The Blood on the Bars

Oh, you’re here again, dear reader. Good. I’ve been meaning to explain something to you.

You see, despite the chaos of the Sacrifice Games—the bloodshed, the tears, the screams echoing in those narrow hallways—there is order. Not rules. No, rules imply fairness, justice, even morality. I don’t deal in such mundane things. What I’ve created is a system. A beautifully crafted, self-sustaining machine that ensures these ponies, diamond dogs, zebras, and whatever other poor souls end up in here, will always dance to the tune I play.

This system is simple. It doesn’t demand obedience. It demands survival.

Let’s talk about the essentials, shall we? Food? Sparse. A few moldy loaves of bread, a handful of canned goods past their prime. Enough to keep them from dropping dead, but never enough to stop the gnawing hunger in their bellies. Water? Oh, it’s there, but clean water? That’s a luxury. Most of it is murky, metallic, or downright undrinkable. I find dehydration brings out such… creativity.

Medical supplies? Ha! You’re more likely to find a rusty shiv than a bandage. I’ve seen prisoners stitch their wounds with dirty needles and fishing line, drinking their own blood to keep from fainting. Beautiful, isn’t it?

Then there are the other necessities. Clothing wears thin. Shoes fall apart. Tools? Scarce and fought over like gold. Even the most basic of comforts—a pillow, a blanket—become treasures worth dying for. And die they do.

But here’s the genius of it: I give them opportunities. Auctions. Death Games. Trials. Scavenging missions. I mix things up for the sake of entertainment—both for myself and the viewers—and for them, the poor wretches who cling to the faint hope of a reward.

Oh, the rewards. Food, clean water, weapons, even the rare taste of freedom… I provide whatever their little hearts desire. But only if they play the game. Only if they sacrifice.

You see, desperation is the key. When ponies are desperate, they reveal their true selves. Strip away the pretence of civility, and you’ll see who they really are. A lover will betray. A friend will stab. A parent will abandon. It’s inevitable. Sacrifice becomes their salvation, and I… I am their god of deliverance.

The gangs? Ah, yes, the gangs. I expected them. They’re the natural byproduct of my system. Once, there were seven. Now, there are three. The Revenants, Unity, and The Blood Pact. The rest? Either raided into oblivion, murdered to the last member, or consumed by their rivals.

The Revenants thrive on violence. They’re the reapers, the executioners, the ones who make the walls bleed. Unity pretends to be better—a community, a family—but their unity crumbles when the food runs out. And The Blood Pact? Oh, they are my favourite. They’ve taken my philosophy to heart: blood binds. Blood leads. Blood wins.

They play their roles perfectly. They survive, they fight, they sacrifice. And they keep this machine running.

So tell me, dear reader, isn’t it magnificent? Isn’t it perfect?

Stay tuned. The Sacrifice Games are just beginning.

Outside the prison, where the sun may shine brightly on the hottest of days or the rain may pour relentlessly on the coldest, life went on. Across nations and races, families worked to provide for their loved ones. Some chased their dreams of stardom, hoping to become celebrities or influencers. Foals ran through the streets, playing with friends, and perhaps discovering their cutie marks.

Out there, the sky was the limit.

For Serenity, though, time was limited. Every passing second was precious, dedicated to a single, all-consuming task: uncovering the whereabouts of a live stream that had gripped the underworld in a vice five years ago.

But after all this time, she wasn’t any closer than she had been when she started.

Serenity, an aging unicorn with pale white fur, deep blue eyes, and a long, messy grey mane, sat in her small office. The early morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of gold across the cluttered room. A cup of steaming coffee rested on one side of her desk, a laptop glowing in front of her, and a half-eaten chocolate bar sat forgotten on the other side.

Her cheek leaned heavily against the palm of her hand as her tired eyes stared at the screen. The Sacrifice Games played out before her—another brutal day, another round of blood, guts, and death. It had all become routine, a grotesque normalcy that had numbed her long ago.

Serenity had seen it all before.

For decades, she had been a brilliant detective, solving high-profile cases, saving lives, and bringing criminals to justice. But this case? It was eating her alive.

The endless hours of watching the live stream, chasing fruitless leads, and analysing every gruesome detail had taken a toll on her. All she did was sit, watch, eat, drink, and sleep. Her mental and physical health had deteriorated, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

Lighting a cigarette from the carton on her desk, she took a long drag, the smoke curling lazily around her head. She muttered under her breath, “Maybe after this one… after I solve this case, I’ll finally call it quits.”

The sharp vibration of her phone interrupted her thoughts. Pulling it from her pocket, her brows lifted slightly in surprise when she saw the caller ID: Hubby.

Her husband’s pseudonym name brought a rare softness to her features. She answered quickly.

“Hey, hun.” she said, leaning back in her chair, her tone immediately warmer. “What’s up?”

“Mom!” Her daughter’s voice said, full of excitement.

The corners of Serenity’s mouth curled into a rare smile hearing Pip’s young, innocent tone. “Oh hey, sweetheart.”

“Guess what? I have a surprise for you when you get home!”

Serenity chuckled softly, taking another drag of her cigarette. “A surprise, huh? You know I’m not a fan of surprises, Pip. Can’t you just tell me now?”

“Nope!” Pip giggled, the sound light and carefree. “You’ll just have to wait. But trust me, you’re gonna love it!”

“Alright, alright.” Serenity replied with a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll try to finish up early tonight. Don’t stay up too late waiting, okay?”

“I won’t.” Pip promised, her voice softer now. “But, Mom… you really need to stop working so hard. We miss you at home.”

Serenity’s smile faltered slightly, the weight of the case settling back onto her shoulders like a familiar burden. “I’ll be home soon, Pip. I promise.”

“Okay.” Pip said quietly, though there was still a note of cheer in her voice. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

As the call ended, Serenity found herself staring at the phone for a moment longer. The quiet buzz of the laptop screen brought her back, the chaos of the Sacrifice Games still playing out in front of her.

She stubbed out her cigarette, her fingers hesitating briefly before returning to the keyboard.

Another day. Another clue to chase—or so she hoped.

The soft creak of the office door broke Serenity’s concentration as a light custard-furred pegasus with a Prussian blue mane and green eyes entered the room. He carried himself with a bright, almost infectious energy that was completely out of place in the dim, smoke-filled space.

“Detective Serenity?” he asked, his voice upbeat and chipper.

Serenity barely glanced up, her eyes still glued to the screen in front of her. “That’s me.” she muttered, taking a drag from her cigarette.

The young stallion stepped closer, his smile widening. “I’m Feather Light. I’m your new partner.”

Serenity’s brow raised slightly, though her gaze remained fixed on the live stream of The Sacrifice Games. Feather Light’s enthusiasm was glaringly at odds with the grim scenes of bloodshed and death playing out on the screen.

He continued, undeterred by her lack of reaction. “I’ve heard so much about you! You’re a legend in the force, you know? Solving high-profile cases, bringing in the big criminals… I mean, wow. It’s an honour to work with you!”

Serenity finally turned her head, her tired eyes scanning him from head to foot. Fit, energetic, bright-eyed—he looked like he should be playing hoofball, not sitting in an office watching ponies die for hours on end. She didn’t bother to hide her skepticism.

“Too loud.” she muttered, taking another drag of her cigarette.

Feather’s smile faltered slightly, though he quickly recovered. “I, uh, was just saying I’m excited to be working with you!”

“Uh-huh.” Serenity replied, turning her attention back to the screen.

Feather hesitated, his eyes darting to the screen as well. Suddenly, the live stream cut to a series of underground advertisements. Guns, drugs, and other illicit goods flashed across the screen, accompanied by flashy slogans and discount offers. It was almost comical—like watching hoofball commercials during halftime, except the products being advertised could end lives.

Serenity let out a humourless chuckle. “The irony.” she muttered under her breath.

Feather shifted uncomfortably beside her. “So… uh, how long have you been watching this case?”

“Five years.” Serenity replied bluntly, not looking at him.

His ears flicked back, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “That’s… a long time.”

“Yep.”

Feather stood there for a moment, clearly unsure how to proceed. “Well.” he said finally, forcing a smile, “I guess I better get settled in. It’s going to be great working with you, Detective.”

Serenity hummed noncommittally, her eyes never leaving the screen.

Feather let out a small sigh, moving to the other side of the room to set up his station.

“Welcome to the case.” Serenity muttered under her breath, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Serenity sat at her desk, her pen tapping against a stack of papers as Feather Light’s voice filled the office. For what felt like hours—but was probably closer to 45 minutes—he had been talking.

Not about the case. Oh no, that would have been productive. Instead, Serenity had been treated to the highlights of Feather’s life.

“So, yeah, I didn’t make it as a hoofball player.” Feather said with a shrug, his voice still irritatingly chipper. “I mean, I was really good in school, but the pro leagues? Totally different level, you know? But hey, things worked out! Met my marefriend on a stag do before my best friend’s wedding. That was wild.”

Serenity hummed noncommittally, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.

“Oh! Did I tell you I broke a world record once?” Feather grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Smashed the most watermelons with my head in one minute. Twenty-six. The old record was twenty-four. Yeah, they called me ‘The Melon Smasher’ for weeks.”

Serenity blinked slowly, her pen stilling in her hand. “You don’t say.” she muttered, her voice flat.

“Totally! I’ve got a certificate and everything.” he added proudly, clearly oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm.

That was it. Serenity had had enough. She straightened in her chair and waved a hand vaguely in the air. “Feather.” she said, cutting him off mid-ramble. “Go. Get me… something. I don’t care what. Coffee, paperclips, whatever you can find. Just… go.”

“Sure thing, Detective!” Feather said with a salute, bolting out the door with the speed only a Pegasus could manage.

Serenity let out a long, slow exhale, savoring the silence. It lasted all of ten minutes before Feather returned, errand completed and smile intact.

Now, he was sitting at the desk across from her, clicking his pen rhythmically. Serenity glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching as he balanced the pen above his lip, holding it there like a mustache.

She let out a low groan, leaning back in her chair to stare at the ceiling.

Five years, she thought bitterly. Five years of chasing shadows, of getting nowhere. All those hours spent watching that damn live stream, and for what?

The thought of her failure stung. The Sacrifice Games had become her obsession, and the weight of the case had taken its toll. She’d given up so much—time with her family, her health, her peace of mind—all for a case that remained maddeningly out of reach.

Her gaze shifted back to Feather. Young, energetic, and blissfully unaware of the darkness she had waded through for years. He was the exact opposite of her—an innocent idiot, in many ways.

But maybe that was the point.

Serenity straightened, a new thought forming in her mind. Feather wasn’t jaded or overworked. He hadn’t spent years drowning in blood and despair. He had fresh eyes, untainted by the endless horrors of the case.

“Feather.” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

He looked up, the pen falling from his face. “Yeah?”

She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “What do you see? When you look at this?” She gestured to the screen, where the Sacrifice Games played out in all their grim glory. “What stands out to you?”

Feather blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Uh… well…”

Serenity leaned back, watching him closely. Let’s see what the rookie has to say, she thought.

Feather suddenly leaned forward, his green eyes narrowing as he focused intently on the screen. His hand hovered over the keyboard, and he began cycling through the prison cameras. He clicked through each feed rapidly, his sharp gaze scanning every detail. Occasionally, he grimaced and skipped past scenes of dead bodies or prisoners engaging in illicit acts, his discomfort evident.

Meanwhile, Serenity leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. She sipped occasionally, watching Feather with a mixture of detachment and mild curiosity. His focus was impressive, she had to admit, but his energy was exhausting.

She had enough time to pull out her phone and scroll through the latest news. A headline caught her attention:

~ A Potential Star in the Rough! The Reds HC are monitoring the transfer situation of 19-year-old earth pony striker Redsica from Havencroft HC, no negotiations between agent or club. Other teams from different leagues are eyeing the striker in the Winter Transfer Market, but the striker is set to snub any advancements or offers. ~

Serenity hummed softly, a small smile forming. Being a Reds supporter, the news gave her a momentary distraction from the grim realities of her work.

“Alright.” Feather finally said, his voice breaking her thoughts. He sat back in his chair, his wings fluttering slightly as he turned to face her.

Serenity set her phone down, taking another sip of her coffee before meeting his gaze. “What did you see?”

Feather adjusted his position, clearly eager to share. “A few things stood out.” he began. “First, the clocks in the prison—they match Canterlot’s time zone. That might be something, or it might be nothing.”

Serenity gave a small nod, prompting him to continue.

“Then there are the weapons. They’re not all from one source. I saw Equestrian designs, Zebrican craftsmanship, weapons from the Badlands, and even gear that looked like it came from the Griffin military. A real mix.”

“Go on.” Serenity said, her voice even.

“The jumpsuits.” Feather added, his tone sharpening with intrigue. “They’re color-coded by gang. The navy blue and white stripes? Those are The Revenants. The orange ones belong to Unity. And the blue jumpsuits? The Blood Pact.”

Serenity nodded again, her expression unreadable.

“And the population.” Feather continued. “It’s mostly ponies from the Badlands and Equestria. That’s not too surprising—ponies are everywhere. But what got me thinking was the dragons.”

