Knowing your place.

That’s what keeps you breathing.

And in my world?

You got two choices—

Be Owned.

Be a Player.

See, there’s a balance to this little game I run. A perfect little system, carefully maintained, always shifting, always adjusting to keep things interesting.

Some folks, like Pup, they choose to be owned—they submit, they offer up every part of themselves, they make themselves useful. A tool. A product.

And for a while?

That works.

They get protection, they get scraps, they get a role to play—as long as they’re still valuable.

But then there’s the others. The ones like Brown, the ones that refuse to play along, the ones that think they can just exist without choosing a side.

That kind of stupidity?

It gets you hurt.

It gets you torn apart.

It gets you dragged into a filthy cell, used until your body is nothing but bruises and broken spirit, until you either give in or die screaming.

There ain’t no room for passive pieces on this board.

You either own yourself, or somepony else owns you.

And sometimes, just sometimes, if you’ve got the guts to bite back—

You get to be a player.

Pup? She finally snapped her teeth at the hand that’s been feeding her pain.

And Brown?

He’s still figuring out where the fuck he stands.

And let’s be honest, after five years of being a punching bag, the fact that he’s still alive means there’s something rotting inside him, something waiting to crawl out.

Maybe he just needed a push.

Maybe he needed to see what happens when you stand on the sidelines for too long—

Because eventually, the game doesn’t wait for you to make a move.

It just swallows you whole.

Oh, but don’t you worry, dear reader.

With a little bit of luck, a little bit of instinct, and the right sacrifices…

Almost anypony can survive.

Almost.

Footnote - Level Up!

Welcome back to The Sacrifice Games again, Brown.

You’ve earned 102 EXP, levelling up from Level 1 to Level 2!

Level Up Progress: 99/150 EXP

Congratulations on your level-up. This Level up will come with a new passive!

New Passive Perk Unlocked!

Strongest Version of Yourself! (Passive — Level 1) You know your limits, your strength, and your weaknesses. But when you face a formidable enemy, you will push past those limits.

• When your opponent is stronger than you, gain +25% VIT and STR.

• When facing multiple opponents, gain +25% SPD and HRT.

A true survivor doesn’t just fight. They evolve.

Skill Points Allocated!

Today was a bad day. A really bad day. So bad that you find yourself wondering—why do you fight? -2 HRT. (Your heart wavers, but it still beats.) Not all is bad, however. You’ve endured this kind of pain before, and you’ve become numb to it. But that doesn’t mean you’re invincible. +2 VIT. (Your body remembers, and adapts.)

Companion Check!

Pup has earned 210 EXP!

She has endured Jaws’ wrath and claimed her first kill.

She levels up from Level 5 to Level 6!

Level Up Progress: 4/350 EXP

New Companion Perk Unlocked!

A Stallion’s Best Friend! (Passive — Level 1) Pup has come to a realisation—it’s not sex that makes her feel good; she just wants to cuddle.

When you or any future companions receive a hug, you, your companions, and Pup will receive: +2 VIT and +2 HRT. This affect will last 24 hour and can not stack.

In a world where warmth is rare, a little comfort can go a long way.

Companion’s Skill Points Allocated!

Pup has endured punishment no female should go through.

But she survived.

Her body will remember such pain. And she will become stronger.

• +2 VIT. (Her endurance grows.)

• +2 STM. (She can last longer, run further, push past the pain.)

However… what Jaws did to her will leave scars deeper than flesh.

• -3 HRT. (Her heart is fraying at the edges, but it still beats… for now.)

New Companion Passive Unlocked! Snarl — She’s backed into a corner. Wounded. There’s nowhere to run. What does she do? She goes primal.

(Passive — Level 1)

When Pup falls below 50% HP, her survival instincts take over, sending her into a feral state. In this state, she gains:

• +10% VIT (Pain becomes distant.)

• +10% STM (Her body won’t quit.)

• +10% SPD (Faster, deadlier.)

• +10% STR (Strikes become lethal.)

• +10% DEF (Blows don’t land as hard.)

• +10% HRT (Fear turns to fury.)

Pup is learning what it means to survive and when survival is all you have left… there’s no room for mercy.

The Sacrifice Games continue.

The players are changing.

The game is shifting.

And today… promises to be even bloodier.

Stay tuned.

The Auction.

Ah, you’re here. Again. How delightful. Sit down, lean in, and let me speak to you plainly. There’s no use in dressing it up for you—what I’ve built here is a monument to my will, a fortress carved out of bits and blood, sweat and fear. This was never just a prison. It was never meant to be. It’s a crucible, a stage, an endless labyrinth where lives unravel and truths are laid bare. But it didn’t start like this. Oh no, it began as nothing. A husk. A single, pitiful room—bare walls, cracked floors, space for two, maybe three. Hardly a prison, more a coffin with the lid propped open.

But I saw potential. Where others would have shrugged and turned away, I saw a masterpiece waiting to be born. I didn’t need strength to build it; no, I had something far better: wealth. Bits enough to drown the doubters, to buy silence, to grease the wheels of ambition. And so I began. Contractors, labourers, architects—ponies lured by promises of gold. They thought they were building an asylum. A place for the broken, the mad, the lost. They were right—just not in the way they imagined.

I told them to make it bigger, more sprawling. More cells, more wings, more space for the damned to writhe. I wanted something vast. Endless. A labyrinth of stone and steel, where every echoing footstep carries a weight of dread. And they built it. They built it well. Too well. Each brick laid down by hands that never questioned, each door bolted by fools who never once wondered why an asylum needed bars thick enough to hold dragons, corridors long enough to lose yourself in. They didn’t care. Not as long as the bits kept flowing.

But here’s the truth about ponies like them—they can’t help themselves. They talk. They whisper to their wives, their friends, their drinking buddies. They trace the lines of blueprints on napkins, share the peculiarities of their work over mugs of cider. They think they’re clever. They think they’re safe. And I couldn’t have that. No loose ends, no witnesses, no evidence. So when the last stone was set, when the gates finally groaned shut, I made my move.

My mercenaries came for them, one by one. They were dragged back here—to this place they had built with their own hands. Some cried, some begged, some tried to fight. It didn’t matter. They became part of the experiment, their screams the first to echo through these halls. A fitting price for their silence, wouldn’t you agree? They laid the foundation with their sweat; I sealed it with their blood.

And now? Now it stands—a fortress that stretches into eternity, a hellscape of stone and shadows. Every cell, every corridor, every inch of this place is soaked in the essence of what it took to build it. And it’s alive. Can’t you feel it? The walls hum with despair, the floors drink the blood spilled upon them, and the air itself is heavy with the weight of survival. This isn’t just a prison—it’s a machine. A relentless, grinding beast that devours hope and spits out only the strongest, the most desperate.

Others build castles, empires, monuments to their glory. Fools. All of them. There is no power in ruling the free. True power lies here, in the cage. In owning the lives of those who cannot escape. In bending their will, their bodies, their very souls, to your design.

So here we are, my dear reader. Witnessing the culmination of ambition. You watch because you crave the raw, the unfiltered. You want to see what ponies truly are when the mask is ripped away. And I? I built this stage to show you exactly that.

Welcome back to my creation. The blood never dries, the screams never fade, and the show? The show never ends.

The alarm blared through the prison, a deep, resonating sound that rattled the walls and made the air feel heavier. It wasn’t a panicked wail like the alarms for a fire or an escape attempt. No, this was something else entirely—lower, deliberate, a harbinger of something that sent a ripple through every soul trapped within the endless maze.

In one of the dimly lit corridors, kneeling, Gritt froze mid-act, his delicate, slender fingers rested against the thestral’s thighs. His client’s hand loosening on Gritt’s head slightly, allowing Gritt to lift his head slowly with a feminine, almost apologetic pout. He wiped the corner of his painted beak delicately with the back of his hand as he looked up between Fang’s legs. “Don’t worry, sugar.” he purred sweetly, his voice laced with sultry charm. “I’ll finish you up real nice when we’re done with all this. Promise.”

