The Blood on the Bars

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.