“Dragons?” Serenity echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Feather confirmed, his voice growing more thoughtful. “They’re from the southwestern regions of Equis, right? Their nation doesn’t have alliances with anypony else, and there’s no official transport in or out of their territory. So how did they end up here? Unless…”

He trailed off, his wings twitching slightly as he pieced it together. “Unless the prison is somewhere nearby. The closest regions to the dragons are the Griffin Lands, the Badlands, and Equestria.”

He finished with a small shrug, leaning back in his chair. “That’s all I’ve got. Just connecting dots with what I know.”

Serenity studied him for a moment, her tired eyes scanning his face. “Not bad.” she said finally, her voice neutral.

Feather’s face lit up slightly, a hint of pride creeping into his expression.

“But.” Serenity added with a sigh, “I already knew all of that.”

His enthusiasm deflated slightly, though he tried to hide it. Serenity took another sip of her coffee, her gaze drifting back to the screen.

“Still.” she said after a pause, her tone softening, “At least your caught up somewhat.”

Feather leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slightly as he muttered to himself. “Who in their right mind comes up with this stuff? A twisted death game… and not just that, but streaming it to the world? It’s sick. Demented.”

Serenity didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still fixed on the screen. Her silence wasn’t dismissive, though; there was a flicker of inquisitiveness in her tired eyes.

“Feather.” she said, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

He glanced at her. “Yeah?”

“Have you ever watched The Sacrifice Games before?” she asked, her tone casual but her gaze sharp. “Or did you know anything about it before this case?”

Feather shook his head quickly. “No, ma’am. Chief Bright sent me in blind. Said it was a confidential case, and that was about it.” He paused, his ears flicking back slightly. “I mean, I knew of it. You’d have to be living under a rock not to hear whispers about it. Ponies talk. You hear rumors—about the deaths, the gangs, the… horrors. But watching it?” He shook his head again. “Never. Not until now.”

Serenity hummed softly, nodding to herself. “I see.” she said, more to herself than to him.

Feather watched her carefully. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair and tapping the ash from her cigarette into the tray. “I guess I could waste some time filling you in. You might as well know what we’re dealing with.”

She crossed her legs, her voice taking on a slightly reflective tone as she continued. “It all started five years ago…”

Serenity lit another cigarette, her voice calm but edged with quiet bitterness as she began. “It all started off so… calm. A civil little community of eighty souls. Infants, foals, adults, elders—half of them ponies, the rest a mix of species. They made it work, at first. Supplies came weekly: food, water, weapons. Barely enough to keep half alive for another week, but somehow, they found balance. A system.”

Feather sat still, his usually chipper demeanour replaced by a stoic focus. “How?” he asked, his voice low.

“The young and the infants took priority.” Serenity replied. “The rest? They rationed. Fasting to ensure everypony got just enough to scrape by. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. For three months, they survived.” She paused, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Then the mastermind behind it all decided that survival wasn’t entertaining enough.”

Feather didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened slightly. “What did they do?”

“They introduced more prisoners.” Serenity said simply. “Every week, new faces showed up. The system they built—already fragile—crumbled. Supplies didn’t stretch far enough. Hunger turned to desperation. Desperation turned to chaos.”

Feather’s green eyes remained locked on her, unwavering. “So, what? They fought for scraps?”

Serenity nodded. “They stole. Lied. Betrayed. Killed. The first blood spilled over the last piece of bread, and that was it. The beginning of the end. And, wouldn’t you know it, the viewers ate it up. The ratings skyrocketed.”

Feather’s wings shifted slightly, his only visible reaction. “And the community?”

“Split.” Serenity answered flatly. “One group became two. Then three. By the end of the first year, there were seven factions. And that’s when the real wars began. Raiding. Fighting. Killing. They didn’t care about the foals or the elderly anymore—no one was spared.”

Feather’s voice was quiet but firm. “What happened to the factions?”

“Two of them didn’t make it past the second year.” she replied. “Cannibalism became a choice—sometimes the only choice. Male dominance took over, and the females who couldn’t fight? They were…” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. “They were tortured. Raped. Turned into prostitutes. Slaves. Their spirits broken until the only escape they had was suicide.”

Feather’s gaze darkened, but his tone stayed even. “And the masterminds? They just let it happen.”

“Let it happen?” Serenity echoed, her voice sharp with grim humour. “They encouraged it. This place isn’t about survival—it’s about sacrifice. Sacrificing others. Sacrificing yourself. Sacrificing what little morality you have left.”

For a moment, the office was silent, save for the faint hum of the laptop. Feather’s eyes returned to the screen, his expression unreadable. “And this… is what we’re chasing.” he said finally.

Serenity took another drag of her cigarette, her gaze distant. “It doesn’t stop there, kid.” she muttered, making Feather sigh. “The third year.” she began, her voice steady and detached, “is when everything changed. The Auction and The Arena were introduced. Another faction didn’t make it out alive.”

Across the desk, Feather Light sat with his forelegs crossed casually, his green eyes on her but unreadable. He nodded slightly, a gesture that could have been acknowledgment or simply politeness.

“The Auction.” Serenity continued, her voice laced with faint disdain, “was meant to keep the gangs running. Supplies, tools, even prisoners—it became a marketplace for survival. The mastermind wasn’t satisfied with ponies dying too quickly. This was their way of drawing it out. Feeding the system.”

Feather’s wings shifted almost imperceptibly, the only sign he was still listening. “Makes sense.” he said quietly, his tone devoid of judgment.

“And then there’s The Arena.” Serenity added, taking another drag before exhaling a plume of smoke. “A 1v1 fight to the death. No weapons allowed, but anything else goes.”

Feather tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting momentarily to the cigarette in her hand. “And if a foal is chosen?”

Serenity’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The mother can take their place. That’s part of the game—forcing them to make the sacrifice. Save your child and die, or let them fight and hope they live. Either way, the viewers win.”

Feather’s mouth twitched, as if he were about to respond, but he simply gave a small nod, his expression carefully neutral.

Serenity leaned back in her chair, her eyes dark and distant. “The fourth year saw the death of two more factions.” she continued. “That left The Revenants and The Blood Pact. With fewer prisoners left to kill, they managed to coexist for a while. A truce.”

Feather hummed faintly, his gaze flicking back to the screen. “How long?”

“Not long.” Serenity said, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Male dominance was still rampant, and then there was the racism.”

“Racism.” Feather echoed softly, almost to himself.

Serenity nodded. “Toward zebras. Always the scapegoats. They and the deer formed their own faction: Unity. That’s what broke the truce. Once Unity appeared, The Revenants and The Blood Pact couldn’t stand the balance tipping. The rivalry reignited.”

Feather glanced at her briefly, his face calm but unreadable. “And so it started again.”

“It never really stopped.” Serenity said with a humourless chuckle. “It’s a cycle. Violence, alliances, betrayals. It’s not about survival—it’s about breaking them down. Turning them into what the mastermind wants.”

Feather’s wings twitched again, his green eyes flicking back to the screen. “Sacrifices.” he said, his tone flat.

Serenity nodded, taking another slow drag of her cigarette. “Exactly.”

Feather leaned back in his chair, his expression calm, maybe thoughtful. Serenity glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but if there was anything beneath his composure, he wasn’t showing it.

Serenity’s voice was low, almost a murmur, as she continued. “Unity’s leader is… something else. They call her Nia. She’s a zebra with black fur, yellow stripes, and red eyes. That combination—it’s rare. Revered. In their culture, zebras like her are seen as… chosen. Sacred, maybe. Something we don’t understand.”

Feather sat motionless across from her, his green eyes locked on her face. His expression gave nothing away, but the faintest twitch of his ear betrayed his interest.

“She’s not like the others.” Serenity said, her cigarette trailing a thin ribbon of smoke. “She’s cold when she has to be, but fair. Those who show her loyalty get it back in full. She doesn’t allow preying on others—not unless they’ve wronged her or her followers. And she keeps track of debts. Every. Single. One. She’ll repay them, good or bad.”

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights. Serenity took another drag, her eyes narrowing. “She’s the only reason Unity hasn’t collapsed into chaos. She’s the heart of that group. But hearts…” She paused, exhaling smoke through her nose. “…are fragile things.”

Feather’s wings shifted slightly, the only sign of movement. “And The Revenants?” he asked quietly, his tone smooth, his curiosity veiled beneath his calm exterior.

Serenity studied him, her gaze sharp and unblinking. “The Revenants’ leader…” she began, her voice trailing into a faint hum of contemplation.

But before she could say more, the heavy creak of the office door broke the silence. Chief Bright stepped inside, his presence casting a shadow over the dimly lit room.

“Progress report.” he said flatly, his tone clipped.

Serenity stubbed out her cigarette, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Nothing to report.” she said after a pause, her voice tinged with quiet frustration.

Bright’s expression darkened. He sighed heavily, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out an envelope. “Five years.” he muttered. “Five years of this, and we’re no closer to anything.”

The envelope was plain, save for her name scrawled across it in what looked disturbingly like dried blood. Serenity took it without a word, her hands steady as she tore it open.

Inside was a photograph. Her daughter and son were in the background, their laughter frozen in time. Her beloved stood nearby, stoic and vigilant, a cigarette between his lips as he scanned their surroundings. The image was taken from a distance, the angle too deliberate, too calculated.

At the bottom of the photo, written in red ink—thick and bold—were the words:

“Don’t get too close to the truth, Serenity…”

For a long moment, Serenity said nothing. She stared at the photo, her face unreadable. Then she exhaled slowly, muttering under her breath, “He shouldn’t be smoking around the foals.”

Bright frowned, his concern etched deep into his features. “Serenity.” he began, his voice low but firm. “You need to stop. This case—it’s consuming you. These letters, these threats—they’re getting worse. If you push too far, they’re not just coming after you. They’ll come after your family.”

Serenity’s head snapped up, her icy blue eyes locking onto his. She rose to her feet abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “A word, chief.” she said sharply, her tone brooking no argument.

Bright hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Feather, who remained silent and still. Then he nodded. “Fine. My office.”

Serenity followed him out without another word, the door closing heavily behind them, leaving Feather alone in the dimly lit room. The faint hum of the laptop filled the silence, but even that seemed unnaturally loud in the oppressive quiet.

As the heavy office door clicked shut behind them, Chief Bright sank into his chair with a weary sigh. He reached for the mug of coffee on his desk, taking a slow sip as his sharp eyes studied Serenity. The air was heavy with unspoken tension, but Serenity wasted no time.

She stepped forward, placing both hands firmly on his desk, a confident grin spreading across her face.

“I’ve got a lead…”

The impact rattled through Brown’s body as his back slammed against the cold concrete wall of the prison bathroom. The dull thud echoed through the tiled space, the flickering fluorescent light above casting sickly shadows over the row of grimy toilet stalls beside him. His breath hitched, a strangled wheeze escaping his lips as he doubled over, saliva dripping from his mouth, coughing harshly. His arms instinctively wrapped around his midsection, cradling the spot where the vicious kick had landed. His ribs screamed in protest.

He didn’t need to look up to know who had just sent him crashing into the wall. But he did anyway.

Standing before him, smirking like he had already won, was Buster. The light blue unicorn cracked his neck with a casual tilt of his head, his mane—a mess of varying shades of blue—tied back in a loose ponytail. The wicked gleam in his royal blue eyes was unmistakable: amusement, cruelty, hunger for violence. His leg was still raised from the expertly executed side-kick he’d driven into Brown’s gut, his balance and precision that of somepony who knew how to hurt.

Behind him, Razor with cotton buds in his nostrils and Spunk stood with grins stretched across their smug faces, both still sporting the bruises from their last encounter with Brown. They were enjoying this. This was their moment of payback.

A few ponies crowded around the doorframe, watching, some entertained, others indifferent. They weren’t here to stop it. They weren’t here to save him. They were here for the spectacle.

Buster took a step forward, his boots scuffing against the tiled floor, his voice dripping with condescension.

“C’mon, ‘champ’.” he taunted, his smirk widening. “Where’s that fight now, huh? The way you laid into these two bastards, you had some fire in you.” His horn flickered with a faint glow before fizzling out, showing that he didn’t need magic for this. “So show me.”

Brown swallowed, his breath still uneven. He didn’t respond. He just pressed himself against the wall, his body aching from the pain, his mind already shutting down.

Buster’s grin twitched. He took another step forward.

“Fight.” he demanded.

Brown said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t react.

Buster’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before twisting into a sneer. His nostrils flared as he loomed closer, his voice dropping into something lower, something more threatening.

“Fight back, you piece of shit.” he growled. “Where’s that fire? That spark? You had it when you fought for her, didn’t you?” His head tilted mockingly. “What, you only fight when it’s for some bitch?”

Razor and Spunk chuckled at that, but Buster wasn’t laughing anymore.

Brown just stood there, unmoving, unreadable.

Because there was no point.

Pup had needed him. That had been different.

This? This wasn’t a fight he needed to win.

This wasn’t a fight at all.

It was just another beating.

And he knew better than to resist.

Buster’s eye twitched. His grin returned, but there was something else in it now.

Frustration.

Disappointment.

And most of all—anger.

He let out a slow exhale before chuckling under his breath. “Tch. You really are a pathetic little punching bag.”

Then, without another word, Buster’s fist connected with Brown’s face, the impact sending a dull ringing through his skull. But before Brown could even process the pain, Buster’s grip was on him again—this time around his throat.

