The sun blazed over the shattered Middle Eastern city, its ruins a jagged maze of crumbled concrete and twisted metal. Master Sergeant Kratos and Lieutenant Chaz stood in a safe zone near their base, their squad of twelve scattered around during a lunch break from their patrol. Clad in wheat-brown camo tactical gear—helmets, armor vests, tactical shirts and pants, knee guards, and gloves—their 8-inch wheat Air Force 1 boots dominated the scene. Crafted from premium flax nubuck, the boots’ rich, golden-brown hue melded with the desert dust. The soles’ aggressive tread, built for unyielding traction, gripped the earth like a predator’s claws, radiating a fetishized aura of brutal dominance. Kratos and Chaz wore their boots with loose lacing, the tongues slightly askew, adding a defiant swagger to their imposing presence. Their M4 rifles hung along their bodies, ever-ready.
Kratos tore into a stale loaf of bread, chewing with a scowl as he surveyed the desolate streets. Chaz, beside him, mirrored his disgust, swallowing a bite. “This city’s a festering dump,” Kratos muttered, spitting crumbs. “Every shadow’s hiding some bastard waiting to stab us in the back.”
Chaz sneered, his eyes cold. “These people are vermin. I’d love to mow ’em all down, no questions asked. Save us the headache.”
Kratos nodded, his jaw clenched. “If I had my way, we’d torch this place and everyone in it. No mercy, no survivors.”
The squad ate in silence nearby, their M4s within reach, the air thick with paranoia—every local was a potential enemy, every glance a threat.
A figure emerged from the haze. A young man, around twenty, with tattered clothes and hollow cheeks, approached cautiously, hands visible but eyes nervous. Instantly, Kratos and Chaz snapped into defense mode, M4s raised, barrels aimed at his chest. The squad dropped their food, weapons up, locking onto the stranger.
“Kneel!” Kratos roared, his voice slicing through the dry air. “Hands up, now!”
The young man dropped to his knees, hands raised, trembling. His heart pounded, fear mixing with desperation. He’d seen soldiers before, but the cold menace in their eyes made his stomach churn. “Please,” he said, voice soft but steady, “I’m so hungry. Can you spare some bread?”
Kratos and Chaz exchanged a glance, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. A rush of power surged through Kratos, a dark thrill at the sight of the young man’s vulnerability. Humiliating him felt like reclaiming control in this chaotic hellhole. Chaz felt it too—a sadistic satisfaction, like stomping out a pest. They didn’t need words; their shared malice was enough.
“Chaz, search him,” Kratos ordered, his tone dripping with disdain. “Make sure this rat’s not hiding a bomb.”
Chaz stepped forward, his wheat Air Force 1 boots crunching the dirt. With a vicious kick, he sent the young man sprawling face-first into the dust. The man gasped, pain shooting through his ribs, his pride crumbling under the soldiers’ gaze. Chaz’s gloved hands roamed his body—front, back, every crevice—rough and invasive. “Clean,” Chaz said, grinning. He pressed his boot onto the man’s head, grinding it into the ground, the tread leaving red marks on his skin. “Stay down, filth.”
The young man’s face burned with shame, his body trembling under the weight of Chaz’s boot. He wanted to scream, to run, but fear pinned him as much as the soldier’s sole. The squad’s eyes bored into him, their silence as cruel as their laughter would be.
Kratos turned to the squad. “Stryker, toss me some spare bread from the armored car.”
Stryker lobbed a small loaf, and Kratos caught it, his eyes never leaving the young man. He crouched slightly, his wheat Air Force 1 looming over the man’s face. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, dog,” Kratos sneered, savoring the power coursing through him. Humiliating this man was a release, a way to spit in the face of this wretched city. “But you eat how I say.”
He tossed the bread onto the dusty road. With a slow, deliberate step, he crushed it under his boot, the sole’s brutal tread flattening the loaf into a gritty mess mixed with dirt. The young man’s heart sank, his hunger now laced with despair. Tears stung his eyes as he stared at the ruined bread, his dignity shredded. “Why are you doing this?” he whispered, voice cracking.
Kratos’s boot lashed out, striking the man’s face. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his skull, blood trickling from his lip. “Shut up and eat,” Kratos growled. “Or I put a bullet in your head right now.”
Chaz laughed, a harsh, guttural sound, his boot still pinning the man’s back. The act of degrading this stranger fueled a twisted joy in him, a way to assert dominance over a place that constantly threatened them. “Look at this dog, begging for scraps,” Chaz taunted. “You like eating dirt, don’t you? Fits a lowlife like you.”
The squad snickered, their approval feeding Kratos and Chaz’s cruelty. The young man’s face flushed with humiliation, each word cutting deeper than the blows. He was nothing to them—a toy, a target. His stomach growled, but his spirit screamed louder, torn between survival and shame. He leaned forward, choking back sobs, and took a bite of the filthy bread. The dust coated his tongue, gritty and bitter, each swallow a fresh wound to his pride.
“Not fast enough,” Kratos snapped, his boot slamming onto the man’s head, forcing his face into the bread. “Make it quick, you pathetic piece of shit.” The pressure was relentless, the tread biting into his scalp. The man gagged, tears mixing with the dirt as he ate, each bite a surrender. He felt like less than human, reduced to an animal under their boots, his hunger no match for the weight of their scorn.
“Bet he loves the taste of our soles,” Chaz jeered, shifting his boot to grind harder into the man’s back. “Eat faster, or we’ll make you lick the road next.”
The squad roared with laughter, their camaraderie built on this shared cruelty. Kratos’s chest swelled with dark pride, the young man’s suffering a perverse victory in their endless war. Chaz relished the moment too, the power to degrade another human a fleeting escape from the city’s constant threats.
When the last crumb was gone, the young man lay trembling, his face smeared with dirt and blood, his spirit broken. Kratos stomped hard on his face, the sole’s tread leaving a brutal imprint. “That’s what you get for existing,” he spat. Chaz delivered a final kick to the back of the man’s head, laughing as the man collapsed fully into the dust. “Stay down, dog,” Chaz mocked, turning away.
The young man lay still, his body aching, his soul hollowed out. The soldiers’ laughter echoed in his ears, a reminder of his powerlessness. He’d only wanted food, but they’d taken everything—his dignity, his hope, his humanity.
Kratos and Chaz strode back to their squad, their wheat Air Force 1s kicking up dust with every step, their dominance unchallenged. The team climbed into their four armored cars, engines snarling. As the vehicles roared away, dust clouds swallowed the young man’s crumpled form, leaving him alone in the ruins, a broken shadow in a broken city.
Follow Master Kratos
Instagram: MasterKratos28
BlueSky: MasterKratos28
X: MasterKratos28