Elsewhere, in the showers, Pup froze under the spray of cold water, her body still streaked with the remnants of the day—blood smearing her fur, sperm clinging to her thighs. She let out a huff through her nose, her ears twitching at the sound of the alarm. Without a word, she shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and began drying herself, her movements brisk and detached, as if this was just another routine.

Deep within the medical ward, The Doctor stood hunched over Brown, his gloved hands pressing against a bruised rib with precise, methodical care. He glanced toward the source of the sound, his sharp grey eyes narrowing. “Ah, der alarm. Ja, ja…” His voice was tinged with his thick accent. “Es ist time again, hmm? Always zis… zis noise.” He chuckled softly, almost to himself, as he patted Brown’s shoulder with an unsettling gentleness. “You vill survive, ja? But survive better… if you rest.”

Nearby, Z leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he observed the scene. His ears twitched at the sound, his dark eyes flicking toward the ceiling as if he could see the source of the alarm through the concrete. “The auction.” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and steady, carrying a slight Zebrican lilt.

In another cell, Geek and Irela sat together, the atmosphere tense but familiar. Geek, his glasses askew, had been muttering something under his breath, perhaps a calculation, perhaps a prayer. Irela’s posture was relaxed, one leg thrown over the other as she sharpened her knife. When the alarm hit, Geek immediately went rigid, his wide orange eyes darting to the door. “Oh, no, no, no—” he started to stammer, but Irela cut him off with a sharp laugh.

“Ah, pipe down, will ya?” she said, rising to her feet with an almost predatory grace. “Y’know the drill. Ain’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. Now quit whinin’ an’ move.” She shoved him gently toward the door, her smirk vanishing as her eyes darkened.

In the heart of the prison, The Boss lounged in his luxurious, oversized chair, his five wives gathered around him: a sleek zebra, a sultry Thestral with bat-like wings, a griffin with feathers like molten gold, a slim dragoness with shimmering scales, and a wolf with striking brown fur. They were draped across him, their hands roaming, their voices soft and murmured as they vied for his attention.

The alarm cut through their laughter like a blade, and the zebra froze, her bracelets jingling faintly as her hand fell away. The Thestral tilted her head, her ears twitching. The griffin clicked her beak in irritation, while the dragoness hissed softly under her breath. The wolf was the first to move, standing and stretching her lean frame before glancing at The Boss.

He smiled lazily, his piercing red eyes scanning each of them. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed them. “You heard it, girls. Off you go. Time to see what treasures await us today.” His voice was smooth, his words dripping with authority.

From the gangs to the loners, from the desperate to the defiant, every soul in the prison knew what the alarm signified. The auction. The chance to gain supplies, power, or maybe just one more day of survival. A chance, too, to be sold, traded, or betrayed.

The alarm faded, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. It wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace—it was the silence of predators circling prey, of plans being hatched, of desperation clashing with opportunity. One by one, they moved. Toward the auction. Toward the stage where survival hung on the edge of every word, every bid, every whispered promise.

The auction room sat empty, its vast, foreboding interior devoid of the chaos that would soon fill it. It was a cold, industrial void, designed with calculated precision to embody dominance and despair. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound, their harsh glow reflecting off rusted metal beams and casting long, jagged shadows that seemed to crawl across the walls.

At the centre of the space loomed the raised, octagonal platform. It stood like a monument to cruelty, its sharp edges and angular design cutting through the room’s oppressive stillness. Metal stairs ascended to it from multiple sides, their grated steps worn smooth by countless feet over the years. The platform’s surface bore faint stains—dark smudges and streaks that time could not erase—silent witnesses to the countless lives paraded and bartered upon it.

Surrounding the platform, the iron-barred catwalks rose in tiers, layer upon layer of steel weaving into a towering structure. They lined the walls like an ominous theatre, each level overlooking the stage below, ready to host the voyeurs and vultures who would soon press against the bars. The catwalks seemed endless, stretching high into the shadows, a maze of intersecting paths designed for viewing, watching, and judging.

The cold steel walls absorbed and reflected the faint vibrations of the alarms echoing through the prison, their low, ominous drone seeping into the very bones of the room.

Here, in this hollow chamber of despair, the groundwork was laid for the prison’s cruelest ritual. Soon, the air would fill with the noise of shuffling bodies, murmured threats, and desperate bargains. Soon, the prisoners would arrive, their eyes drawn to the platform at the centre like moths to a flame, knowing that everything they saw would decide somepony’s future—or their own. But for now, the room waited, patient and silent, ready for the spectacle to begin.

Despite the absence of prisoners, the auction room was not empty. In the dark corners, where the flickering fluorescent lights struggled to reach, The Black Watch stood motionless, like shadows given form. These were no ordinary guards. They were sentinels of silence and fear, their mere presence a statement of the prison’s absolute control.

Everything about them was black—their tactical uniforms, their armour, their weapons, even their fur and manes. Their eyes, void of colour, seemed like endless pits of darkness, giving no hint of emotion or life. They blended seamlessly with the shadows, making it difficult to tell where the room ended and they began. They didn’t just inhabit the space; they consumed it, their presence as oppressive as the steel walls around them.

Each member of The Black Watch was a soldier of the highest caliber, handpicked for their ruthlessness, skill, and unwavering loyalty to whoever—or whatever—held the leash. Ex-military, ex-special forces, assassins, mercenaries—they hailed from the bloodiest battlefields and darkest corners of the world. They were masters of violence, their training a synthesis of lethal precision and psychological warfare. Every movement they made, however minimal, was calculated, efficient, and deliberate, like predators conserving energy before a kill.

Their weapons, equally black and meticulously maintained, were not standard issue. These were tools of war, customised and deadly, capable of ending lives with surgical precision. They carried everything from suppressed assault rifles to combat knives honed to a razor’s edge, and grenades that shimmered faintly under the cold light. They wore advanced tactical gear, reinforced with armour that made them look more machine than pony, impervious to most of the improvised weapons the prisoners could muster.

Even among the most dangerous beings in the prison, The Black Watch were a breed apart. They were not like Jaws, whose intimidation stemmed from brute force, or The Boss, who wielded charisma and fear like weapons. The Black Watch were silent executioners, their power rooted in their anonymity and precision. They didn’t threaten, they didn’t warn—they simply acted.

Rumours about them circulated among the prisoners like ghost stories: that their armour was enchanted to withstand anything short of a cannon blast, that they had no names or identities beyond their rank, that they could see in total darkness, and that they felt no pain. Some whispered they were dead already, animated by dark magic or cursed technology, incapable of emotion or mercy. Others believed they were so loyal to the prison’s mastermind that they would sacrifice their lives without hesitation if ordered.

Even The Boss, the self-proclaimed ruler of this domain, treaded carefully around them. The Black Watch gave him no deference, no special treatment. He, like everypony else, was just another figure under their gaze. And while The Boss relished his dominance over the prisoners, there was an unspoken tension whenever The Black Watch was near—a reminder that, even at the top of the food chain, he was not untouchable.

Now, as they stood in the auction room, they were more than guards. They were the embodiment of the prison’s unyielding power, an unspoken message to all who entered this space: you are not in control, you are not safe, and there is no escape. Their stillness was unnerving, their silence deafening, as if they were waiting for the slightest excuse to unleash their lethality.

The Black Watch didn’t just protect the auction—they ensured its integrity, its finality. They were the shadows that moved when no one else dared, the arbiters of death in a place that had long abandoned the pretence of justice. In their presence, even the silence felt dangerous, as if the room itself held its breath, afraid to disturb them.

The heavy sound of gates clanging open reverberated through the room, followed by the shuffle of countless footsteps. The prisoners poured in from every side, filling the catwalks layer by layer, like ants swarming into a nest. The oppressive silence of the auction room gave way to murmurs and whispers, low and venomous, accompanied by the weight of glares that cut through the air like daggers.