Brown choked as the unicorn’s strong fingers tightened, forcing him against the cold concrete wall. His body tensed instinctively, his hands grasping at Buster’s wrist, but the unicorn only grinned wider, his teeth bared in a wicked sneer.

“You’re really testing my patience here, Brown.” Buster murmured, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous edge. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Brown’s face. “I don’t mind beating the shit out of you—I like it, actually. But you know what I’d like even more?”

Brown’s yellow eyes flickered with something—disgust, wariness—but he still said nothing.

Buster chuckled darkly. “If you don’t start fighting back, I think I’ll grab a few of the boys… pay Pup a visit.”

Brown’s breath hitched, his battered chest rising and falling rapidly.

Buster’s smirk widened. He could see the shift in Brown’s expression.

“That’s right.” he purred. “We’ll beat her to near death—real slow, too. Then, we’ll use every. Single. Hole. She has.” His grip on Brown’s neck tightened as his voice dropped to a cruel whisper. “Over. And over. And over again.”

Something inside Brown snapped.

Buster saw it—the shift, the barely contained rage flashing behind Brown’s dull eyes. And he loved it.

“That’ll wipe that stupid grin off her face, huh?” Buster taunted. “I’ll break her for good—”

Brown’s knee shot up, driving into Buster’s midsection with brutal force.

The impact sent Buster stumbling back, his grin twisting into a pained grimace as the air was momentarily knocked from his lungs. But Brown didn’t stop there. In a fluid motion, he surged forward, using the space he created to close the gap instantly, leaping into a flying punch aimed straight for Buster’s skull.

But Buster was faster.

With precise footwork, he ducked under the punch, weaving past Brown’s wild strike with ease. Before Brown could recover, Buster was already manoeuvring himself behind him, light on his boots, bouncing on the tips of his toes, his stance shifting.

He was ready.

Brown turned sharply, his breathing ragged, his ribs screaming from the previous beating, but his mind was no longer hazy. No longer detached.

He dropped into a stance—but not the same one he had used against Razor and Spunk.

This time, his arms were tucked in tighter, his fists protecting his jaw, his elbows close to his ribs, his movements compact, calculated.

A peekaboo stance.

The viewers went wild.

Anonymous4325: YO, WE GOT A FIGHT LET’S GOOOOO

Anonymous7110: FINALLY, BROWN DOING SOMETHING OTHER THAN GETTING HIS ASS BEAT

Anonymous2304: This ain’t even gonna be close. Buster’s gonna embarrass him.

Anonymous1072: …Interesting. That’s not the stance he used before. Peekaboo is a boxer’s stance. He’s a boxer.

Anonymous7452: Bro’s actually a boxer? LMAO HE STILL LOSING

Anonymous6205: Buster finna style on him with them kicks, Brown’s not gonna get close enough to even touch him.

Anonymous1072: That depends. Buster knows taekwondo—that means his strength is in distance and kicks. If he keeps Brown at range, he wins easily. But if Brown closes the gap… maybe he has a chance.

Anonymous9939: 1072, my guy, let’s be real—Buster’s better at taekwondo than Brown is at boxing. This ain’t even a debate.

Buster’s grin returned, but this time, it wasn’t mocking—it was excited.

“Ohhh, so you can fight.” he cooed, bouncing lightly on his boots, his movements loose, controlled. “That’s good. That’s real good.”

Brown said nothing, his eyes locked on Buster’s every twitch, every shift in weight. He already knew—he was at a disadvantage.

Buster’s footwork was fast, fluid. His reach wasn’t in his arms—it was in his legs.

If Brown didn’t get in close, he was done.

And Buster knew it, too.

The fight was about to begin.

The real fight.

Buster kicked first.

Buster moved like a predator.

The second he saw Brown drop into his stance, he exploded forward, his body twisting mid-air—snap! His heel whipped out with a jump back kick, a move meant to test Brown’s guard.

BAM!

Brown barely had time to brace as the impact rattled his forearms, the sheer force shaking his ribs. His breath hitched, but he stood firm. He had to close the gap. Now.

He surged forward.

Buster smirked. Predictable.

CRACK!

A reverse side kick slammed into Brown’s midsection before he could even react, the force hitting like a sledgehammer to the gut. His body lurched backward, pain exploding in his ribs—

And then—

SWOOSH!

Buster’s supporting leg snapped up in an instant reverse hook kick, his heel connecting flush against Brown’s jaw.

BANG!

The impact sent stars across Brown’s vision. His world tilted.

His balance vanished.

The whole room seemed to shift. The lights above, the cracked ceiling, the laughter—all of it swayed like he was underwater.

He caught himself before he hit the ground, his foot sliding across the grimy tile floor, barely keeping him upright.

Buster just laughed.

Loud. Mocking. Cruel.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his limbs like he was just warming up.

“Damn.” Buster grinned, licking his teeth. “That all you got?”

Brown didn’t respond. He was still processing the hits.

Buster cocked his head, watching Brown struggle to regain his footing. His smirk twisted into something meaner, something hunting for weakness.

“You thought your little boxer stance was gonna save you?” he scoffed, cracking his neck. “Too slow, punching bag. You can’t catch me.” He tapped his own temple. “Your whole thing? It only works if you get in close. But guess what?”

He flashed a wicked smile.

“I ain’t letting you.”

The viewers went feral.

Anonymous432: OH SHIIIIIT! BUSTER’S DANCING AROUND HIM!

Anonymous711: FIGHT’S NOT EVEN CLOSE, THIS A SLAUGHTER💀💀💀

Anonymous230: BRO GOT SENT TO THE SHADOW REALM AFTER TWO KICKS, NAH THIS IS BAD

Anonymous745: “TOO SLOW, PUNCHING BAG” HOLY SHIT HE’S COOKING HIM ALIVE

Anonymous993: THROW THE TOWEL. THROW THE DAMN TOWEL.

Anonymous1072: …Brown’s in real trouble.

Anonymous620: DID YOU SEE THAT SECOND KICK? HIS HEAD DAMN NEAR CAME OFF LMFAOOO

Anonymous1072: He can’t get in close. And if he doesn’t… this fight’s already over.

Buster smirked as he read the room, the comments, the faces watching. He was winning.

But something felt… off.

Brown was still standing.

He should’ve collapsed by now. Should’ve given up. Should’ve been curled up on the ground like a good punching bag.

Instead, he was staring.

Not at him.

At his feet.

Buster’s eyes narrowed slightly, bouncing lightly on his boots. “What’s wrong, huh?” he teased, tapping his chin. “That it? You done already?”

Brown exhaled. Slowly.

Something about the way he settled into his stance made the air shift.

Buster’s smirk twitched.

Something’s different.

Brown wasn’t rushing in anymore.

He was waiting.

Why?

Buster’s fingers clenched into fists.

He didn’t like this.

Brown was changing something.

But he’d break him before he could figure it out.

Buster charged again.

And Brown was ready.

Buster moved like lightning.

He spun mid-air, his body twisting into a 540-degree turn kick, the momentum behind it lethal. His heel came down fast, aimed to crush Brown the second it connected.

But Brown didn’t back away.

Instead—

His fist was already pulled back.

Not at Buster’s body.

Not at his face.

At his shin.

CRACK!

A brutal hook punch collided with Buster’s striking leg, landing right on the shin just before the kick could reach him.

The impact sent a shockwave through the bathroom.

Buster’s eyes widened.

His kick—stopped dead.

The force threw his balance into chaos. His limbs flailed, and his body twisted wrong, sending him tumbling to the grimy tile floor with a loud thud.

The viewers ERUPTED.

Anonymous432: HOLY FUCK! HE DROPPED HIM! HE ACTUALLY DROPPED HIM!

Anonymous711: THAT WAS RAW AS HELL, DID YOU SEE THAT TIMING?!

Anonymous230: HE PUNCHED HIS DAMN LEG MID-KICK?! WHAT KIND OF MANIAC—

Anonymous745: HE OUTSMARTED HIM?! BROWN OUTSMARTED HIM?!

Anonymous993: HE STRUCK FIRST WTF—

Anonymous1072: …I’ll admit, that was impressive.

But the victory was short-lived.

Buster wasn’t down for long.

He rolled onto his knees and pushed himself back up, but as soon as he planted his foot, a sharp hiss escaped his lips.

He wobbled.

His leg—his kicking leg—was limping.

Brown had hurt him.

But Brown wasn’t celebrating.

Because he was in worse shape.

His fist throbbed violently. Blood dripped from his knuckles, a searing pain shooting up through his fingers. He clenched his hand instinctively, but the moment he did, a fresh bolt of agony ripped through him.

He had tried to break Buster’s leg.

Tried to shatter his shin.

But the moment he connected, it had felt like he had punched solid steel.

Buster saw the pain.

And he laughed.

Not a chuckle.

Not a smirk.

A full-bodied, hysterical laugh.

His head tilted back as his shoulders shook, his hands clapping together as if he had just witnessed the funniest thing in the world.

“Holy shit, Brown!” Buster howled between laughter. “You really tried to break my leg?! MY leg?! Ohhh, that’s rich, that’s fucking golden!”

Brown’s breathing was heavy, his mind racing through the pain, but Buster just kept going.

“Oh, Celestia—” He wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. “You actually thought that’d work?” He planted his foot again, testing it—there was a twitch, a limp, but he didn’t seem concerned.

Instead, his grin grew wider.

“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice was smooth, dripping with amusement. “I’ve broken my legs too many damn times to count. Snapped, shattered, fractured—over and over again.”

His smile turned sinister.

“They don’t break anymore.”

His royal blue eyes gleamed with something cruel.

“All you did—” He cracked his knuckles. “—was piss me off.”

The viewers went wild.

Anonymous432: OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT—

Anonymous711: BUSTER’S ABOUT TO GO FULL PSYCHO MODE WTF—

Anonymous230: BROWN MIGHT HAVE JUST SIGNED HIS DEATH WARRANT LMAO

Anonymous745: HE BROKE HIS LEGS TOO MANY TIMES??? WHO THE FUCK EVEN SAYS THAT?!?!

Anonymous993: BROWN, RUN BRO. RUN.

Anonymous1072: …This is bad. Very, very bad.

Buster cracked his neck, his fingers flexing, rolling his shoulders loose.

Buster’s grin vanished.

The moment his eyes locked onto Brown’s pained, bleeding hand, his whole posture changed. The cocky arrogance, the taunts, the mocking laughter—it was all gone.

Now?

Now, he just wanted to hurt.

He launched forward, his stance shifting, but this time, Brown noticed something different.

Buster’s usual movements—the precise, controlled footwork of a taekwondo fighter—were suddenly gone.

This wasn’t the light, bouncing rhythm of a kicker anymore.

This was stalking.

And then—

His knee lifted.

His foot snapped forward—

A teep kick.

The ball of his foot slammed into Brown’s gut, knocking him backward with an explosive force that sent him staggering, barely keeping his footing.

It hurt.

But that wasn’t what shocked him.

It was the move itself.

A teep kick? That wasn’t a taekwondo move.

The viewers roared.

Anonymous432: BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!

Anonymous7111: FUCK HIM UP, BUSTER! FUCK HIM UP!

Anonymous230: LMAOOO HE CAN’T DO SHIT, BUSTER’S JUST BETTER

Anonymous745: STOMP THIS BITCH INTO THE GROUND!

Anonymous993: OH THIS JUST GOT UGLY—

Anonymous1072: …That wasn’t taekwondo. That was Lethwei.

Anonymous6207: ??? The fuck is Lethwei???

Anonymous432: Ayo wtf does that mean???

Anonymous1072: It means we severely underestimated him.

Anonymous711: Nah, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN THO?!

Brown gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay standing, but his mind was racing.

Lethwei.

The pieces clicked together.

The steel-like bones. The comment about breaking his legs too many times. The brutal durability.

Buster didn’t just know taekwondo.

He knew Lethwei.

A bare-knuckle combat style from the Griffin Lands, a fighting style copied from the zebra’s Muay Thai, but far more savage. Unlike other striking arts, Lethwei fighters deliberately condition their bones—by breaking them, letting them heal, breaking them again—until they harden like iron.

If Buster was trained in both Taekwondo and Lethwei—

Then Brown wasn’t just fighting a kicker.

He was fighting a fucking monster.

Anonymous1072: This is bad. Very, very bad.

Anonymous993: How bad we talkin???

Anonymous1072: If Buster keeps Brown at a distance, he’ll butcher him. And if Brown somehow closes the gap—

Anonymous230: ??? Then what?!

Anonymous1001: Brown is so fucked!!

Anonymous1072: Buster’s elbows and headbutts are just as deadly as his kicks.

Brown exhaled sharply, shaking out his arms, blinking through the pain.

This fight just got a whole lot worse.

And Buster?

He was still smiling.

Buster’s grin twisted into something downright sadistic.

His stance was no longer purely Taekwondo—no—this was a hybrid. A predator adapting to its prey. A deadly mix of calculated kicks and brutal, bone-breaking close-quarters combat.

Brown saw it. He felt it. The shift in rhythm. The change in flow.

But there was no time to react.

Because Buster moved first.

WHAM!

A jumping switch kick crashed into Brown’s ribs, his body folding as the impact sent a sickening shockwave through his chest. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, his lungs struggling to pull in air—

Then—

CRACK!

