The dimming twilight cast long, ominous shadows over the rugged terrain of Hell’s Gate boot camp, a secluded enclave of relentless discipline where recruits were forged in fire or reduced to ashes. It was just after 6pm on a sweltering Friday night, the air thick with the day’s lingering humidity and the distant echoes of fading drills, as the 1st Platoon sought fleeting solace in their bunk bed hall—a sprawling dormitory filled with tiers of metal-framed bunks, the air heavy with the acrid scent of perspiration-soaked sheets, mingled with the faint metallic tang of rusted bed frames and the low hum of murmured conversations. The walls, scuffed and peeling, bore the marks of countless recruits who had passed through, their graffiti scratched in moments of defiance or despair. Most privates lounged in various states of exhaustion, some snoring fitfully on thin mattresses, others scrolling mindlessly on their phones, the blue glow casting eerie reflections on their sweat-streaked faces, each seeking a momentary escape from the camp’s unyielding grind.
Renn, the unyielding leader of the 1st Platoon—his muscular frame a chiseled testament to his strength and resolve, his broad shoulders and defined arms honed through relentless pre-enlistment training—received the abrupt order through a curt message delivered by a passing sergeant, his voice sharp and devoid of explanation: proceed immediately to Master Sergeant Kratos’s office, and select three additional members from the platoon to accompany him, totaling four including himself. The command hung in the air like a guillotine, offering no rationale, leaving Renn’s mind churning with unease. He had no clear criteria for selection, but loyalty and instinct guided him toward those he trusted most. Teddy and Duke, his closest companions in this grueling ordeal, were automatic choices—their bond forged through shared trials, late-night talks in the barracks, and the mutual understanding of surviving Hell’s Gate made them reliable, even if Duke’s fragility was a constant concern that gnawed at Renn’s leadership instincts.
The bunk hall buzzed faintly with activity, the sounds of creaking bunks and rustling sheets punctuating the low chatter. Teddy and Duke were huddled on their lower bunks, engrossed in a competitive game on their iPhones—a fast-paced racing app that had them tapping furiously, their fingers dancing across screens as virtual cars screeched around corners, tires squealing in digital defiance. Their laughter was subdued, punctuated by frustrated grunts when a rival overtook them, their faces illuminated by the screens’ harsh glow, offering a fleeting distraction from the camp’s oppressive weight. Renn approached, his heavy footsteps on the concrete floor cutting through their focus like a blade. “Teddy, Duke—drop the games. Orders from Kratos: I need to head to his office now, and you’re coming with me. That’s three of us; I’ll grab one more.”
Teddy set his phone down, his eyebrows knitting in confusion, his average build—neither bulky nor frail, with a soft layer of flesh over a sturdy frame—shifting as he sat up straighter, his dark green T-shirt clinging to his sweat-dampened torso. “Wait, what? It’s Friday evening, man. We just survived another damn day—why us? Some kind of review or extra bullshit punishment? I’m not in the mood for Kratos’s games.”
Duke, his scrawny form tensing at the mention of Kratos, paused mid-race, his bony fingers hovering over the screen, his face paling slightly under the fluorescent lights, eyes wide with the haunted look of someone who had already tasted Kratos’s wrath. “Yeah, Renn… any details? I mean, after last time, I’m not exactly eager to face him again. My ribs still ache from… you know.” His voice trembled, referencing the cafeteria incident where he was forced to lick Kratos’s boots, a memory that still burned in his gut.
Renn shook his head, his strong jaw set in determination, though his dark eyes betrayed a flicker of uncertainty. “No clue—could be a briefing, could be him screwing with us for kicks. My best guess is he wants a small group for something specific, maybe to make an example. Doesn’t matter; we move. Stay in training clothes—we’re not wasting time changing.”
They were all still clad in their standard issue: dark green T-shirts that hugged their sweat-soaked torsos, the fabric rough and slightly faded from repeated washes; black shorts ending mid-thigh, practical but now damp and chafing; and black sneakers, scuffed from endless drills, the soles bearing the grit of the camp’s paths, laced tightly for the trek ahead.
Renn scanned the room, his gaze settling on a nearby upper bunk where a nerdy-faced private reclined, absorbed in his phone—likely streaming something, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the screen’s light, casting tiny glints across his pale, angular face. This was Max, below average in build with a lanky, unassuming physique, his thin arms and legs making him look even more vulnerable, his nerdy demeanor amplifying his apparent weakness in the brutal hierarchy of Hell’s Gate. Renn strode over, his presence looming over the bunk like a storm cloud. “Max, you’re the fourth. Get down—we’re heading to Kratos’s office. Now.”
Max blinked rapidly, confusion etching his features as he lowered his phone, pushing up his glasses with a trembling finger, the device slipping to the thin mattress with a soft thud. “Uh, me? Okay… but why? Did I screw up a drill or something? I thought I passed the run test.” His voice was soft, tinged with anxiety, but he didn’t argue—his compliant nature kicked in, and he swung his long legs over the edge, hopping down awkwardly, still in his dark green T-shirt, black shorts, and black sneakers, falling in line behind the others without further protest.