Unity, in their distinct orange jumpsuits, entered from one end of the room. They moved together in tight formation, heads high and backs straight. Their steps were measured, , their eyes scanning the room with sharp, calculated movements. The zebras among them stood out with their striped fur, a stark contrast to the muted tones of their uniforms. Whispers followed their entrance, respect tinged with resentment, though none dared to meet their gazes for too long.

At the opposite end, The Blood Pact entered. Their plain blue jumpsuits made them seem less coordinated, but their presence was no less intimidating. They moved in a looser group, their expressions smug and cocky, as if they already owned the room. A few of them grinned at the glaring faces of Unity, their taunts muted but unmistakable, like wolves circling prey.

Finally, at the far end of the room, The Revenants arrived. Their white-and-navy-blue jumpsuits made them appear almost regal compared to the other factions, but there was no nobility in their presence. They looked haggard, worn, but dangerous all the same—a pack of survivors who had weathered more storms than most. Positioned between Unity and The Blood Pact, they were forced to endure the hateful stares and muttered insults from both sides.

The tension in the room was thick, palpable. Whispers turned to low, biting mutters as each faction filled their respective sections of the catwalks.

Above them, glowing screens flickered to life, displaying viewer comments in bold white text against a black background. The massive 370-inch screen mounted on the wall opposite the platform dominated the space, ensuring no prisoner could ignore the ever-watchful eyes of the audience. The Anonymous viewers were already active, their comments flooding the screens with interest and anticipation.

Anonymous3421: Finally, the auction! Let’s see what they’ve got today.

Anonymous1298: Bet somepony’s getting sold to Unity. They’ll probably work them to death in no time.

Anonymous5674: Blood Pact’s probably here to bid for weapons again. Predictable.

Anonymous9087: Who’s the highlight today? Anypony worth watching?

Anonymous4563: Where’s Brown? Haven’t seen him in a while. Think he’s up for trade?

Anonymous3421: Doubt it. That freak’s too broken to be worth anything.

More comments poured in, faster than they could be read, their tone oscillating between curiosity and cruel amusement.

Brown huddled at the very back of the catwalk, his shoulders hunched and his frame turned slightly inward as though trying to make himself smaller, invisible. He kept his distance from the edge, away from the glares, the tension, and the oppressive weight of the auction below. His hand rested lightly on his ribs, a dull ache reminding him of the latest beating he’d endured.

He was unbothered by the auction itself, if such a thing were possible in this place. Truthfully, if he had a choice, he’d still be in his cell, lying on his threadbare mattress and staring at the cracked ceiling in silence. But there were no choices here—everypony was part of the auction. Like a machine, the system forced participation, whether you were on the platform or standing in the crowd.

Brown had been here too many times to feel anything about it anymore. His fate seemed different from the others; somehow, The Boss hadn’t traded him. Not for weapons, not for food, not for armor, not even for extra ammunition. It made no sense. Perhaps The Boss didn’t even know he existed. Or maybe Brown served some twisted purpose, kept around as a living punching bag for the others to release their frustrations on. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to him. He survived, and that was all.

Beside him, Z leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed and sharp eyes scanning the room. He was always watching, always analyzing, his gaze flicking across the gathered prisoners before settling on the shadowy figures of The Black Watch. His frown deepened.

“Ever been up there?” Z asked suddenly, his voice low but cutting through the muffled whispers around them.

Brown didn’t respond immediately. His head tilted slightly, but his glazed-over eyes remained fixed on the floor, refusing to meet Z’s. Finally, he gave a slow, subtle shake of his head.

“No.” he muttered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent lights. “There was no auction when I came in. I was just… thrown in here. No one told me anything.”

Z exhaled sharply, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a grimace. “Lucky bastard.” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t know how good you had it. At least they gave you a shot to survive.”

Brown’s brow furrowed slightly, but he still didn’t lift his gaze.

Z pushed off the wall, gesturing faintly toward the platform. “Back when I got here, there was no mercy. No time to figure out where you were, who to trust, what to do. You got dragged up there, lined up like livestock. Either some gang bid for you, or they put a bullet in your head right there on that stage. No second chances. No mistakes.”

Brown didn’t respond, but his jaw tightened, his fingers twitching slightly against his side.

Z chuckled darkly, the sound carrying a bitter edge. “Yeah. Lucky. They just threw you in and let you figure it out. Me? I was up there, praying to whatever gods might listen that some gang would take me. Hell, even The Blood Pact would’ve been better than a bullet.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Didn’t really matter, though. You find out real quick that getting picked doesn’t mean you’ve survived. It just means you’ve got a little more time to figure out how to.”

Brown said nothing, his silence louder than any words he could have spoken. He kept his gaze fixed downward, his expression unreadable.

Z sighed, leaning back against the wall again, his sharp eyes still scanning the room. “Guess you’re still lucky, though. Even if you’re just The Boss’s punching bag, you’re still breathing. That’s more than a lot of ponies can say.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and bitter, as the murmurs of the crowd grew louder. Down below, the platform stood empty, waiting, its polished surface gleaming under the harsh lights.

“Brown!”

The sound made him flinch slightly, his body instinctively stiffening. He barely had time to turn before something soft and warm collided with his arm. His gaze dropped, and there she was—Pup. She was clinging to him, her arms wrapped snugly around his arm, her head leaning against his shoulder like she’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“Hi, Brown.” she said softly, her voice low and warm, carrying a hint of cheerfulness that didn’t quite match her worried eyes.

He blinked down at her, startled by her sudden closeness. She smelled clean, the faint scent of soap and something sweet lingering around her, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and rust that usually clung to everypony in this place. Her freshly groomed fur shimmered faintly under the harsh fluorescent light, and her tail swayed gently—not the wag of unrestrained joy but a subtle, content rhythm.

Her eyes scanned his face, her initial smile faltering as her gaze locked onto the bruising around his swollen eye and the hunched way he held himself. The concern in her expression deepened as her ears twitched slightly, flattening for a moment before perking back up.

Her hand reached up, and without hesitation, she gently cupped the side of his face, her thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his swollen eye. Her touch was feather-light, careful not to cause him more pain. “What happened to you?” she asked, her tone soft but edged with something firm, almost protective.

Brown shifted under her touch, uncomfortable with the attention. He glanced away, his voice low and rough. “Got into a fight.” he said simply, like it was the most mundane thing in the world.

Her thumb paused for a moment, lingering near his eye as her expression shifted. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her brows furrowing. She let out a quiet sigh, her other hand releasing his arm as she took a small step back, though her gaze never left him.

“Brown.” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint tinge of disappointment. “How many times are you going to let them do this to you?”

Her words hung in the air, and for the first time, his gaze dropped fully to meet hers. She wasn’t angry—her tone wasn’t scolding. She sounded… sad.

“I didn’t.” he said after a moment, his voice low but steady. “I fought back.”

Pup blinked, her expression softening. Her ears perked up slightly, and a faint, relieved smile tugged at her lips. “You did?”

He nodded, his movements stiff, but there was no hesitation in his answer.

“Good.” she said firmly, her smile growing just a little wider. “Good. You need to stand up for yourself, Brown. You can’t let them break you down, not any more than they already have.”

Her words carried a quiet strength, the kind of maturity that seemed to clash with the image of her sweet demeanour. She stepped closer again, her hand returning to his face, this time resting lightly on his uninjured cheek. “Promise me you’ll keep doing that. I don’t care how bad it gets. You have to fight back, even if it’s just to prove you’re still here, that they haven’t won.”

Brown didn’t reply, but there was something in his eyes—just a flicker of something beyond the usual emptiness—that made her believe he understood.

Nearby, Z leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he watched the interaction with a raised brow. His sharp eyes flicked between the two of them, his expression unreadable.

“Well.” Z drawled after a moment, his voice cutting through the tension. “Aren’t you two cozy?”

Pup turned her head toward him, her expression shifting instantly. She didn’t pull away from Brown, didn’t let her hand drop from his face, but a teasing smirk crossed her lips. “Jealous, Z?” she asked playfully, a hint of mischief in her tone.