Before he could even straighten up, a spinning back elbow slammed into the side of his skull.

His vision exploded into white noise.

The whole world wobbled, like reality itself was tilting.

His knees nearly buckled—

But Buster wasn’t done.

Not even close.

WHACK!

A devastating side kick drove into his stomach, the force lifting him off the ground slightly before slamming him back down onto unsteady feet.

Brown doubled over, gagging, bile rising in his throat. His entire body screamed, every nerve alight with agony—

Then he felt it.

Hands.

Gripping the back of his head.

Oh no.

Before he could even think—

BANG!

A Lethwei-style headbutt crushed his nose.

CRUNCH!

Blood splattered instantly. His skull felt like it had cracked in half. His knees finally gave out, but Buster didn’t let him fall. He held him in place, still gripping his head, still keeping him locked in the clinch.

It was like being caught in a steel trap.

Anonymous4320: WHAT THE FUCK DID HE JUST DO?!

Anonymous711: BRO JUST GOT FUCKING CAVED IN HOLY SHIT—

Anonymous2304: DID ANYPONY ELSE HEAR THAT CRUNCH?! THAT WAS HIS NOSE RIGHT???

Anonymous745: BUSTER SAID FUCK DEFENSE, HE’S JUST MURDERING THIS DUDE

Anonymous1072: That’s a Lethwei clinch + headbutt. It’s one of the most dangerous and illegal moves in most combat sports.

Anonymous620: LMAO ILLEGAL MOVES DON’T EXIST HERE THO 💀💀💀

Anonymous1072: …Yeah. That’s why Brown is done.

Brown staggered, barely conscious, his legs moving on autopilot just to keep him upright. His whole face throbbed, his nose was definitely broken, and his arms felt like lead.

But he couldn’t just stand here.

With whatever strength he had left—

He swung.

A right hook, fueled purely by desperation.

SMACK!

It landed.

A solid connection. Right to Buster’s jaw.

Brown swayed, blinking rapidly, his body screaming at him to shut down—

Then he saw it.

Buster.

Not phased.

Not even shaken.

He just… stood there.

Rolling his jaw. Testing it. Feeling the spot where Brown’s fist had landed.

Then—

He grinned.

A wicked, bloodthirsty grin.

“Ohhh.” Buster purred, licking the trickle of blood from his lip. “That was adorable.”

Brown’s stomach sank.

Buster chuckled, stretching his neck from side to side. “Lemme show you what a real hit looks like.”

And then—

BANG!

A spinning heel kick tore through the air, colliding directly with the side of Brown’s head.

The last thing Brown registered was the sheer, devastating force—

Then—

Nothing.

Everything shut off.

His body collapsed.

Weightless. Boneless. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

The floor rushed up to meet him.

Then—

Darkness.

Anonymous432: OHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Anonymous711: HES FUCKING DEAD. HE’S DEAD. BUSTER FUCKING KILLED HIM.

Anonymous230: THAT WAS FUCKING SAVAGE HOLY SHIT—

Anonymous7262: Buster>The Boss!

Anonymous745: 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Anonymous993: NAH BUSTER DIDN’T EVEN CARE ABOUT THAT PUNCH, HE JUST STRAIGHT UP MURDERED BRO

Anonymous1072: …It’s over.

Brown was unconscious.

Buster stood over him, rolling his shoulders, shaking the stiffness out of his arms.

Then, casually, he spat on Brown’s motionless body.

“I was told you were a killer… to think I got excited over a punching bag.” he muttered, before turning to Razor and Spunk.

“Come on.”

And with that, he walked away.

Buster had won.

Brown’s eyes cracked open to the dull, flickering light overhead. His head was pounding, his body heavy, aching in ways that felt deep, almost permanent. The cold tiles pressed against his cheek, gritty with filth.

He didn’t move.

Not because he couldn’t—though that was part of it—but because there was no point.

He had lost.

Badly.

How long had he been out?

A few minutes? An hour?

It didn’t really matter.

The distant hum of the prison, the occasional echo of laughter or a distant scuffle, told him time hadn’t stopped just because he had. The world had kept moving while he lay crumpled on the bathroom floor like a discarded rag.

Brown let out a slow breath through his nose, wincing as his ribs protested.

He had been stupid.

What did he think was going to happen? That he’d throw a few punches and come out on top? That he could take on somepony like Buster in his condition?

He wasn’t that guy anymore.

Hadn’t been for a long time.

So why did he fight?

Why had he reacted so violently to Buster’s words about Pup?

He wasn’t her hero. He wasn’t anypony’s hero.

And yet, the second Buster had threatened her—he acted.

Like it mattered.

Like he could stop it.

Stupid.

Maybe they had gone to her cell anyway. Maybe Pup was lying in a heap on her floor, just as broken as him.

He exhaled sharply, trying to push the thought away, but it stuck like a dull ache in his chest.

And then there was the other thing.

The part that made his jaw tighten.

A unicorn had beaten an earth pony.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

Earth ponies were stronger. More durable. Built to take hits, to endure. Unicorns? They had their magic, their tricks, but physically? They were weak.

Or at least, they should’ve been.

But Buster wasn’t weak.

And Brown wasn’t strong.

Not anymore.

He shifted slightly, testing his limbs, feeling the dull throb of bruises, the sharp protest of his ribs, the swelling in his knuckles. His body worked, just barely.

He could get up. Eventually.

But for now, he just lay there, staring at the stained tiles, letting the quiet settle around him.

Thinking.

Waiting.

And hoping—though he wouldn’t admit it—that Pup was still okay.

The sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the dimly lit, grimy bathroom, followed by the slow creak of a stall door swinging open. The scent of urine, sweat, and old blood hung thick in the air. Brown barely managed to turn his head, every movement sluggish and weighed down by exhaustion. His body was a wreck—throbbing ribs, a swollen eye, knuckles torn raw. His head still pulsed with the aftermath of Buster’s last, brutal kick.

Out of the stall stepped Z, the zebra moving with an unhurried, almost lazy grace. He adjusted his jumpsuit’s collar with one hand as he walked to the sink, the flickering overhead light casting shadows across his striped frame. He didn’t react to Brown right away. Instead, he ran his hands under the weak stream of water, rubbing them together methodically, letting the silence stretch. The way he moved, the way he took his time—it was as if he belonged to a different world entirely, detached from the chaos and suffering that ruled this prison.

Finally, as he dried his hands on a rag from his pocket, he turned his sharp green eyes onto Brown. Calculating.

“Still breathing, huh?” he mused, almost to himself. “Impressive. Lethwei’s no joke, especially when you’re in no shape to fight.”

Brown didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Just lay there, staring blankly at the cracked tiles above him, listening.

Z leaned against the sink, crossing his arms. “Didn’t see the fight firsthand. Was busy reading the viewer comments in the cafeteria.” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “They loved it, you know. Can’t get enough of watching you get your head caved in. It’s funny to them.”

His voice was calm, detached, but there was something beneath it. Something unreadable.

“Peekaboo wasn’t a bad idea, though. Clever, considering what little you had to work with. Maybe if it weren’t for that Lethwei shit, you could’ve done something.”

He tossed the rag into the sink, rolling his shoulders before strolling toward Brown. He crouched down next to him, resting his arms on his knees, his gaze level. For a long moment, he just studied him.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I like you, Brown.”

The words were simple, but they carried a weight that made Brown finally shift his eyes toward him.

Z’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze. “Most ponies don’t see it. Some don’t even realize it. But there’s a reason you’ve survived five years in this shithole.”

His voice dipped lower, more measured. “You keep getting beaten. You keep getting knocked down. And yet, every time—”

“You get back up.”

There was no mockery in his tone. No amusement. Just a quiet, matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the truth.

Brown stared at him, unreadable.

Z let out a small breath through his nose. “Is that a life worth living? Can’t say I think so. But the fact remains—you’re still here. The longest-running player in the Sacrifice Games. And for whatever reason, you finally decided to fight back.”

A pause.

Then, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Z’s lips.

“I respect that.”

He straightened, stretching his arms above his head as if shaking off a lingering thought. Then, without warning, he extended a hand down to Brown.

“So here’s my offer: I’ll train you.”

Brown’s fingers barely twitched. His whole body was wrecked, yet his mind latched onto the words with cautious curiosity.

“I’ll get your body back into shape. Put some muscle on you. Won’t turn you into a Lethwei monster like Buster, but I’ll make you something useful again.”

For the first time, Brown’s voice croaked out, rough from pain.

“Why?”

Z’s smirk deepened slightly.

“Don’t worry about that.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he hauled Brown up, effortlessly shouldering his weight, moving with a casual strength that made it clear he had done this before.

Brown could feel the solid frame beneath Z’s prison jumpsuit. He wasn’t as bulky as some of the others, but he had power in his form—power that didn’t come from brute force, but from something more refined. Z was strong in his own right too.

As Z carried him out of the bathroom, his voice came low and even.

“This benefits me too, trust that. But first, let’s get you patched up. Then… we start.”

Brown let his head lull against Z’s shoulder, his mind clouded, his body heavy.

Training.

A chance to be something other than a punching bag.

Maybe it was foolish to believe it would change anything.

But maybe, just maybe—

This was the start of something different.

The showers hissed with steam, the air thick with the scent of cheap soap and stale humidity. Water cascaded down onto the cracked tiles, the steady rhythm filling the space, a sound that, for a moment, drowned out the reality beyond these walls.

A trio stood beneath the lukewarm spray—a mix of quiet routine and tired camaraderie.

Gritt, the slender griffin, hummed a light tune as he rinsed the grime from his feathers, the melody soft and almost carefree. His black-feathered body was wiry, lean rather than powerful, built for speed rather than brute strength. His wings stretched out slightly, the orange primary feathers stark against the dark plumage, a rare splash of colour on his otherwise shadowy form.

But it was his face that drew the most attention.

His right eye was gone, an empty, sunken socket where the organ used to be, the right side of his face sagging slightly, a wound that happened outside the prison once upon a time. He was small for a griffin, lacking the broad, intimidating bulk of others of his kind, but he carried himself with an easy confidence, unbothered by his size, his injury, or the world around him.

His voice wasn’t particularly strong, but it filled the space nonetheless—a stark contrast to the weight of their reality.

Beside him, Green, a green rounded pegasus with deep emerald fur, stood with her eyes closed, letting the water wash over her face, down her shoulders, over her breasts, rinsing away the lingering filth of another night spent in forced company. Her expression wasn’t one of sorrow or misery—just boredom. Routine. This was life now, and she had accepted it, even if she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore.

Across from them, Rhythm, a blue unicorn with striking green eyes, rubbed a hand down her damp body, exhaling a long, weary sigh.

She flicked her short, wet mane back, watching the water swirl into the drain before muttering aloud:

“Another day of being fucked senseless.”

Her voice was hollow, devoid of anger, lacking even resignation. Just a cold, unfeeling acceptance of reality.

No one disagreed.

Because it was true.

And the viewers knew it, too.

The cameras, embedded in the corners of the showers like watchful, unblinking eyes, captured everything. The ever-present screen at the end of the showers flickered with a cascade of comments—some thirsting, some mocking, others laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Anonymous7821: “Goddamn, look at that ass. If I was in there, I’d be hitting that shit every night.”

Anonymous3190: “Rhythm sounding extra dead inside today. Kinda hot ngl.”

Anonymous1903: “Bro, Green’s tits are fuckin’ immaculate. It’s not fair.”

Anonymous5406: “Another day, another fuck lmao. What’s for breakfast? Cock.”

Anonymous6074: “Bet Rhythm cries when she gets dicked down. That’s why it’s hot.”

Anonymous2839: “Yo, why is Gritt even here? Bruh, ain’t nobody wanna see his gay ass.”

Anonymous1072: “You guys are brain-dead. Gritt’s carrying the entertainment. A male griffin getting railed is peak content.”

Anonymous4321: “I’d fuck ‘em all except the fag.”

A meme edit of Rhythm’s blank expression was already making its rounds, with the caption:

“When ur only purpose is getting fucked”

Some laughed. Others probably jerked off to it.

Rhythm didn’t need to see the comments. She already knew what they said. They were as predictable as the sun rising and setting. The same hungry stares from behind screens. The same worthless fantasies spewed into the void by anonymous nobodies.

Nothing changed.

Just another day.

The sound of running water filled the showers, steam curling around the trio as they stood beneath the lukewarm spray. The cracked tiles beneath their feet were slick, the dim, buzzing light above barely cutting through the thick fog.

Gritt glanced over his shoulder at Rhythm, his tone light, casual, almost playful. “You’re doing well, babe. You should be used to it by now—been almost a year, right?”

Rhythm let out a slow, tired sigh, rolling her shoulders as she ran her fingers through her short, damp mane. Her green eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Easy for you to say.” she muttered, voice low but sharp. “You actually enjoy getting rammed up the ass by stallions.”

Gritt let out a chuckle, shrugging as he turned back to the stream of water, ruffling the damp feathers along his arms. “Ain’t exactly the worst way to spend a night.” he admitted, flexing his claws slightly. “Some of ‘em even got the decency to be gentle.”

Rhythm scoffed, rubbing her arms as if scrubbing away something that would never fully disappear. “I’m a lesbian, Gritt. I don’t want them touching me. It just—” she exhaled sharply. “It feels wrong.”

