The shockwave tears through everything nearby.

  A hallucinating boom.

  Stones, dust, shards ripping through the rain.

  Insane heat for an instant.

  Like a miniature bomb. No warning.

  Bodies shredded. Blood everywhere.

  Windows exploding.

  A wall collapsing.

  Jason stands still.

  One second.

  Then the backlash hits.

  Blinding pain.

  His arm feels pierced by a thousand violent cramps,

  like a rain of knives driven into flesh, down to the bone.

  Jason folds.

  Air leaves him.

  A crushing exhaustion slams into him,

  like ten full workouts compressed into a single minute.

  He trembles.

  He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing.

  A man steps into the scene.

  Pit bull at his side.

  No permission asked.

  Impact: a slap.

  Sharp. Violent. Real.

  Jason’s head snaps sideways.

  His eyes are forced back into focus.

  The man grabs him.

  Yanks him up.

  Drags him away.

  “Get it together, kid!” he snarls.

  “We’re not safe here!”

  And then they run.

  Into the dark.

  Into the rain.

  Behind them, the alley isn’t an alley anymore.

  It’s open hell.

  —

  Jason runs with obscene effort.

  Like that punch sucked the energy straight out of his blood.

  He’s not running to get somewhere.

  He’s running to not stay where he was.

  Half a step ahead of him, the mysterious man moves like he already knows the way.

  No glances back. No hesitation. No wrong turns.

  The black pit bull follows like a shadow.

  Low. Compact. Silent.

  Too present to be “just a dog.”

  Narrow streets.

  Intermittent lights slicing through the light rain.

  Wet asphalt reflecting streetlamps and signs like broken blades.

  Hard left.

  Another.

  Then another.

  The dog flicks a quick glance at Jason while running.

  Not curiosity.

  Control.

  Like it’s counting his heartbeats—

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  making sure he doesn’t drop, doesn’t vanish, stays behind.

  Jason runs… but doesn’t see where he’s going.

  Eyes lost.

  Mouth half open.

  Breath fractured.

  Inside his head there’s no road.

  Just a deranged montage.

  Alley. Blood. Explosion.

  Bodies opening. Pieces.

  Jason’s face stays blank. Disconnected.

  No sentence manages to become words.

  Sirens in the distance.

  They keep running.

  A helicopter cuts low overhead, threading between buildings.

  Rotor blades drill straight into his brain.

  Minutes stretch into hours.

  Half an hour.

  An hour.

  Time stops existing.

  Then the city breaks.

  An isolated house.

  A large garage.

  A metal door shut tight.

  Here the air is darker. Quieter.

  Like this place exists outside the rules.

  The man stops dead.

  Pulls out a keyring.

  Steady hand. No tremor.

  The garage door is yanked open.

  “Inside, kid. Now.”

  Jason goes in without speaking.

  The metal door slams shut.

  CLANG.

  And the world stays outside.

  Garage — interior

  The smell is different.

  Gasoline. Rubber. Metal. Oil.

  A real smell. Dirty. Solid.

  Jason takes two steps.

  Then his legs give out.

  He drops to his knees.

  Soaked in sweat. Pale.

  His body finally realizes it’s allowed to give in—

  and collapses without asking.

  His hands shake against the concrete.

  His eyes are empty.

  “I killed them…” he whispers.

  Not a confession.

  Someone trying to name something too big.

  His body folds forward.

  Gag.

  The man doesn’t panic. Doesn’t react.

  He grabs a bucket and kicks it under Jason—

  precise, practical, almost automatic.

  Jason throws up.

  He clings to the rim of the bucket

  like it’s the only stable thing in the universe.

  The man watches him. Impassive.

  “Not on the floor.”

  Beat.

  “I just cleaned.”

  Jason slowly lifts his head.

  Spit hanging. Eyes glazed with panic.

  He stares at him. Desperate.

  “I disintegrated them…”

  His voice shakes.

  “I’m a monster…”

  He inhales in jagged bursts.

  “I’m scared…”

  His fists clench, like he could hold back another explosion

  right there, right now.

  “Who are you?”

  “Why did you save me?”

  “What do you want from me?!”

  The man raises an eyebrow.

  And instead of hugging him, calming him down, singing him a lullaby…

  He fires a dry sentence straight at him.

  “Your punches are garbage.”

  Jason blinks.

  Confused.

  “Huh…?”

  The man continues, calm.

  Like he’s talking gym technique—not people blown apart.

  “You’re off-balance.”

  “You load your weight wrong.”

  “And your guard is pathetic.”

  Jason stares at him

  like he just heard an alien language.

  The man moves through the garage at ease, owning the space.

  He flicks on a neon light. The hum fills the silence.

  “You made a hell of a mess at the park.”

  Jason jolts.

  His chest tightens.

  “You… you saw me?!”

  “You OPOM?!”

  The man lifts a hand.

  “Relax.”

  The voice is calm.

  Not soft. Controlled.

  “You don’t need to worry.”

  He steps closer. Extends a hand.

  “I’m Michael.”

  Pistol Boy.