Z raised both brows, his frown deepening. “Hardly.” he muttered, shaking his head. “You’re just clingy.”

Pup laughed softly, pulling her hand away from Brown’s face and placing it on her hip instead. “Oh, is that what this is? Don’t worry, Z. If you want a hug, just ask. I won’t judge you for needing affection.”

Z let out a low grunt, looking away, but not before she caught the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Turning her attention back to Brown, Pup’s teasing smile softened again. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back just enough to give him space. “Come on, Brown.” she said, holding his hand with hers. “Let’s just get through this, okay? Then we can get you back to my cell and rest. You look like you need it.”

Her voice was soothing, filled with quiet affection that didn’t need to be loud to be felt. Brown didn’t respond, but he allowed himself a faint nod, the closest thing to agreement he could muster.

Pup stayed close, her presence a quiet but persistent comfort as the auction loomed ahead. In a place where cruelty reigned supreme, she was a rare flicker of kindness—one Brown hadn’t realised how much he needed until now.

Some of the Viewers, seeing this warm interaction expressed their annoyance and disbelief.

Anonymous9087: Imagine a bomb being up for grabs! It would most likely be the end of the sacrifice games but, would be cool!

Anonymous8263: Nah, I wanna see The Boss fight one of them Black Watch soldiers first.

Anonymous2736: Look at this slut! Imagine getting raped for hours by Jaws and anothers for cozying up with a stallion like Brown only to cozy up to the same stallion again!

Anonymous2736: others*

Anonymous0927: What? What cam is that on? There’s too many damn cameras!

Anonymous3341: Can’t fix a whore. She probably likes it. Look at that tail wagging.

Anonymous7373: I wish I could fuck Pup, make her my sex slave.

Anonymous6362: WOOOOOOOOOOOOW! Nah, she’s doing this on purpose now. She’s just a attention seeking whore.

Anonymous1124: Somepony tell her to just stay in her lane. She’s a hole for Jaws and nothing more.

Anonymous2927: Jaws and Pup was the best couple! Why is she fucking it up!? Fucking cheating bitch!

Anonymous0927: What cam is it!?

Anonymous8272: She obviously likes being chained up and fucked silly, I can’t think of other reason why she is doing this to herself.

Anonymous0045: Jaws is probably watching, cock in hand, ready to remind her who she belongs to.

Anonymous5643: Brown better watch his back. Jaws doesn’t share, and he’s not gonna like seeing his toy all over that freak.

Anonymous9087: Jaws > Brown.

Anonymous5637: I can’t wait for Jaws to put her back in her place as a cumdump, it was so hot seeing her getting fucked over and over again. I came twice watching it!

Anonymous0927: WHAT CAM IS IT!!!

From the crowd, the sound of rapid footsteps cut through the rising tension, followed by a sharp, impatient voice that carried over the murmurs.

“Oi, move it, will ya? Bloody useless, the lot of ye.” snapped Irela, shoving her way through the gathered prisoners with a firm grip on Geek’s arm. He stumbled slightly as she pulled him along, his glasses askew and his expression a mix of confusion and mild panic.

Irela’s emerald eyes locked onto Pup, Brown, and Z at the back of the catwalk, and she made a beeline for them, her red mane bouncing with every determined step. “You lot, mind him.” she barked as she approached, shoving Geek forward without waiting for a response.

Geek nearly tripped as he was pushed into their little group, his hands flailing slightly before he steadied himself. He adjusted his glasses quickly, glancing around nervously. “Uh, wait, what? What’s going on?”

“Shut it, Geek.” Irela cut him off, her tone sharp but not unkind. She glanced at the others, her gaze briefly landing on Brown’s bruised face before flicking to Pup and Z. “Good. He’s your problem now.”

She didn’t wait for confirmation, didn’t care whether they agreed or not. Her tone made it clear that this wasn’t a request.

Geek opened his mouth to protest, but she rounded on him before he could get a word out. “Listen here, ya little shit.” she said, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, yeah? No wandering off, no mouthin’ off, and no gettin’ yer skinny arse into trouble. Got it?”

“W-Where are you going?” Geek stammered, looking utterly lost.

“None of your damn business.” Irela shot back, already turning on her heel. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, her voice softening just a fraction. “Just don’t make me regret leavin’ you here, Geek. I mean it.”

And with that, she was gone, striding away the same way she’d come, her presence like a storm that had passed through without warning.

Geek stood awkwardly, glancing at Pup, who gave him a small, reassuring smile, and then at Z, who simply raised a brow, clearly unbothered. Finally, his eyes landed on Brown, who said nothing, his battered face unreadable as always.

“Well.” Geek mumbled, his shoulders sagging slightly. “This is… great.”

Following Irela, she stormed through the crowd on the catwalk, her sharp emerald eyes cutting through the sea of prisoners as easily as her biting words. She shoved ponies aside without hesitation, her Irish lilt low and venomous. “Move, ye useless sacks o’ shite. Watch where yer bloody standin’. Ain’t got all feckin’ day.”

She didn’t care about the glares or muttered curses thrown her way. She was used to it. She gave as much as she got, and no one dared to step in her way for long. Her boots echoed harshly against the grated floor as she reached the staircase that spiralled down to the lower levels. The catwalk groaned faintly under the weight of the gathered prisoners, but she descended with quick, confident steps, her focus entirely on the ground floor.

Halfway down, a sharp smack broke her stride.

Irela froze mid-step, her fiery mane whipping over her shoulder as she turned. Behind her stood Richie, his smug face split into a wide grin, his hand still raised from the slap he’d just delivered to her backside.

“Why don’t you get on your knees and blow me, eh?” Richie drawled, his voice dripping with arrogance. “This auction’s boring as fuck. Make it worth my while.”

For a brief moment, silence fell over the prisoners nearby. Everypony was watching, their eyes flicking between Richie’s grinning face and Irela’s frozen form.

And then, without hesitation, Irela moved.

Her knee came up in a vicious arc, slamming into Richie’s crotch with brutal precision. His grin crumpled into an agonised grimace as he let out a strangled gasp, his body folding forward as he dropped to his knees, clutching his groin.

“Didn’t hear ye ask nicely, Richie.” Irela sneered, her voice icy.

Before he could even catch his breath, her hand shot out and grabbed his horn, yanking his head upward with enough force to make him wince. Richie’s wide, panicked eyes locked onto hers, but what he saw made his stomach drop—a knife, small but deadly, its blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light, hovering mere centimetres from his right eye.

Irela leaned in, her emerald eyes burning with fury as she hissed through gritted teeth. “Next time ye touch me, Richie, I’ll carve me name right across yer feckin’ face. How’s that sound, huh?”

Richie tried to speak, to stammer out some excuse, but no words came. His breath hitched as the blade stayed perfectly still, poised like a viper ready to strike.

Movement above caught Irela’s attention, and her gaze flicked upward. A Black Watch guard stood on the far end of the catwalk, their dark armour blending into the shadows. Their cold, lifeless eyes were fixed on her, their weapon slung low but ready. They didn’t move, didn’t speak. They were simply watching, waiting, deciding whether or not her actions were worth intervention.

Irela held the guard’s gaze for a long, tense moment, her knife still dangerously close to Richie’s eye. Then, with a faint scoff, she turned her attention back to him.

“Lucky day.” she muttered, her voice dripping with contempt. She pulled the knife back and shoved him hard, sending him sprawling onto his back with a groan. She didn’t bother waiting to see if he got up.

The prisoners nearby erupted into laughter, mocking Richie mercilessly as he writhed on the ground, clutching himself.

“Guess she ain’t interested, huh, Richie?” one jeered.

“Thought you were smoother than that!” another howled.

“Should’ve kept your filthy hands to yourself, you dumb bastard!”

Irela ignored them all, tucking her knife back into its hidden sheath as she continued down the stairs without missing a beat. Her sharp, confident strides carried her to the ground floor, leaving Richie’s humiliation in her wake.