Gritt’s smirk faded slightly. He turned, stepping closer, the dampness of his fur and feathers brushing against Rhythm’s bare back as he wrapped his arms around her from behind. The hug was firm but warm, his beak close to her ear.

“I know.” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I know it ain’t fair. But you got me, babe. You got Green too.”

At the mention of her name, Green, the emerald-coated pegasus, hummed lightly in acknowledgment, still facing the showerhead. She dragged a hand down her face, wiping water from her eyes, her posture relaxed despite the conversation.

Gritt tightened his hold around Rhythm slightly, resting his chin against her damp mane. “Others too.” he reminded her. “You ain’t alone in this.”

Rhythm swallowed, standing stiffly in his hold before her shoulders sagged. “I know.” she muttered.

Gritt pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his talons brushing against her arms. “Sex ain’t special here. It’s just a chore.” he told her, his tone calm, measured. “Annoying. Makes you wanna sleep in, makes you wanna shut your brain off. But that’s all it is. A chore.”

Rhythm closed her eyes for a moment, as if trying to process that, to make herself believe it. She had known this, of course. Logically, she knew it. But sometimes, her mind would wander—would reminisce, would drift into thoughts of what sex was supposed to be.

She barely realised she had started thinking about it when Gritt suddenly nudged her temple with his beak, snapping her out of it.

“Don’t go there, babe.” he said, a little firmer now. “Stop seeing it as somethin’ important. Somethin’ that belongs to lovers. It’s not. Not here.”

Green finally turned to face them, rubbing her neck, her expression unreadable. “He’s right.” she murmured. “Thinking about it like that… it just makes it worse.”

Rhythm exhaled, nodding slightly, but the weight in her chest didn’t fully lift.

Still, as Gritt let her go, she shook her arms out, forcing herself to relax. Another day. Another chore.

Trying to shift the mood, Gritt stepped up behind Rhythm, his talons light against her damp shoulders. With practiced ease, he began to knead slow circles into the tense muscles at the base of her neck, his touch both familiar and careful.

“So.” he started, his tone deliberately chipper, as if the conversation moments before had never happened. “Who you got today?”

Rhythm let her head tilt forward slightly, allowing him better access as she exhaled through her nose. She thought for a moment, rubbing the water from her arms absentmindedly.

“Let’s see… Vicky said I had Hunt this morning.” she muttered, closing her eyes briefly as Gritt worked out a particularly stiff knot. “Scava in the evening… and Green Riot tonight.”

Gritt hummed, his claws flexing slightly as he moved down to her upper back.

“Hunt, huh? Big cock on that one.” His tone was casual, almost amused, as if they were discussing some minor inconvenience rather than the reality of what she had to endure.

Rhythm snorted softly. “Tell me about it.”

“Scava, though—” Gritt tapped his beak thoughtfully. “That one’s easy. Doesn’t last long. You might even get to enjoy some alone time after.”

Before Rhythm could respond, Green, who had been rinsing her hair beneath the steady stream of water, suddenly spoke up.

“Riot’s dead.”

Rhythm blinked, lifting her head slightly as she turned toward the pegasus. Green ran her fingers through her wet mane, squeezing out excess water as she elaborated, her voice as indifferent as if she were commenting on the weather.

“Jaws gunned him down in the cafeteria. Whole thing was a mess.”

There was a brief pause before Gritt clicked his tongue, his talons momentarily pausing against Rhythm’s skin before resuming their slow, soothing motions.

“Well, shit.” he murmured, sounding entirely unbothered. Then, with a grin, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the side of Rhythm’s head, his beak brushing against her damp fur.

“Guess that means you don’t have to fuck anyone tonight, then. Congratulations, babe.”

Rhythm let out a short, breathy laugh, the first real smile she had shown all morning.

“One less scumbag.” she muttered.

Gritt gave her shoulders a final, affectionate squeeze before stepping back under his showerhead, sighing in contentment as the water ran through his feathers.

Gritt’s sharp green eyes flicked over to Green, his gaze lingering.

She was, objectively, perfect.

Natural curves, smooth emerald fur clinging wetly to her skin, her perky, well-shaped tits glistening under the dim, flickering light. Her toned stomach led down to the kind of ass that turned heads—round, firm, the kind that looked sculpted rather than earned. The kind of body that could have landed her a cushy life under different circumstances. A model, an actress, a trophy wife—any mare or stallion would be lucky to have her.

But here? In this shithole?

She was just another product.

“Who you got today, gorgeous?” Gritt asked, his tone casual, his beak clicking slightly as he spoke.

Green ran a hand down her stomach, brushing off the lingering soap, flicking the water from her fingers before stretching her arms above her head. The motion made her chest lift slightly, her muscles subtly flexing.

“Just Richie.” she answered simply, her voice smooth, unbothered. “Fucked Bandit and Heist this morning.”

She sighed, shaking her head slightly as she ran her fingers through her damp mane, squeezing out excess water. “This is my third shower today.”

Gritt hummed, stepping closer, his feathers ruffling slightly as a smug grin spread across his beak. “Damn, babe.” he mused, tilting his head. “You workin’ your pussy overtime, or are you just tryin’ to get those stallions outta the way so you can have the rest of the day to yourself?”

Green smirked, shifting her weight onto one leg, her posture loose, relaxed. “Just wanna get the fucking out of the way.” she admitted with a shrug. “Then I can chill.”

Gritt chuckled at that, nodding as if in approval. “Fair enough.” he said, his voice light, playful. But as he stepped behind her, his claws found her ass, groping the firm flesh with an easy familiarity.

“Just don’t work yourself too hard too quickly.” he murmured, his talons pressing in just slightly, his grip lingering. “Stallions won’t want to use you if you get too loose.”

Green only hummed, unphased, barely reacting to his touch as she rinsed the last of the suds from her fur.

“I know.”

Her tone was indifferent, her body language relaxed. She wasn’t offended. Wasn’t disgusted. This was just how it was.

The moment Gritt’s talons sank into Green’s ass, the comment section exploded.

Anonymous7821: “FUCK I wish that was me gripping all that ass.”

Anonymous5406: “IMAGINE THE SQUISH. MY DICK IS THROBBING.”

Anonymous6074: “Green got that perfect fat-to-muscle ratio. I’d sell my left nut just to squeeze it once.”

Anonymous7021: “Just once? Weak. I’d risk death to tap that.”

Anonymous2839: “BRUH I’M ACTUALLY ABOUT TO CUM.”

Anonymous9910: “If Gritt gets to grope her, I better see some more action in a minute.”

Anonymous7363: “Vicky better tho.”

Anonymous7986: “I can hear the squish through the screen.”

Anonymous9837: “STOP TOUCHI GN HER SHEES MINE.”

Anonymous9837: “YOU FUCKING PEICE OF SHIT I SWEAR TO FUCC.”

Anonymous9837: “I WIL KILL YOI. I WILL SKIN YOU ALKIVE.”

Anonymous4321: “Bro ain’t even appreciating what he got in his hands. No reaction is wild.”

Anonymous9837: “I HOOPE YOU GET RAPED AND TORTURED. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU.”

Anonymous6074: “LMAOOOO who’s this dude losing his mind?”

Anonymous7986: “Chill out, virgin.”

Anonymous9910: “Holy shit, he’s actually having a stroke.”

Anonymous9837: “IM NOT JOKING I HATE YOU I HATE YOIU I HATE YOUUU.”

The water continued to run, washing away the sweat, the touch, the filth.

At least, for now.

Green, still rinsing off, turned her head slightly, her emerald eyes locking onto Gritt with a smirk. She reached back, running her fingers through her damp mane, flicking droplets to the floor before tilting her hips just enough to make a teasing show of her curves.

“So, little slut.” she purred, her voice playful, mocking, “who you got today?”

Gritt didn’t flinch at the name—he’d heard worse, embraced worse. Instead, he let out a hum, rolling his shoulders as he lazily stretched his arms over his head, claws flexing.

“Let’s see…” he mused, counting off on his talons. “Fang, Drake… oh, and Jaws.” He paused for a moment, tapping his beak in thought. “Might pick up a few more stallions too, just to earn myself some extra food. Supplies have been lookin’ a little thin lately.”

At that, both Green and Rhythm stopped what they were doing. They exchanged a brief glance before Green turned back to him, blinking.

“Hold up.” Green started, narrowing her eyes. “Did you just say Jaws?”

Gritt flicked his tail, giving her a lazy grin. “Yeah. What about it?”

Rhythm, still standing beneath the running water, crossed her arms under her chest, her expression skeptical. “I thought Jaws was straight.”

Gritt let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he ran a claw through his damp feathers. “Jaws is straight.” he admitted, his voice lighter than it should’ve been. “But Jaws also just… likes power. He doesn’t fuck for pleasure—he fucks to remind you who’s in charge.”

His smirk faltered slightly. His beak clicked once, barely noticeable, but Rhythm caught it.

“He’ll fuck anything smaller than him, mare or not.”

For the first time, the teasing edge in his tone was gone.

Gritt exhaled through his nose, his tail flicking again—a tell.

“Been fucked by him before.” he muttered, running a claw absentmindedly over his arm. His usual casual demeanour dimmed slightly, something unreadable passing over his face. “He’s too damn rough. Doesn’t do it once, either. Does it as many times as he wants, until he’s satisfied, doesn’t help that he gets off on making us suffer. Not exactly my idea of a good time.”

There was a pause.

Green went silent.

She understood.

She had been there too.

Rhythm clenched her jaw, looking away.

The comment section lit up like a wildfire the moment Gritt mentioned Jaws and his twisted appetites.

Anonymous5406: “Oh shit, poor Gritt. Getting wrecked by Jaws is a death sentence with extra steps.”

Anonymous7021: “Dude’s built like a tank and fucks like a demon. RIP Gritt’s ass.”

Anonymous6074: “He’s not just rough; he’s a goddamn sadist. ‘Til he’s satisfied’? What the fuck does that even mean?!”

Anonymous7986: “Did you see the way he rubbed his arm? Dude’s legit traumatized.”

Anonymous2839: “Yeah, and for Gritt to admit it? That says a lot.

Anonymous7986: “Bruh, imagine Gritt trying to walk the next day.”

Anonymous4321: “You couldn’t pay me to survive that. I’d just fucking die.”

Anonymous9910: “Gritt better hope Jaws doesn’t decide to ‘share’ him with the boys.”

Anonymous9837: “HE DESERVES IT I HOPE HE DIES SCREAMING.”

Anonymous9837: “I HATE HIM. I HATE YOU ALL.”

Anonymous9910: “Lmao, he’s back. Dude’s got issues.”

Anonymous7986: “Gritt gets railed by Jaws and this guy’s the one having a meltdown.”

With a huff, Green broke the tension the only way she knew how.

She grinned, stepping forward, her hips swaying slightly as she reached out and gave Gritt’s ass a firm slap.

“Well.” she purred, tilting her head, “I could always warm you up for him.”

Gritt let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed the spot where she smacked him. “Babe, you don’t got the tools for that.”

“Oh, please.” Green rolled her eyes, grinning.

“Nah.” Gritt mused, stepping back under the stream, letting the water soak into his feathers. “Fang and Drake will be a good enough warm-up. Figure I might as well get my body ready for the main event, y’know?”

It was a joke—a bad one—but it was all he had.

And the way Green and Rhythm chuckled, shaking their heads, told him that they understood.

Because at the end of the day, that’s all they could do.

Make light of it.

Rhythm lingered under the stream, her green eyes flickering toward Gritt, watching as he casually scrubbed himself down, his movements slow, methodical, unbothered.

After a moment, she swallowed and spoke, her voice low, hesitant but firm. “Hey… speaking of warming up… could you help me warm up?”

Gritt blinked, tilting his head slightly, before his sharp green eyes flicked toward her fully.

She had shifted, leaning against the shower wall, her body exposed, her tail moved aside in clear invitation, her soaked pussy exposed. A faint blush dusted her damp cheeks, but there was no hesitation in her posture.

“I’m not looking forward to Hunt.” she muttered, her voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

Gritt hummed at that, rinsing off the last of the shampoo that Green had passed to him. He didn’t react with surprise or hesitation—just acceptance, the same way he accepted everything in this place.

“Yeah, babe.” he said nonchalantly, shaking the water from his feathers before running a talon down his chest. “Give me a sec.”

Rhythm nodded, shifting slightly, bracing herself against the wall.

Anonymous5406: “Wait… WHAT?! I thought Gritt was gay?”

Anonymous7021: “Same. Bro’s been taking dick since day one. Now he’s fucking mares too?”

Anonymous6074: “Gritt’s pansexual, you morons. He’ll fuck anyone. This isn’t new.”

Anonymous7986: “Nah, this is different. Dude was all about stallions before. Now he’s fucking Rhythm? Plot twist.”

Anonymous2839: “Rhythm is such a whore, holy shit.”

Anonymous3190: “Lmao, who isn’t she fucking at this point?”

Anonymous7021: “Gritt speedrunning the prison dating sim.”

Anonymous9910: “Typical. Lesbians are only lesbians until they need dick or claws.”

Anonymous4321: “Hunt hasn’t even touched her yet, and she’s already lining up Gritt? Weak.”

Anonymous7986: “Imagine being this desperate for a ‘warm-up.’ Pathetic.”