The air on the ground floor of the auction was thick with tension, a tangible unease that seemed to pulse with every sound, every glance. Irela moved with purpose, her boots striking the cold metal floor as her sharp eyes took in the scene before her.

At the centre of the room, sitting comfortably at a metal table like he owned not just the prison but the world itself, was The Boss. His casual demeanour, his ever-present, almost smug smile, exuded a confidence that bordered on arrogance. His hands were folded lazily in front of him, his piercing red eyes flicking between the figures gathered around the table as though he were already one step ahead of them all.

Flanking him, like looming shadows, were Buster and Jaws. Buster stood with his arms crossed, his hulking frame radiating quiet menace, while Jaws, ever the enforcer, carried his M240 machine gun strapped across his chest. Jaws’s cold, detached blue eyes scanned the room methodically, his presence a reminder that any defiance could be—and often was—met with brutal force.

Across from The Boss sat Nia, the leader of Unity. Her rare black-and-yellow-striped fur caught the light faintly, a visual reminder of her unique status among zebras. Nia’s expression was calm, her red eyes unwavering as she regarded The Boss with quiet resolve. Behind her, two zebras stood like sentinels, their stances protective. The female’s grey eyes were sharp and watchful, her black mane tied back neatly, while the male, a towering figure with a black Mohawk mane and piercing orange eyes, looked ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.

To Nia’s right, Alpha sat with barely restrained irritation. The battle-scarred grey wolf’s piercing blue eyes narrowed as he glared at The Boss, a faint growl rumbling in his throat. His body armour hugged his frame tightly, the scratches and dents in the plating telling stories of past conflicts. Beside him, his subordinates stood silently, their presence no less intimidating. The red dragon’s blonde, spiky hair seemed to glow faintly in the harsh light, his yellow eyes gleaming with amusement as his lips curled into a smug grin. The grey-furred earth pony beside him was more subdued, his pink eyes sharp and focused, his stance rigid and prepared for anything.

The tension between the three leaders was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Each one exuded authority, their factions waiting on edge for a single misstep. The Boss leaned back slightly, his carefree demeanour unshaken by Alpha’s barely veiled aggression or Nia’s quiet defiance.

As Irela stepped closer to the table, her expression softened, her usual sharp demeanor melting away like snow under the sun. The fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced with something closer to reverence—or perhaps fear. She wouldn’t dare act with the sharp tongue or bold confidence she displayed with others. Around The Boss, she became smaller, quieter, almost meek.

Sensing the presence behind him, The Boss turned slowly, his piercing red eyes locking onto her. His grin spread across his face, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but carried a weight of authority that demanded submission.

“Well, well, well.” he drawled, his deep voice dripping with amusement. He let out a slow, confident laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair as if the whole situation was a private joke meant only for him. “If it isn’t my little helper. Just in time, too.”

His gaze flicked back toward Nia, who was watching the exchange with a calm, unreadable expression, her sharp red eyes unwavering. “You see, I’ve been having the most delightful conversation with Nia here. Really, just the best.” He gestured toward the zebra leader, his voice taking on a mockingly sincere tone. “But, you know… I realised something. She doesn’t have a damn clue what I’m saying. Isn’t that right, Nia?”

Nia didn’t respond, her expression unchanging, but her silence seemed to amuse The Boss even more.

“That’s why you’re here.” he continued, turning his attention fully to Irela. His grin widened as he leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the table. “My translator. My bridge. So Nia and I can really… bond. Isn’t that nice?”

Irela nodded quickly, her posture stiff and formal. “Of course, Boss.” she said, her voice steady but lacking its usual edge. She stepped closer, standing at his side, ready to do whatever he asked without hesitation.

The Boss chuckled again, his tone light but laced with an undercurrent of control. “Good. Let’s make sure she understands every… single… word.”

The Boss leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lazily on the table while the other gestured broadly toward Nia with a mock flourish, his grin widening into something toothy and dangerous. His piercing red eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head slightly, as though appraising her.

“Well, Nia.” he began, his tone smooth but unpredictable, shifting between exaggerated friendliness and something darker. “I gotta say, you’re lookin’ sharp today. Black and yellow really do make quite the statement. Makes me think of… I dunno, a caution sign, maybe? ‘Danger: Do Not Approach’? Or, wait—how about a wasp? All dressed up, buzzin’ around, but get too close, and bam, stinger in the ass. Fitting, don’t you think?” He laughed, a low, gravelly chuckle that dragged out uncomfortably.

Nia’s face remained impassive, her red eyes narrowing only slightly as she exchanged a glance with her two bodyguards. She responded in Zebrican, her voice calm, authoritative, and laced with subtle warning.

Irela, standing at The Boss’s side, hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward. “She says… she appreciates your words but prefers actions over talk.” she translated carefully, her tone subdued and respectful.

The Boss let out a bark of laughter, slapping his palm against the table with a loud clang that made Irela flinch. “Prefers actions! Oh, I like her. I really like her.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his grin sharpening into something cruel. “But actions… well, actions are messy, aren’t they? You do something stupid—like, say, try to sting the wrong somepony—and suddenly you’re not buzzing around anymore. You’re just another splatter on the wall. Kinda like that asshole Green Riot last week, right, Jaws?”

Jaws, standing behind him, let out a low grunt of acknowledgment, his expression unreadable as he adjusted the heavy machine gun across his chest.

Nia responded again, her tone steady, dismissive even, as if she were unfazed by The Boss’s theatrics. Irela stepped in once more, her voice hesitant. “She says Unity does not sting unless provoked. She only seeks balance, not blood.”

The Boss’s grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a sudden, exaggerated frown. He sat up straight, spreading his arms wide. “Balance? Oh, sweetheart, you’re in the wrong place for that. Balance doesn’t exist here.” He leaned back again, his tone dropping to a sinister, almost whisper-like growl. “This place… it’s a meat grinder. You either come out on top, or you get chewed up and spat out. And trust me, sugar, I’ve seen a lot of ponies thinking they could play nice, keep the peace, and walk away clean.”

He paused, then smirked again, his voice suddenly playful. “Spoiler alert: they didn’t.”

Before Nia could respond, Alpha growled loudly, slamming a paw on the table. His piercing blue eyes glared at The Boss with raw intensity. “Why don’t you cut the bullshit, Boss?” he snarled, his voice deep and gravelly. “All this yappin’, all this posturing—it’s pathetic. You want to talk about the meat grinder? I am the meat grinder. You think you scare me? You think your little act does anything but piss me off?”

Alpha leaned forward, his claws digging into the metal table, his teeth bared. “You sit there, running your mouth like you’re untouchable, but we both know the truth. If it wasn’t for your lapdogs—” he flicked his eyes toward Buster and Jaws “—you’d be just another carcass on the floor.”

The Boss’s grin widened, his eyes glittering with amusement. He clapped his hands slowly, mockingly. “Oh, bravo, Alpha. Real scary. You must’ve spent all morning practicing that speech in the mirror.” His tone turned cold, razor-sharp. “But let me tell you something, dog. You’re not the biggest wolf in this pack. Not even close. And if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll make sure you learn just how small you really are.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Even Jaws and Buster shifted slightly, their eyes trained on Alpha as if daring him to make a move.

Nia broke the silence, speaking once more in Zebrican. Her tone was calm but firm, her words precise and deliberate. Irela stepped forward to translate, though her voice trembled slightly. “She says… she doesn’t care for your theatrics or your threats. Unity seeks unity, not destruction. But if you force her hand, she will respond in kind.”

The Boss tilted his head, his grin softening into something almost sincere. “Fair enough, sweetheart.” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “Fair enough. Just remember—when the dust settles, and this place comes crashing down, you won’t find unity. You’ll find ashes.”

His words hung in the air like a loaded gun, the tension between the three leaders crackling like static electricity. The Boss leaned back again, flashing his grin once more. “Now, who’s ready to start this goddamn auction?”

As if the boss willed it so, the room plunged into perfect darkness, a suffocating void where even the faintest sound felt like a scream. Then, with an audible click, a single spotlight blazed to life, stabbing through the blackness and illuminating the octagonal platform like a stage waiting for its star. The light cast long, jagged shadows on the ground, dancing eerily as the unseen audience waited.

The tension built, a palpable hum filling the air as the silence stretched to its breaking point. And then, like thunder rolling through the heavens, a voice boomed from unseen speakers, rich and dripping with charisma.

“Ladiesss and gentlecolt!” the voice rang out, smooth, theatrical, and undeniably commanding. “The moment you’ve been waiting for—the spectacle you’ve craved—is upon us!”

The heavy creak of a door echoed across the chamber, and from the shadows, The Host emerged. He strode with purpose, every step echoing with the sharp, deliberate clack of his polished shoes.

His crimson coat seemed to glow under the faint light, the deep red catching the eye like blood spilled on velvet. His charcoal mane, slicked back with meticulous precision, shone faintly, as though even his hair bent to his will.

And his eyes—piercing yellow orbs that seemed to burn with intensity—scanned the room as if he were daring anypony to look away. They didn’t.

He wore his pinstripe suit like it was armour, the dark fabric tailored perfectly to his lean, athletic frame. A blood-red tie hung neatly at his neck, matched by a pocket square that peeked from his jacket like a splash of violence waiting to happen. A single gold earring gleamed in his left ear, catching the light with every calculated movement.

He reached the centre of the platform, turning on his heel with the flair of a seasoned showman, his arms spreading wide in a grand, almost regal gesture. His voice exploded into the room, carrying with it the kind of gravitas that made you forget to breathe.

“Welcome, welcome—to the greatest show this prison, nay, this world has ever seen!” His grin widened, sharp and wolfish, as if he were savouring the moment. “You’ve waited, you’ve speculated, you’ve clawed and bled just to be here tonight. And let me tell you—” he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “—you will not be disappointed.”

He straightened abruptly, spinning on the spot to face every corner of the room, his movements fluid and theatrical, as if he were dancing with the shadows.

“For those of you who are new—fresh meat, as it were—allow me to introduce myself!” His voice rose with dramatic flair, each word punctuated with a snap of his fingers. “I am The Host, your ringmaster, your maestro, your humble guide through this orchestra of chaos and carnage!” He bowed deeply, one arm sweeping across his chest, the other outstretched toward the crowd, before snapping upright again with a flourish.

“But!” he continued, his voice shifting to a darker, more sardonic tone, “for those of you who already know me—don’t worry, darlings. I haven’t forgotten you.” He winked at one of the screens displaying the comments from the anonymous viewers, his grin widening as the flood of reactions scrolled faster.

He turned his attention to the leaders seated below the platform, his grin turning razor-sharp as he addressed them directly. “Ah, our esteemed leaders! Nia, Alpha, and of course, our dear Boss.” His voice dripped with mock reverence. “So good of you to join us. It wouldn’t be a party without the three of you glaring at each other like rabid dogs fighting over scraps.”

The tension between the leaders simmered, but The Host didn’t stop. He thrived on it. He spun on his heel again, addressing the catwalks above, the prisoners watching in rapt silence, and the unseen audience beyond the screens.

“Now, let’s not waste any more time, my lovely degenerates. Tonight is a night of opportunity! Of power! Of survival! And for some of you… well, let’s just say tonight might be your last.” His voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial and chilling.

“But isn’t that what makes it exciting?” he continued, his grin widening into something almost feral. “The stakes, the risk, the thrill of knowing that every second could be your last?” He let the silence hang for just a moment before clapping his hands together with a resounding crack.

“So, without further ado.” he said, throwing his arms wide as if inviting the universe itself onto the stage, “let the games… begin!”

The auction room, once heavy with tension, now buzzed with a frenzied energy as The Host stood tall in the centre of it all, his grin promising chaos and carnage to come.

The Host turned sharply, his polished shoes clicking against the platform as he gestured grandly toward the ceiling. His voice boomed with theatrical flourish, rich and commanding.

“And now, dear friends, the first offering of the evening! A prize to heal, to save, or perhaps… to end it all. From the depths of suffering, I give you—medical supplies!”

Above him, a loud, metallic creak echoed through the room as a wooden crate descended from the darkness, suspended by thick chains. The spotlight followed its slow descent, casting long shadows across the platform. The crate landed with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the chamber. Dust scattered from its surface as it settled, every eye locked on it.

The Host approached the crate, his movements deliberate and exaggerated, drawing out the moment. He ran his hands over the rough wood as if it were a priceless treasure. “Oh, what secrets lie within?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper before exploding back into full volume. “Let’s find out!”

With a dramatic flourish, he flipped open the lid, revealing the contents inside. His piercing yellow eyes gleamed as he began pulling out items, one by one, holding them up for all to see.

“First, we have Morphine injectors!” He held up a slim injector, twirling it between his fingers. “For those pesky little wounds—or, if you’re feeling generous, for somepony else’s. Who says kindness is dead?”

He tossed it back into the crate with a smirk, pulling out the next item. “First Aid Kits! Bandages, antiseptics, gauze—everything you need to patch up your sorry selves. Because let’s face it, you’ll need it.”

Reaching deeper, he pulled out a clear bag of crimson liquid, holding it up to the light. “Ah, Blood Bags. Multiple types, fresh as the day they were drained. Universal donor included, of course.” He chuckled darkly. “Let’s hope you’re not squeamish.”

Next came a vial of Fentanyl, which he spun delicately in his fingers. “A little pain relief, a little death, all depending on the dosage. Now that’s versatility.”

He continued without missing a beat, pulling out a vial of Epinephrine. “Need a pick-me-up? Feeling a little dead inside? This’ll get your heart racing—literally.”

Then, with a flourish, he lifted a small, unmarked vial from the crate, its contents clear and unassuming. “And for the discerning collector, cyanide.” He grinned wickedly, his tone playful yet chilling. “Perfect for a quick escape… or a quiet little murder.”

Finally, he reached into the crate one last time, pausing dramatically as his hand lingered on something inside. “And of course.” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried through the room, “a mystery item. Oh, what could it be? Something to save you? Something to damn you? Only one way to find out…”

He stepped back, spreading his arms wide as the crowd murmured in anticipation. “This crate.” he declared, his voice rising again, “is not just a box of supplies. It’s life, death, and everything in between. The question is… what are you willing to give for it?”

He turned toward the leaders, his grin razor-sharp, his yellow eyes gleaming with predatory delight. “The rules are simple, my dear leaders. To bid, you must sacrifice. Weapons, armour, food, drinks, medical supplies of your own—or, if you’re feeling particularly generous, one of your own prisoners.” His tone turned dark, his grin widening. “The price you pay is up to you. But remember: hesitate, and somepony else takes it all.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over the crowd. The Host took a step back, gesturing toward the crate with an inviting flourish. “So, who’s ready to play?”

The Host had barely finished his proclamation when The Boss leaned back in his chair, his signature grin widening as he clapped his hands once, slowly, mockingly.

“Well, well.” he began, his tone dripping with playful malice. “A crate full of medical miracles, huh? Morphine, blood bags, maybe even a little cyanide cocktail for those special occasions. Quite the prize, wouldn’t you say?” His red eyes flicked toward Nia, and his grin sharpened. “Tell me, Nia, does Unity patch up their wounded with discipline and honor, or do you actually use medicine like the rest of us degenerates?”

Nia’s disciplined composure remained unshaken, her red eyes cool and unreadable as she gave no response.

The Boss chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “Ah, the silent treatment. Love it. But we all know actions speak louder, don’t they? Jaws!” He snapped his fingers without looking back. “Bring me the bag of goodies.”

The towering Rottweiler didn’t hesitate. From a satchel slung across his shoulder, he pulled out a clear plastic bag filled with water, the contents inside unmistakable: a fresh, glistening heart, its red flesh almost pulsating under the harsh spotlight.