Anonymous5406: “Achievement Unlocked: Pansexual Playboy.”

Gritt took his time, letting the warm water cascade over him for a few seconds longer before stepping toward her. As he did, his gaze traced over her form—her curves, her posture, the slight tension in her muscles. He could feel himself responding naturally, his body preparing itself for what was expected of him, his red shaft slowly rising from its sheath.

He exhaled through his nose, resting a clawed hand on her hip, his talons tracing faint circles against her damp fur before sliding upward, cupping a feel of her cute breasts, pinching the nipples playfully, making Rhythm shift from pleasure. After a moment, his talons slid back down, firmly on her firm ass, making her squirm. With his tool fully out, he took aim at her pussy, poking her entrance.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice softer now, less playful.

Rhythm nodded, biting her lip. “Just… be gentle, okay?”

“Of course.” he murmured, shifting closer.

Slowly and gently, the tip of his cock started to penetrate and immediately Rhythm’s morning walls tightened around Gritt’s cock, making her breath stutter at the feeling. Gritt pushed it all the way in, grunting at the feeling of Rhythm’s vaginal walls hugging him. He held it there, unmoving, waiting for her morning pussy to adjust to his cock, preparing her for the day.

This wasn’t about pleasure.

This was just a helping hand.

After a few second of staying in that position, Rhythm shifted slightly, looking over her shoulder. “You can move now, keep it slow, please.”

“Alright, hun.” Gritt started to move as soon as Rhythm indicated the go-ahead, the thrusts in and out deep but light, Gritt’s pelvis practically tapping against her ass, her panting quiet but her heart racing. “There we go, nice and easy.” He said, more to himself than to Rhythm.

As the rhythmic motion continued, Green, having finished her own shower, smirked at the sight before her. With a sharp, playful slap to both of their asses, she made Rhythm yelp, making Gritt chuckle through his motions.

“See you two sluts later.” she teased, tossing her damp mane over her shoulder as she stepped toward the exit.

“See you on the other side.” Gritt replied smoothly, never breaking pace.

Rhythm let out a quiet breath, trying to steady herself as Green disappeared into the mist of the showers.

Rhythm exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead lightly against the shower wall, her body still as she let herself focus on the sensation of Gritt’s cock. His claws rested firmly on her hips, his hold neither forceful nor demanding—just steady.

She let out a quiet breath, murmuring under her breath.

“I wish they all fucked me like this…”

Gritt let out a quiet chuckle, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. His hands flexed slightly against her damp fur, his grip adjusting as he smirked.

“Babe, if they all fucked you like this, you’d be stuck with them all day and night.” he teased, his tone light despite the weight of their situation.

Rhythm huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Might not be so bad.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gritt murmured, tilting his head. “You say that now, but trust me—” his fingers gave a teasing squeeze against her hips, his claws dragging lightly along her curves ”—you’d get bored real fast.”

Her green eyes flickered half-lidded as she let out a quiet exhale.

“You can speed up…” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Gritt let out a low chuckle, the sound gravelly, almost teasing, as his talons flexed against her hips, shifting his grip.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

His movements sharpened, his breath hitching as the heat building inside him started to coil, tighten, burn.

His pace sped up and the sounds that came from it all got faster and louder; the regular ‘plap-plap-plap’ the clearest example of that, but the ‘shlick’s of his cock could be heard picking up as well. That was all accompanied by the sensations of those actions getting stronger and more fervorous, with the smacks of his hips against Rhythm’s butt feeling more harder and more solid, and the way his cock plunged into the mare’s depths, the tunnel sliding across his length while squeezing it in...

Gritt could feel the tension in his loins rising to a feverish point, and he could tell her own orgasm was just ahead, and so he sped towards the finish line. Thrusting his hips yet harder, his cock rammed into Rhythm’s squirting snatch faster, her mouth open in a quiet scream as she came.

And then finally, Gritt pulled out suddenly as he felt that tension in his loins burst, and waves of pleasure rolled over him as he came, feeling his cock surging with cum, and shooting it straight at the wall beside her, ropes of his orgasm being wiped away off the wall by the raining shower.

Both were breathing heavily, their bodies still pressed against the shower wall, water cascading over them, washing away the sweat that mixed with the steam.

Rhythm let out a long, satisfied sigh, her fingers running through her soaked mane, her body buzzing in the afterglow.

As the cameras in the shower captured Gritt and Rhythm’s climax, the viewer comments descended into unrestrained chaos. The comment section lit up with lust, mockery, and outright disturbing fantasies.

Anonymous5406: “WHAT. A. SHOW.”

Anonymous4321: “I’d tie her to the wall and fuck her until she begged for mercy.”

Anonymous7021: “Damn, Gritt’s got some stamina. I would’ve busted after five thrusts.”

Anonymous3190: “I would’ve filled her up. Over and over again.”

Anonymous2839: “I came AGAIN. Rhythm’s moans are like music to my ears.”

Anonymous7986: “Rhythm’s ass is just chef’s kiss. No wonder he couldn’t hold back.”

Anonymous2839: “WHY DIDN’T HE CUM INSIDE?! WASTED OPPORTUNITY.”

Anonymous7986: “Meanwhile, I’m out here alone, dry as a desert.”

Anonymous9910: “Why is Gritt even pulling out? They’re all gonna die anyway—may as well breed her before she’s gone.”

Anonymous6074: “Gritt doesn’t deserve that mare. I’d wreck her every single day, and she’d love it.”

Anonymous7986: “Imagine being Gritt right now. Fuck, I need a cold shower.”

Anonymous7021: “This show is better than anything on Neighflix.”

Anonymous3190: “How does Gritt get all the mares and the stallions? Life’s not fair.”

Anonymous2839: “Bet Rhythm liked it more than she’s letting on. Slut.”

Anonymous1072: “Peak entertainment. Two prisoners banging in a shower while the world burns. Truly, we’re living in the golden age of morality.”

“Thanks.” she murmured, her voice breathless.

Gritt grinned lazily, his feathers ruffled from exertion.

“Anytime, babe.”

Rhythm pushed off the wall, shaking out her fur as she straightened up, her mind already shifting back to the day ahead.

No time to linger.

She had chores to do.

And so, with one final glance over her shoulder, she left the showers, stepping back into the cold air beyond the steamy haze.

With Rhythm now gone, the space suddenly felt quieter—emptier. There was still grime clinging to him, the invisible filth that no amount of hot water could fully wash away so, he stayed a little longer. But as he scrubbed at his arms and chest, his thoughts drifted.

Something felt… off.

It wasn’t anything immediate—just a small, nagging feeling at the back of his head.

Then, as he stood there, rinsing out the last of the soap, it finally hit him.

He looked around.

Scanned the showers.

Counted the bodies, the usual faces that filtered in and out.

Someone was missing.

His brows furrowed, his beak clicking slightly as he muttered,

“Where the fuck is Pup?”

The steady hiss of the shower faded into the background as Gritt’s ears twitched, picking up something unusual beyond the steam-filled room.

A commotion.

The distant shuffle of hurried steps, the unmistakable tone of panic, whispers of whimpering, rushed and urgent.

His gut sank.

Without hesitating, he turned sharply toward the exit, his talons clicking against the damp tiles as he moved. The moist floor made his steps treacherous, his claws scraping for purchase as he nearly slipped rounding one of the small connecting hallways.

As he closed the distance, the sounds became clearer.

Rhythm’s voice—worried, soft.

“Pup? Oh fuck, are you okay?”

Green—angry, demanding.

“Who the fuck did this to you?!”

And then—sobbing.

Heavy, ragged, broken.

Gritt’s stomach twisted. He reached the dressing room entrance, pushing past the damp curtain shielding the space.

The sight made him freeze.

Green, Rhythm, and a third mare—Rosy, an earth pony with purple fur, bright pink eyes, and long pink bangs framing her face—all stood in a semi-circle, hovering around a small, trembling figure.

Rosy looked nervous, her hands fidgeting, her expression twisted into one of helplessness.

And in the centre, sitting on the bench, curled in on herself, was Pup.

Her hands trembled against her lap, blood smeared across her maw and face, staining her fur, her jumpsuit ruined with deep, dark red.

The scent of iron clung thick in the air, mixing with the fading steam of the showers.

Her shoulders heaved with every breath, the sobs tearing out of her raw, choked throat.

Gritt’s mind raced.

What the fuck happened?

Pup winced, rubbing her sore rear end as she limped forward, her ears drooping in exhaustion.

“Fucking hell…” she muttered under her breath, her tail twitching weakly between her legs. Every step ached, every movement stiff, her body protesting after a long, brutal night.

Sticky.

She could feel it.

The mess still clung to her fur, her inner thighs matted from under her attire, the discomfort unshakable. She groaned, pressing her forehead against the cool concrete wall of the corridor for a moment before pushing herself forward again.

“I swear, I wouldn’t mind not bein’ his favorite for once.” she mumbled with a yawn, rolling her aching shoulders.

But that wasn’t how this worked.

Not for her.

Not with Jaws.

Last night was horrible…

Pup had stepped into his cell like she always did—head high, hips swaying, smile practiced and perfect.

She knew the game.

And she played it well.

The first thing she did was stroke his ego, wrapping herself around him like a good, obedient little bitch.

She had to.

She knew what happened when she didn’t.

Pup stripped down to nothing, her body pressed flush against his, her fur soft against his thick, heavy bulk of fat and muscle.

“Mmm, missed you, baby.” she had purred, nuzzling into his thick neck, her voice sultry, sweet, calculated.

Her hands roamed over him, tracing every roll, every scar, the way he liked.

Jaws let out a low chuckle, smoke curling from his nostrils as he exhaled a thick drag of his cigarette, his free hand gripping her ass, his claws digging in.

“That’s a good girl.” he had muttered, roughly kneading her flesh.

Pup had bit his ear playfully, letting out a soft, teasing whimper, her tail wagging as if she were enjoying it.

Pretending.

She knew what he liked.

She knew how to keep him pleased.

She knew that if she played her role right, he would stay calm.

At least for a little while.

But Jaws never stayed calm for long.

And last night?

Last night, he hadn’t been merciful.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke and the cheap, artificial scent of shampoo, Jaws’ nostrils flared.

Something else was there—something faint, something wrong.

The scent of a pony.

A stallion.

His grip on Pup’s ass tightened, claws pressing in deeper.

His smile faded.

His eyes darkened.

“Why the fuck do you smell like another stallion?” His voice was low, dangerous, the words dragging from his throat like a slow-burning fire.

Pup froze.

Her ears twitched, her tail stiffening as her heart skipped a beat.

“Wha—? What are you talking about, baby?” she asked, forcing a small, nervous laugh, trying to sound innocent, confused.

She already knew what he was talking about.

Brown.

Fuck.

Fuck.

She had gotten too comfortable. Too close.

She should have been more careful.

Jaws sniffed again, his thick fingers tightening around her waist, his grip no longer teasing—but punishing.

“Don’t fucking play dumb with me, bitch.”

His voice boomed, rattling in her ears, making her fur stand on end.

Then—a sharp slap across her face.

The force made her head snap to the side, a sharp sting blooming across her cheek, her breath catching as she swallowed a cry.

“I said—tell me the fucking truth.”

Pup trembled, her ears flattening, but she couldn’t lie.

Not anymore.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her body tensing as she owned up.

“It was nothing.” she whispered, hurriedly, desperate to keep him from getting angrier. “I swear, baby, I didn’t do anything—I just—”

Jaws growled.

He didn’t care.

Her words meant nothing.

His massive hand shot out, gripping her by the hair, yanking her violently backward, making her yelp.

“You think I give a fuck what you did?” he snarled, dragging her across the room.

Her feet scrambled against the floor, her hands clawing at his wrist, trying to ease the searing pain in her scalp.

“J-Jaws, please—”

But he wasn’t listening.

He threw her against the wall, her back hitting cold stone, knocking the wind from her lungs.

Above her, a pair of rusted iron cuffs hung from chains, swaying slightly from the impact.

She knew what was coming.

Her breath hitched.

“Baby, wait—wait, please, let’s talk, I—”

Cold metal clamped around her wrists.

Tight.

Too tight.

She whimpered, tugging weakly, but there was no give.

No escape.

She was trapped.

Jaws stepped back, admiring his work, his broad chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

Then—he grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

“You wanna act like a cheap fucking whore?” he sneered.

His fingers dug into her cheeks, his claws pressing against her skin.

“Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Then came the pain.

Not the kind that made her shudder in pleasure.

Not the kind that was rough, but bearable.

Not even the kind that left her aching, but able to walk away afterward.

This was different.

This wasn’t sex.

This was punishment.

This was violence.

It was raw.

It was hatred.

There was nothing pleasurable about it—nothing for her.

It was brutal, it was relentless, and no matter how much she sobbed, how much she begged him to stop, how hoarse her voice became, he didn’t stop.

He used her over and over, each time leaving her hanging there, leaking of his cum, broken, his filth dripping down her trembling legs.

And sometimes?

He’d leave.

Just like that.

He wouldn’t even close the cell door.

He’d walk out, leave her exposed, leave her defenceless, leave her open—an invitation to whatever sick, looming stallion happened to pass by.

Just to remind her.

Just to prove a point.

She belonged to him.

And no one else.