The Boss held the bag up with exaggerated flair, the heart catching the light like some grotesque jewel. “What do we have here?” he mused theatrically. “An offering straight from the, ah… heart of my operations. Freshly harvested. Still juicy. A gift for the ages!” He slammed it onto the table with a wet slap, his grin unwavering as he gestured toward The Host. “There’s my bid.”

The Host’s eyes gleamed with delight, his voice booming, “A bold start from The Boss! Who will match?”

Without missing a beat, Nia reached into a bag carried by one of her bodyguards, her movements precise and deliberate. She withdrew a glass jar filled with deep crimson liquid, so thick and dark it seemed almost black under the light. She placed it gently on the table, her expression calm as ever.

Her words were firm and steady in Zebrican. Irela translated quickly, her voice low. “A jar of blood. Enough to save many lives.”

The Boss raised a brow, leaning forward slightly. “Blood, huh? Practical. A little boring, though. What’s next? A jar of tears? Maybe a bag of hopes and dreams?” He laughed, the sound sharp and cutting. “Come on, Nia, don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got.”

Before The Host could interject, Alpha growled, the sound deep and rumbling as he reached beneath the table. With a single sharp motion, he slammed something heavy onto its surface—a severed stallion’s head, blood still dripping from the neck, pooling on the table.

The crowd above gasped faintly as the wolf leaned back, his voice low and guttural. “Caught him trying to steal from me. Figured his head was more useful than his hands.”

The Boss’s grin didn’t waver, but his red eyes flickered with a sharper edge. “Ooh, brutal. Very on-brand, Alpha. But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. You can only throw so many heads before you run out of idiots willing to follow you.”

Alpha bared his teeth, his claws flexing against the table. “At least my idiots don’t crawl around begging to be noticed.”

The tension between them was palpable, a live wire threatening to snap. The Host, sensing the rising stakes, raised his hands dramatically. “We have quite the contest brewing! Will anypony top Alpha’s gruesome contribution?”

The Boss leaned back, tapping his chin with mock thoughtfulness. Then, with a wicked grin, he snapped his fingers. “Alright, alright. You want to play rough? Let’s up the stakes.”

He turned, his eyes scanning the catwalk above. “Buster, grab me Fang. You know the one—the gay little bloodsucker. Useless as tits on a bull.”

The room shifted as Buster moved without hesitation, his massive frame weaving through the prisoners until he found Fang, the brown-eyed Thestral. Fang’s eyes widened in terror, and he began to struggle.

“No! No, please!” Fang begged, his voice breaking as Buster grabbed him by the collar. “Don’t do this! I’ll do anything! Please, Boss, don’t—”

Buster responded with a heavy punch to the gut, silencing Fang’s protests as he doubled over, wheezing. The hulking bodyguard dragged him forward, his boots scraping against the metal floor as he struggled weakly.

By the time they reached the platform, Fang was barely conscious, his face bruised, his breaths ragged. Buster hauled him onto the stage, shoving him forward to stand beneath the harsh spotlight.

The crowd murmured above, the tension unbearable as Fang swayed on his feet, his terror written across his battered face. The Host’s voice rang out, rich with anticipation. “A prisoner, ladies and gentlemen! Flesh and blood, a life for the crate. Do we have a counteroffer?”

The Pitbull Black Watch guard stationed nearby stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, pistol in hand. Raised to his head.

The Pitbull Black Watch guard is a towering, intimidating figure with a sleek black coat and piercing, calculating eyes. Clad in reinforced tactical armour, his gear is packed with weapons and supplies, designed for combat and control. His posture is rigid and alert, exuding silent authority and lethal precision, a true enforcer of the prison’s brutal order.

The room held its collective breath as the tension mounted, the silence broken only by Fang’s desperate, muffled whimpers. The Thestral trembled violently, his wings twitching uselessly at his sides as he was forced to his knees in the centre of the platform. Blood from his earlier beating dripped steadily onto the metal floor, joining the dark, glistening stain beneath him.

“Please.” Fang rasped, his voice hoarse and cracking, barely audible. “Please… don’t… I’ll do anything…”

The Pitbull ignored him, his cold, unfeeling eyes scanning the room. He didn’t pull the trigger immediately—no, he waited, lingering like a predator toying with its prey. His gaze flicked between Nia and Alpha, his message clear without a word: Do you want to save him? Or will you let this happen?

Nia remained still, her red eyes unwavering, her composer masking whatever thoughts churned beneath the surface. Beside her, her bodyguards tensed slightly, their fingers twitching, but Nia raised a hand, a silent order to stay put.

Alpha, on the other hand, growled low, his claws tapping rhythmically against the table. His icy blue eyes locked onto The Boss, his lips curling into a sneer. “That’s your big play? A useless coward?”

The Boss leaned back in his chair, his grin sharp and unbothered. “Oh, don’t be jealous, Alpha. Not everypony can be as practical as you, chopping heads like some barbarian.” He gestured lazily toward Fang with a wave of his hand. “This guy? He’s got flair. And I love a good send-off.”

Fang’s breathing turned frantic, his chest heaving as the Pitbull’s gun pressed harder against the back of his skull. The weapon’s suppressor dug into the flesh, forcing his head forward slightly, his bloodshot eyes darting around in blind panic.

“Going once.” The Host intoned, his voice smooth and deliberate, drawing out the words.

Fang sobbed, his voice breaking as tears streamed down his bruised face. “Please… I don’t want to die…”

“Going twice…”

Fang tried to struggle, his arms flailing weakly, but the Pitbull shoved him down, his knee driving into Fang’s spine with a sickening crack. Fang’s scream echoed through the room, a desperate, guttural sound that made some prisoners on the catwalks flinch.

“Sold!” The Host’s voice boomed, triumphant and final. “To The Boss!”

The Pitbull pulled the trigger.

The sound was muffled—a sharp pop—but the aftermath was anything but subtle. Fang’s head jerked violently as the bullet tore through the back of his skull, exiting with a spray of blood, bone fragments, and grey matter. The force slammed his face into the platform, his nose shattering on impact with a grotesque crunch. Blood poured from the wound, pooling rapidly around his limp body, mixing with the earlier smears on the floor.

His wings twitched once, twice, then stilled entirely, their once-delicate membranes now spattered with blood and brain matter. His mouth hung open, slack, a final, silent plea frozen on his lifeless face.

The Pitbull stood, wiping a stray speck of blood from his weapon with a practiced motion, as though none of it had phased him. Two more Black Watch guards emerged from the shadows, their boots clanging against the metal as they approached Fang’s corpse. They grabbed him without ceremony, one by the arms and the other by the legs, dragging him off the platform like dead weight. His broken face scraped against the surface, leaving behind a smear of crimson and shattered bone.

The Host clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the room like a punctuation mark. “And there you have it!” he declared, his voice brimming with theatrical delight. “Shall move on to the next supplies we offer!?”

Brown pressed his back against the cold steel wall, his ribs aching and his swollen eye throbbing with every slight shift. Around him, the catwalks buzzed with tension, whispers from the prisoners rising and falling like an unholy hymn. It was always like this—the slow build of unease as the auction dragged on, each moment more suffocating than the last.

The Host commanded the room like he always did, his booming voice slicing through the murmurs, rich with theatrics and dripping with cruelty. The crates descended one after another, their heavy thuds echoing through the cavernous space as if the prison itself exhaled in anticipation. Each box, a new treasure trove of survival or misery, depending on what it contained and how it would be used.

For the leaders, this was routine, a game they’d mastered long ago. For the prisoners, it was hell—an endless display of violence and greed, their lives traded away like bits at a marketplace. Brown didn’t need to look to know how it would go; he’d seen it all before.

The Boss leaned back in his chair, his black coat catching the faint glow of the spotlight. He was as predictable as ever—treating the auction like his personal playground. He wasn’t picky after the first crate, bidding on anything that caught his interest, not because he needed it but because he could. His voice carried above the crowd, filled with mockery and dark humor, each comment a carefully placed barb. He relished the game, taunting Alpha until the wolf’s claws scraped against the metal table, or throwing exaggerated compliments toward Nia, each one laced with flirtation and innuendo. To The Boss, this wasn’t survival; it was entertainment.

Nia, by contrast, was a figure of unwavering control. She sat still, her sharp red eyes locked onto the crates as they were opened, calculating every move. She bid only on what Unity needed—food, water, and general supplies—ignoring The Boss’s attempts to fluster her. Her sacrifices were methodical: six jars of blood, collected from her tribe with solemn reverence. Some of it, Brown overheard, was drawn from the dead, their final offering to the living.

And then there was Alpha. The wolf was nothing if not brutal, and his bids reflected that. He began with the severed head he’d brought, then added the rest of the body’s limbs when the stakes rose. But when the crate of weapons was lowered, he pushed further, offering three females from his gang—a zebra, a unicorn, and a pegasus.

Brown hadn’t needed to look to know what would happen. The women were dragged forward, their bodies broken and hollow, their eyes devoid of hope. The gunshot that followed was inevitable, just like the others. The sound echoed through the room, the thud of their bodies hitting the platform quickly drowned out by The Host’s booming voice as he moved on to the next crate.

Then the second phase of the auction had begun, a grim shift from supplies to prisoners. Over the course of this phase, prisoners had been traded and claimed by the factions: five now wore the navy and white jumpsuits of The Revenants, three zebras had joined Unity, clad in orange, and two prisoners were swallowed into the ranks of The Blood Pact, their plain blue jumpsuits a grim uniform of allegiance.

Pup pressed herself closer to Brown with every execution of prisoners that wasn’t wanted, her soft breaths shaky and uneven. She couldn’t bring herself to look, couldn’t stomach the sight. Instead, she stayed by Brown’s side, her attention fixed on him. She whispered to him now and then, her voice low and trembling, trying to pull him out of whatever dark place his mind had retreated to.

Z, as always, remained calm, his eyes following every movement on the stage. He watched the executions without flinching, his expression neutral. He never spoke during the auctions, never reacted. It was as if he were studying the process, committing every detail to memory.

Geek, on the other hand, couldn’t keep still. His gaze darted from the stage to his sister, Irela, who stood on the auction floor with the leaders. His hands fidgeted nervously, his orange eyes wide with worry. He tried to focus on the bids, on the crates, on anything but the gnawing fear for his sister’s safety.

And Brown? Brown stayed where he always did, leaning against the wall, his head tilted back as he stared blankly at the ceiling. He didn’t watch the stage. He didn’t listen to The Host’s voice or the bidding wars that followed. He tried to tune it all out, to drown himself in the rhythm of his own shallow breaths. This was just another auction, like all the others.

For Brown, the only way to survive it was to think of nothing. No sound, no light, no life. Just the silence inside his head.

Until…

It was the final group of prisoners that brought an unnatural stillness to Brown’s world, a family The Host referred to mockingly as “a bundle.”

A mare and her two daughters stepped forward under the spotlight, their white prison jumpsuits stark against the crimson-stained platform.

The mother, with long, flowing purple hair, held her daughters close, her arms protectively shielding them as she stood tall despite the terror etched into her face. Her deep orange eyes scanned the room frantically, searching for some sign of hope, some escape that wasn’t there. Her expression, though full of fear, was determined—a silent plea for mercy as she tried to stand between the crowd and her foals.

The younger daughter, small and fragile, clung to her mother’s leg, her wide, shimmering violet eyes darting around the room. Her short, silver-grey hair was messy, and her tiny bat wings twitched against her back as if ready to fly away at any moment. Despite her fear, she remained silent, tears welling up in her enormous eyes but refusing to fall.

The older daughter stood just behind her mother, her face a mirror of the mother’s terror but with more vulnerability. Her violet eyes were glassy, glistening with unshed tears that trembled on the brink. Her long, disheveled black hair cascaded down her back, framing her face. Her petite frame shook as she clutched at her mother’s arm, her leathery wings folded tightly against her trembling form.

Seeing them, Brown froze, the familiar faces cutting through the mental fog he had been trying to maintain. His body reacted before his mind caught up, shoving Pup gently to the side as he pushed through the crowd. He reached the edge of the catwalk, gripping the cold iron bars so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His breath hitched, and his glazed eyes locked onto the family below.

It was them. He knew them.

The mare glanced up for a brief moment, as though sensing the weight of his gaze, but her attention quickly snapped back to her daughters. She adjusted her stance, shielding them even more as the spotlight bore down on them like a predator stalking its prey.

Brown’s grip on the bars tightened as his heart pounded, his chest constricting with a mix of emotions he couldn’t place. Anger, fear, despair—they all blended together into a churning storm that left him frozen. He didn’t realise how hard he was gripping the bars, his hands trembling slightly, or how much his breathing had quickened.

Behind him, Pup watched silently, her brow furrowed in confusion and concern. She had never seen Brown react this way before—not to anything. But she didn’t say a word, her instinct telling her that whatever this was, it ran deeper than she could imagine.

The Host stepped forward, his arms spread wide as his voice rang out, dripping with false warmth.“So, my esteemed guests, shall we begin? Who among you desires this… lovely little collection of misfortune?”

The spotlight swung to The Boss, who leaned back in his chair, tilting his head thoughtfully as if genuinely considering the offer. His black coat gleamed faintly under the harsh light, and his red eyes glinted with amusement.

“Hmm.” he hummed, dragging the sound out theatrically, his grin widening. “As much as I’d love to play house, I gotta watch my food supply. Can’t afford to overstock, you know? And besides…” He gestured lazily toward the mother and her daughters. “They don’t look like much fun.”

His words sent a cold spike through Brown’s chest. His breath hitched, his fingers digging into the bars. For a moment, the world tilted as the weight of what had just been said settled over him like a shroud.

“No.” Brown whispered to himself, his voice trembling with disbelief. Then louder—desperate, raw—he shouted, “BOSS!”

The sudden outburst cut through the hum of the room, the word echoing like a gunshot. The Boss turned his head slightly, his red eyes flicking up to the catwalk. His gaze lingered on Brown for the briefest of moments—long enough to register the panic etched on his battered face—but then he turned back to the platform, completely dismissive.

Nia, seated with her ever-composed demeanour, shook her head slowly. Her calm voice carried just enough to reach The Host. “Unity passes.” she said.

The Host’s gaze slid to Alpha, whose claws tapped rhythmically against the table, his blue eyes gleaming with derision. “I’m not touching that.” Alpha growled, leaning back in his chair. He gestured lazily toward the family on the stage. “They look like they’ve got rabies—or worse. Not worth the trouble.”

The Host clapped his hands together, a sharp, almost mocking sound that echoed through the room. “Well, well, well! No takers, then? A pity. I suppose we’ll have to—”

The sound of metal clicking silenced the room. The Pitbull Black Watch guard, stationed beside the family, raised his suppressed pistol, his expression cold and mechanical. He pointed the weapon at the mother first, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Brown’s body moved on its own, driven by instinct, fear, desperation. “Red Eye!” he shouted, his voice cracking as the name tore from his throat.

The room froze.

The words echoed through the room, slicing through the tension like a blade. Every head snapped toward the catwalk, prisoners and leaders alike. Even The Host faltered, his sharp grin fading for a split second as the name hung in the air.

The Boss moved before anypony else could react. In a single fluid motion, he stood, his chair scraping back as he grabbed the revolver holstered at his side. His piercing red eyes locked onto Brown, and without hesitation, he raised the weapon.

The room seemed to hold its breath as The Boss aimed, his movements smooth, practiced, and terrifyingly precise.

Then—

He pulled the trigger.

Bang…

Footnote: No Level Up!

Welcome back to The Sacrifice Games, Brown.

You have earned 0 EXP, remaining at Level 2.

Level Up Progress: 99/150 EXP.

Keep sacrificing, keep surviving… well, if your alive that is.

Companion Check:

Pup has earned 0EXP!

She stays at Level 6!

Level Up Progress: 4/350 EXP

No further skills or passives unlocked.