Pup sighed, her legs threatening to give out beneath her, wobbling with exhaustion.

That night… that night had been one of the worst.

Jaws had always been rough, always been cruel, but something about last night had been different—meaner, more punitive, as if he had needed to prove a point with every degrading thrust, every degrading word. It was always an act of dominance, but last night? Last night, it was personal.

The cameras zoomed in on Pup’s limping figure, her exhaustion and pain evident with every step.

Anonymous4321: “That’s what happens when you play favorites, slut. Should’ve stayed loyal to Jaws.”

Anonymous1072: “Brown and Pup? Laughable. She’s not a partner; she’s a toy. And toys don’t get to cheat.”

Anonymous5406: “She wanted Brown, now she gets to limp like him. Karma’s beautiful.”

Anonymous7021: “She’s not even limping from pain—she’s limping from guilt. Jaws should’ve fucked it out of her harder.”

Anonymous9910: “She deserves to crawl, not walk. Let’s see her beg for Jaws’ forgiveness next time.”

Anonymous7986: “Cuddling up to Brown like he’s some knight in shining armor? You earned this.”

Anonymous6074: “She probably moaned more for Brown’s hand on her waist than for Jaws. What a joke.”

Anonymous2839: “Her thighs are sticky for Brown? Guess Jaws made sure they’re his now.”

Anonymous2839: “Cheating whore. Jaws gave you purpose, and this is how you repay him?”

Anonymous3190: “She thought she could cuddle a broken stallion and get away with it? Nah, Jaws fixed that real quick.”

Anonymous7986: “Bet she’s still thinking about Brown. Cute. Wonder how Jaws will top last night.”

Anonymous4321: “Loyalty? Never heard of her. Pup’s just a cumdump looking for pity now.”

Anonymous7986: “Pup’s walking like a whore on a guilt trip.”

Pup didn't read the comments, instead she focused on her goal—the showers.

The thought of warm water cascading down her fur was the only small mercy she could cling to. She wondered if the dry, crusted filth clinging between her legs would wash off, or if she’d have to pick at it.

The thought made her stomach twist.

She quickened her steps.

But then—her thoughts drifted.

Something else occupied her mind, something… better.

Something that, for the first time in a long, long time, gave her a feeling that wasn’t dread or disgust.

Brown.

Before she had to go to Jaws, she had been with Brown.

She remembered the way his body had felt, the warmth of him, the way she had pressed herself against his side, one leg draped over his, her head resting on his shoulder. His chest had risen and fallen calmly, steady, unbothered, while her own raced—not out of fear, not out of arousal, but out of something else entirely.

She had never been close to a male in that way before.

It wasn’t sexual.

It wasn’t transactional.

It was just closeness.

And when she had teased him, whispering that he could let his hands roam lower, he hadn’t.

Instead, he had simply stroked her, with a care she had never known.

With a care she hadn’t even realised she had craved until that moment.

That was what made him different.

That was what made him special in a place like this.

Every other stallion saw her as something to use, as a thing, as a toy, a cumdump, a body to fuck and discard.

But Brown?

He didn’t.

He hadn’t.

And she needed that again.

She needed that warmth.

That touch.

Not sex, not lust—just him.

Every day, she decided, she would seek him out. Before she served stallions, after she served them, she would crawl into his arms, press into him, steal whatever warmth he had left to give.

And when it came time for Jaws?

She would wash the scent of Brown off her before heading to him.

But even if Brown would never truly be hers, even if the world they lived in would never allow it, she could have this.

She could have him, even if just for moments.

And so, despite everything, despite the filth, the pain, the bruises, Pup smiled.

A daily routine of Brown snuggles.

That was something worth looking forward to.

Suddenly, noise faded in with each step she took, the plap-plap-plap echoed through the corridor, slow, deliberate, each wet smack of flesh against flesh a rhythm that had long since become background noise in this prison.

Pup’s ears twitched, but she didn’t flinch. She knew what that sound was—just another mare or maybe Gritt, earning their keep, making sure they stayed under the gang’s protection. It wasn’t her business. Not her problem. Just another chore being done, another transaction taking place.

She kept walking, limping slightly, her muscles still sore, her mind drifting back to the thought of warm water, of scrubbing away last night, of getting rid of the filth clinging to her fur. She wasn’t paying attention, not really, but then—something made her glance to the side.

Her gaze flicked toward the half-open cell door, and she froze.

The cell was dark, but her eyes adjusted quickly.

At the farthest wall, shackled in place, spread out, broken—was the new unicorn mare.

The same young mare she had seen before.

The same mare Buster had claimed the first night.

She was naked, her fragile, thin frame marred with bruises, fresh and ugly, spreading across her pale grey fur like ink bleeding into paper. A full day’s worth of abuse.

Her arms hung limp, the rusted cuffs biting into her wrists, trapping her the same way Pup had been trapped the night before.

And the stallion inside with her?

A scruffy, old bastard, his fur matted, his mane unkempt, his body reeking of booze and sweat.

A half-empty bottle of beer swayed in one unsteady grip, while his other held one of the mare’s legs up, keeping her open, keeping her positioned just right as he thrust into her, his hips moving sluggishly, drunkenly.

He muttered, slurred, grunted, talking in half-finished words, giggling to himself like this was nothing but some casual amusement, some fun little game.

And the mare?

She didn’t move.

She didn’t resist.

She just stared past him, her eyes dull, her expression completely empty—as if she had already left her body, as if her mind had given up long before her body did.

A defeated look.

A hollow look.

Pup knew that look.

She had seen it too many times.

She had worn it herself.

The plap-plap-plap continued.

Steady. Uncaring. Unbothered.

Pup’s breath was shallow, her feet rooted to the floor, but deep inside, something coiled, something hot, something ugly.

She could walk away.

She should walk away.

But would she?

Pup’s hands curled into fists, her nails pressing into her palms.

How long had this mare been in here?

When had she last eaten?

Where the fuck was Vicky?

She was supposed to be managing the new girls, supposed to be keeping track of them, watching over them, making sure they survived long enough to be useful. That was her job. That was what she was good at.

Had she forgotten?

Or worse—had she just not cared?

Pup’s jaw clenched.

She never liked Vicky from the beginning.

The way she paraded herself, the way she acted like a queen among the others, smiling for the cameras, sucking up to the viewers, keeping her place as the prison’s favourite whore. She thrived in this system, not in spite of it—but because of it.

But this?

This wasn’t just neglect.

This was unforgivable.

Not just from Vicky.

Not just from the bastard inside that cell.

But from every single stallion, every single pony who had used that girl and left her like this.

Like she wasn’t even a person.

Like she was just a thing to be passed around.

Pup’s breathing shallowed, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She could feel the heat rising in her chest, the same kind of rage she tried to bury every day, the same kind that she had learned never to act on.

But right now?

She didn’t care.

Anonymous7986: “Oh, look, Pup’s found the new toy. Maybe she’s jealous?”

Anonymous5406: “Do it, Pup. Rip his throat out. I want to see it.”

Anonymous5406: “Poor Vicky’s probably busy earning her keep. Pup’s just mad she’s not top whore anymore.”

Anonymous4321: “What’s the problem, Pup? You’ve been there before. She’ll get used to it—eventually.”

Anonymous2839: “Why’s Pup acting all high and mighty? She knows how this works. Vicky’s probably doing her a favor—less competition.”

Anonymous9901: “LMAO, this mare’s got ‘free use’ written all over her. Literally. Someone get Vicky in here for a pep talk!”

Anonymous9901: “Imagine risking your life for a mare who’s already dead inside. Couldn’t be me.”

Anonymous3190: “Oh, please, like she’s gonna fight. She’ll just cry about it later, like always.”

Anonymous7986: “POV: You realize you’re not the favorite whore anymore.”

Anonymous7021: “Pup’s about to go all hero mode. Bitch, you’re not saving anyone. Get over it.”

Anonymous1072: “Wait… is she actually going to do something? Pup, sweetie, don’t. You’re not built for this.”

Anonymous7021: “Finally, some entertainment. I’m betting 100 bits she gets her ass kicked.”

Anonymous6074: “She looks delicious. If I were in there, I’d be next in line. Bet she’s tighter than Pup by now.”

Anonymous2839: “If she’s smart, she’ll walk away. That mare’s already gone—what’s the point?”

Anonymous6074: “Pup’s about to fight for a corpse. Classic L.”

Anonymous1072: “If she actually fights, I’ll admit… she’s got balls. But I’m not holding my breath.”

Anonymous2839: “Pup: ‘I’m gonna fix her.’ Reality: Nah, bitch.”

Anonymous7986: “She’s about to learn the hard way—heroes don’t survive in this game.”

Pup’s voice cut through the sickening noise of flesh meeting flesh.

“Blert.”

The old stallion barely reacted, his movements sluggish, his beer-dulled mind slow to register her presence.

Pup stepped closer, her stomach twisting at the sight of the bruised, unmoving mare, her body limp, her eyes empty.

“Blert, that’s enough.” Pup said firmly, trying to keep her tone even despite the rage boiling underneath her skin. “Let the poor mare breathe. Let her recover.”

Blert stopped mid-thrust, his bloodshot eyes finally rolling toward her, barely able to focus on her face.

Then, he grinned, a yellow-toothed, drunken grin, and chuckled.

“Slut.” he slurred, waving the half-empty bottle in his grip before taking another messy sip. “Fuck off. Or I’ll rape you next.”

He laughed, turning back to his prey as if Pup didn’t exist.

Something in Pup snapped.

She lunged forward, reaching for him, grabbing at his shoulders, trying to pull him away—but Blert elbowed her in the face before she could even get a proper grip.

Pain exploded in her nose.

She staggered back, falling hard onto the filthy floor, a trickle of blood already leaking down her lips, the metallic taste hitting her tongue.

Blert let out a mocking snicker, still holding onto the mare’s leg before slowly pulling out of her, his disgusting, filthy cock still erect and moist.

“What’s the matter?” he grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You want a turn? You wanna get fucked that bad, all you had to do was ask.”

He reached over to the bed, his fingers curling around the hilt of a knife, his movements lazy but intentional.

Pup’s heart kicked into overdrive.

Blert stepped forward, knife in one hand, cock still hanging out, dripping, as he took a slow, casual step toward her.

Pup didn’t think—she just reacted.

She kicked her boot up, the hard rubber sole slamming into his stomach, knocking the air out of him instantly.

Blert doubled over, his gagging breath choking in his throat before he vomited violently onto the floor in front of him, the beer and bile splattering across the stone.

Pup didn’t hesitate, she scrambled to her feet, rushing toward the exit of the cell, but just as she reached the threshold—

Blert tackled her.

Her back hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her, her vision blurring for a moment.

Blert was on top of her, his weight pressing her down, his disgusting cock grinding against her belly.

Pup gagged, her arms shooting up, trying to push him off, but his filthy, sweat-soaked body felt like dead weight.

Then—

He raised the knife.

Pup saw the blade glint in the dim lighting just before it came down toward her chest.

Her hands shot up, her fingers catching his wrist just in time, the blade hovering inches from her skin.

But he was stronger.

His other hand came up, both of his arms pressing down, forcing the knife closer, the cold metal tip almost touching the fabric of her jumpsuit.

Blert’s breath was hot and foul against her face as he leaned down, sneering.

“I’m going to kill you, bitch.”

His voice was steady now, focused, his drunken haze lifting with the thrill of control.

“Then I’m going to use every hole you got.”

The blade inched closer.

Pup’s arms trembled, her strength failing as he pushed down harder.

Blert’s grin widened.

“And when I’m done?”

The tip of the knife kissed the fabric of her jumpsuit.

“I’m passing your corpse to the next stallion.”

Anonymous3190: “DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!”

Anonymous837: “Goodbye Pup!”

Anonymous73: “Shouldn’t have betrayed Jaws, Bitch! This is what you deserve!”

“Pup!”

A desperate shout echoed down the corridor, cutting through the haze of Pup’s frantic struggle.

Her eyes snapped to the sound, barely able to turn her head against Blert’s crushing weight, but she saw her—

Rosy.

She was at the far end of the hallway, bolting toward them, her pink mane bouncing with each hurried step, her eyes wide, filled with panic.

Pup’s heart pounded, her arms shaking, her grip on Blert’s knife-wielding hand slipping inch by inch.

She just had to hold on.

Just a little longer.

With a guttural snarl, Pup forced every ounce of strength she had left, winning the strength battle momentarily, pushing the blade back, gritting her teeth through the strain.

Blert let out a frustrated growl, his drunken stupor fading, replaced with pure murderous intent.

Then—

Rosy reached them.

She lunged, grabbing Blert’s shoulders, yanking him back with everything she had.

For a moment, his grip faltered, his body jerking backward, his weight lifting off Pup’s chest just enough for her to gasp in air—

But then he snapped.

With a wild, drunken flail, Blert’s knife slashed through the air—

The blade met Rosy’s cheek with a sickening rip.

She let out a sharp yelp, her body jerking back, her hands flying up to clutch the fresh wound, blood already seeping through her fingers, her knees buckling as she stumbled away.

Blert turned back to Pup, his eyes wild, his knife raised again.

But he didn’t get a chance to swing it down.

Because Pup moved first.

Instinct took over.

Her muscles coiled, her body lurched up, her jaws unhinged, and she lunged.

Her teeth—her sharp, canine fangs—sank deep into Blert’s throat.

There was no hesitation, no thought—

Just raw, animalistic survival.

Blert’s eyes widened, his whole body tensing, his breath coming out in a wet, garbled gasp.

His hands twitched, fingers shaking, still holding the knife—

But Pup didn’t let go.

With a forceful yank, she ripped her jaws sideways—

And Blert’s flesh tore open like wet paper.

Blood exploded from his jugular, warm, sticky, metallic, squirting in thick spurts, drenching Pup’s face, splattering onto her jumpsuit, onto the floor, onto everything.

Blert made a choked, gurgling sound, his hands flying up, instinctively trying to clutch his throat, but—

There was nothing to hold.

Just a gaping, torn hole, blood gushing between his fingers, spilling down his chest in heavy, pulsing streams.

His mouth opened and closed, his lips forming silent words, but nothing came out—

Just a wet wheeze, a final, broken breath.

Then, his knees buckled.

His body collapsed—

Right on top of Pup.

She let out a soft grunt, pinned beneath his dead weight, his body still warm, his limbs twitching slightly as the last traces of life bled out of him.

For a moment, everything was silent.

The only sound was the drip-drip-drip of blood pooling onto the cold concrete floor.

Pup stared up at the ceiling, her breathing heavy, her mouth slick with blood, her chest rising and falling rapidly, the metallic taste still thick on her tongue.

Blert was dead.

And she had killed him.

As the cameras zoomed in on the grisly aftermath, the chat erupted into chaos.

Anonymous7986: “HOLY SHIT SHE DID IT!”

Anonymous7021: “Blert’s last thought: ‘Wait, this wasn’t part of the plan.’”

Anonymous1072: “Let’s not pretend she planned this. That was pure instinct. She’s still weak.”

Anonymous4321: “Imagine the adrenaline rush during sex with her after that. Hot.”

Anonymous9901: “She fucking ripped his throat out! RIPPED. HIS. THROAT. OUT.”

Anonymous5406: “RIP Blert. He thought he was the predator, but Pup said, ‘Nah, fam.’”

Anonymous4321: “That’s the most badass thing I’ve seen all week.”

Anonymous7986: “I’d still fuck her, blood and all.”

Anonymous7021: “She’s just lucky Rosy was there. She’d be dead without her.”

Anonymous6074: “Okay, Pup. You’ve got my respect. That was brutal as hell.”

Anonymous9901: “Sure, she won this time, but how much more can she take before she breaks completely?”

Anonymous6074: “POV: You’re Blert, thinking you’re about to rape her, but she turns into a fucking werewolf.”

Anonymous5406: “I take back everything I said about her being useless. She’s a fucking savage!”

Anonymous2839: “That’s one way to deal with a stallion. Damn, girl.”

Anonymous3190: “One kill doesn’t make her a fighter. Calm down, simps.”

Anonymous9901: “She’s a biter, huh? I’d let her take a chunk out of me any day.”

Anonymous2839: “She fought back. That’s what matters. But in this place, that’s not always a victory.”

Rosy rushed forward, her hands trembling as she shoved Blert’s lifeless body off Pup, the dead stallion rolling onto his side with a sickening squelch, his open throat oozing blood onto the floor.

She turned back to Pup, her face painted with concern, scanning her expression—

Pup just sat there, frozen, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her yellow eyes wide, pupils shrunk to pinpricks.

Her maw was still clenched shut, the chunk of Blert’s torn flesh still caught between her teeth.

Rosy could see it clearly, the jagged, shredded muscle and veins, the blood still dripping from her lips, staining her fur red.

“Pup…” Rosy’s voice was gentle, coaxing, but filled with urgent worry. “You—You gotta spit it out.”

Pup’s jaw trembled, her breath shaky, as if she didn’t even realize what was in her mouth.

Rosy reached out, cupping Pup’s cheek, forcing her to look at her, to pull her back to reality.

“Pup. Spit. It. Out.”

Something snapped back into place in Pup’s mind, her body shuddering violently before she turned her head and spat the torn flesh onto the floor, a thick glob of saliva and blood following after.

She gagged, her hands shaking, but Rosy quickly lifted her up, keeping her steady.

“You okay?” Rosy asked, eyes searching hers, her own cheek still leaking blood from the gash Blert had given her.

Pup just nodded numbly, but her body betrayed her—her hands were trembling, her legs felt weak, her heart slammed against her ribs like a caged animal.

Rosy frowned, tightening her grip on her arm. “C’mon, let’s get you to the showers—”

“No.”

Rosy blinked. “What?”

Pup took a deep, shuddering breath, then shook her head. “I have to—we have to free her first.”

She turned toward the grey unicorn, still hanging limp against the wall.

Rosy’s stomach twisted.

Now that she wasn’t focused on Blert, she could see the full extent of what had been done to the mare.

Pup stepped closer, her gut churning at the sight of her naked, broken body, covered head to foot in bruises—some fresh, some faded, layered over each other in a sickening tapestry of suffering.

The mare’s arms hung uselessly, her wrists still chained to the wall, her head slumped forward, her mane sticky with sweat, filth, and drying blood.

Pup reached out, cupping her cheek gently, lifting her head up—

The unicorn’s lips were split, her mouth slightly open, a small trail of blood leaking from the corner.

One of her eyes was swollen shut, the other a vacant, lifeless green, staring at nothing.

Pup’s stomach turned violently when she saw the words—

The writing.

Scrawled across her body.

CUMDUMP.

FREE USE.

COCK SLEEVE.

USE ME.

I LOVE COCK.

CUM IN HERE.

BREED ME.

FUCK MEAT.

And then—

The tally marks.

All over her thighs. Her stomach. Her chest.

Pup’s blood boiled, her hands shaking violently as she tried to unlock the cuffs, but they wouldn’t budge.

She gritted her teeth, cursing under her breath.

“We need a key.” she muttered, spinning toward Rosy. “Check Blert. Maybe he had it on him.”

Rosy quickly moved, kneeling next to Blert’s corpse, patting down his bloodstained jumpsuit, searching his pockets, his belt, even under his filthy mattress—

“Nothing.” Rosy said grimly, shaking her head.

Pup turned back to the unicorn, her heart clenching.

She knelt, her hands gripping the mare’s face, her thumbs brushing over her bruised cheeks, her voice soft, almost pleading—

“Hey, listen to me.” she whispered. “I’m gonna find help. I’m gonna get you out of here. I’ll get you cleaned up, I’ll get you some proper food, I—”

She stopped.

Her voice fell flat.

Because the unicorn wasn’t responding.

Pup’s breath hitched, a terrible dread seeping into her bones.

She hesitated, then slowly parted the mare’s lips, peering inside—

And her stomach dropped.

Her tongue.

Her tongue was barely hanging on, a ragged piece of flesh, dangling by a thin, bloody strand.

Pup’s entire body went cold.

The unicorn had bitten through her own tongue.

She had killed herself.

Blert had been fucking a corpse.

The moment the cameras captured the horrifying realisation on Pup’s face, the chat ignited into a storm of reactions.

Anonymous9901: “HOLY SHIT. NO WAY.”

Anonymous7986: “This is just… wrong. Like, beyond wrong.”

Anonymous4321: “Necro vibes. Lmao.”

Anonymous1072: “Blert: ‘Why isn’t she screaming anymore?’”

Anonymous9901: “Blert’s a reminder that in this place, the dead are just as exploited as the living.”

Anonymous1072: “This is what happens when you’re broken beyond repair. She ended it the only way she could.”

Anonymous7986: “Bruh, Blert was fucking a corpse? That’s next-level messed up.”

Anonymous9901: “What the actual fuck is wrong with this place?”

Anonymous6074: “Necrophilia speedrun: Blert%.”

Anonymous5406: “A corpse? Damn, Blert’s standards were low.”

Anonymous6074: “Imagine dying and still getting used like that. Blert was truly bottom-tier scum.”

Anonymous2839: “I feel sick… but I can’t look away.”

Anonymous7021: “Dude really said, ‘Any hole’s a goal.’”

Anonymous2839: “That poor mare didn’t even stand a chance here.”

Anonymous5406: “Heard she was dead and thought, ‘Eh, still warm.’”

Anonymous2839: “Pup can try to save them, but this world doesn’t let anyone survive intact.”

Pup’s hands fell away from the unicorn’s face as her own legs gave out, her knees hitting the cold, blood-slick floor.

Her chest tightened, her vision blurred, her whole body wracked with a deep, shaking sob.

She didn’t even realise she was crying until she felt the tears dripping down her bloodstained cheeks.

This place—

This fucking place.

It just kept taking and taking and taking.

And for the first time in a long time, Pup felt like she had nothing left to give.

Survival.

It ain’t just about strength.

It ain’t just about who’s got the sharpest blade, the fastest fists, or the most bullets to burn through.

No, no, no.

Survival—real survival—is about understanding the rules.

Not the rules written down on paper. Not the laws of the land. Not the pretty little guidelines that keep society clean and orderly.

I’m talking about the real rules. The ones that govern power, the ones that separate prey from predator, the ones that decide who lives and who gets carved up like a fresh steak on the butcher’s block.

Knowing your place.

That’s what keeps you breathing.

And in my world?

You got two choices—

Be Owned.

or

Be a Player.

See, there’s a balance to this little game I run. A perfect little system, carefully maintained, always shifting, always adjusting to keep things interesting.

Some folks, like Pup, they choose to be owned—they submit, they offer up every part of themselves, they make themselves useful. A tool. A product.

And for a while?

That works.

They get protection, they get scraps, they get a role to play—as long as they’re still valuable.

But then there’s the others. The ones like Brown, the ones that refuse to play along, the ones that think they can just exist without choosing a side.

That kind of stupidity?

It gets you hurt.

It gets you torn apart.

It gets you dragged into a filthy cell, used until your body is nothing but bruises and broken spirit, until you either give in or die screaming.

There ain’t no room for passive pieces on this board.

You either own yourself, or somepony else owns you.

And sometimes, just sometimes, if you’ve got the guts to bite back—

You get to be a player.

Pup? She finally snapped her teeth at the hand that’s been feeding her pain.

And Brown?

He’s still figuring out where the fuck he stands.

And let’s be honest, after five years of being a punching bag, the fact that he’s still alive means there’s something rotting inside him, something waiting to crawl out.

Maybe he just needed a push.

Maybe he needed to see what happens when you stand on the sidelines for too long—

Because eventually, the game doesn’t wait for you to make a move.

It just swallows you whole.

Oh, but don’t you worry, dear reader.

With a little bit of luck, a little bit of instinct, and the right sacrifices…

Almost anypony can survive.

Almost.

Footnote - Level Up!

Welcome back to The Sacrifice Games again, Brown.

You’ve earned 102 EXP, levelling up from Level 1 to Level 2!

Level Up Progress: 99/150 EXP

Congratulations on your level-up. This Level up will come with a new passive!

New Passive Perk Unlocked!

Strongest Version of Yourself! (Passive — Level 1) You know your limits, your strength, and your weaknesses. But when you face a formidable enemy, you will push past those limits.

• When your opponent is stronger than you, gain +25% VIT and STR.

• When facing multiple opponents, gain +25% SPD and HRT.

A true survivor doesn’t just fight. They evolve.

Skill Points Allocated!

Today was a bad day. A really bad day. So bad that you find yourself wondering—why do you fight? -2 HRT. (Your heart wavers, but it still beats.) Not all is bad, however. You’ve endured this kind of pain before, and you’ve become numb to it. But that doesn’t mean you’re invincible. +2 VIT. (Your body remembers, and adapts.)

Companion Check!

Pup has earned 210 EXP!

She has endured Jaws’ wrath and claimed her first kill.

She levels up from Level 5 to Level 6!

Level Up Progress: 4/350 EXP

New Companion Perk Unlocked!

A Stallion’s Best Friend! (Passive — Level 1) Pup has come to a realisation—it’s not sex that makes her feel good; she just wants to cuddle.

When you or any future companions receive a hug, you, your companions, and Pup will receive: +2 VIT and +2 HRT. This affect will last 24 hour and can not stack.

In a world where warmth is rare, a little comfort can go a long way.

Companion’s Skill Points Allocated!

Pup has endured punishment no female should go through.

But she survived.

Her body will remember such pain. And she will become stronger.

• +2 VIT. (Her endurance grows.)

• +2 STM. (She can last longer, run further, push past the pain.)

However… what Jaws did to her will leave scars deeper than flesh.

• -3 HRT. (Her heart is fraying at the edges, but it still beats… for now.)

New Companion Passive Unlocked! Snarl — She’s backed into a corner. Wounded. There’s nowhere to run. What does she do? She goes primal.

(Passive — Level 1)

When Pup falls below 50% HP, her survival instincts take over, sending her into a feral state. In this state, she gains:

• +10% VIT (Pain becomes distant.)

• +10% STM (Her body won’t quit.)

• +10% SPD (Faster, deadlier.)

• +10% STR (Strikes become lethal.)

• +10% DEF (Blows don’t land as hard.)

• +10% HRT (Fear turns to fury.)

Pup is learning what it means to survive and when survival is all you have left… there’s no room for mercy.

The Sacrifice Games continue.

The players are changing.

The game is shifting.

And today… promises to be even bloodier.

Stay tuned.