The quartet departed the hall, embarking on the 15-minute walk across the camp’s uneven paths, their black sneakers crunching on gravel, kicking up faint dust clouds that swirled in the fading light. The route wound past silent training yards, their obstacle courses looming like skeletal beasts in the twilight, and dimly lit barracks where faint laughter or snores escaped through cracked windows. The air was cooling but still heavy, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant diesel fumes from idling camp vehicles. Teddy cracked nervous jokes to lighten the mood—”Bet Kratos just wants us to polish his boots with our tongues again”—but his laughter was forced, betraying unease. Duke trudged silently, his shoulders hunched, eyes darting as if expecting an ambush. Max fidgeted, adjusting his glasses repeatedly, muttering about hoping it was just paperwork. Renn led with silent determination, his mind racing through possibilities—commendation, discipline, or something far worse—each step tightening the knot in his gut.
They reached Kratos’s office—a squat, utilitarian structure on the camp’s edge, its concrete facade weathered by relentless sun and wind, pockmarked with cracks that spoke of neglect. A single bulb outside flickered, casting erratic shadows. Renn halted at the door, rapping sharply with his knuckles, the sound echoing in the quiet. “Permission to enter, sir!”
A gruff voice from within granted access: “Come in.”
They entered, the door closing with a resounding thud that reverberated in their chests, sealing them into the unknown. They lined up in precise formation, shoulders squared, and saluted sharply, their dark green T-shirts taut against their frames, black shorts crisp despite the day’s wear, sneakers planted firmly on the tiled floor. Renn, as spokesperson, announced with crisp authority: “Sir, Privates Renn, Teddy, Duke, and Max reporting as ordered, sir!”
The interior shattered any expectations of a standard military summons. The room was lit by a single overhead bulb, its harsh light exposing a cluttered desk shoved to one corner, piled with dog-eared files and a dusty lamp. The centerpiece was a high table flanked by three stools, its surface littered with half-empty beer bottles, their labels peeling from condensation. Boxes of unopened beer crates leaned haphazardly against the walls, their cardboard edges frayed, and empty bottles were strewn across the floor like the aftermath of a raucous party, their glass glinting dully in the light. The air was thick with the sour reek of stale alcohol, undercut by a faint trace of cigar smoke that clung to the walls. Master Sergeant Kratos, Lieutenant Chaz, and Lieutenant Stryker occupied the stools, casually swigging from their bottles, their laughter boisterous and unrestrained, a stark contrast to the camp’s usual rigidity.
The officers wore their hallmark gear, a uniform that radiated raw, intimidating power: black New Era caps angled low over their brows, casting menacing shadows across their hardened faces; long-sleeve Jordan T-shirts stretched taut over their formidable muscles, the fabric straining to contain their bulk; camo pants bloused neatly at the ankles, emphasizing their disciplined yet predatory stance; and Air Force 1 boots in the Flax Wheat colorway, customized to an imposing 8-inch height with wide and loose lacing that dangled dominantly, swaying slightly with each movement.
These boots were meticulously crafted from premium nubuck leather—a short-haired, suede-like material in a monochromatic flax-wheat hue, a warm golden-brown that masked the filth of conquest while evoking the unyielding resilience of work boots, as if forged from the earth itself to dominate it. The uppers, with their nubuck texture soft yet tenacious, clung to debris like a predator’s claws, inviting tactile submission while promising unmerciful retention of whatever they crushed. Round, dotted laces threaded through hex nut eyelets—metallic grommets infusing an industrial brutality—hung wide and loose, permitting flex that amplified each crushing step, the laces’ casual slackness a mocking contrast to the boots’ severe intent. The midsole incorporated Nike’s full-length Air cushioning in foam, white or subtly toned, buffering the wearer while channeling force downward with sadistic precision, compressing anything beneath into abject submission. The outsole was a robust rubber cupsole in gum light brown, designed with the classic circular tread pattern: concentric circles spiraling from a central pivot point, deep grooves carved in starburst formations for multisurface traction that gripped like vicious teeth, ensuring every grind embedded dominance. Branded with “Air” emboss, these soles embodied fetishistic cruelty—the high shafts rising like towers of tyranny, the entire form a dominant sadist’s dream, where treading became a ritual of erotic torment, promising unyielding pain and enforced adoration, each step a declaration of supremacy that invited worship or inflicted suffering with equal indifference.
Renn and his companions stood bewildered, their formation rigid but minds reeling. Renn’s thoughts churned: Were they summoned for some perverse drinking ritual? A twisted attempt at bonding? The officers continued ignoring their arrival, engrossed in a boisterous joke about the recent lunch incident—where the 1st Platoon had been humiliated into licking food from beneath their boots. “And that loser Duke—barking on command, his pathetic tongue scraping my tread clean! Funniest damn thing!” Kratos roared, slamming his bottle down, the glass clinking against the table. Chaz and Stryker howled, recounting details with gleeful cruelty: “The way he whimpered, licking that bolognese off—thought he’d cry right there!” The four privates endured the recounting, faces burning with renewed shame, the words slicing into their pride like knives, their presence rendered invisible as the officers reveled in their past degradation. Renn clenched his fists subtly, Teddy shifted uncomfortably, Duke’s eyes dropped to the floor, and Max adjusted his glasses nervously, each grappling with the sting of being mocked so openly.
As the laughter tapered, Kratos finally acknowledged them, his voice thick with alcohol. “At ease, face-fucks.”
The privates lowered their salutes, hands dropping tensely to their sides, the air thick with anticipation and dread. Kratos, Chaz, and Stryker rose from their stools, swaying slightly—tipsy from the numerous empty bottles scattered like battlefield debris, their eyes hazy yet glinting with predatory intent. Their physiques loomed incomparable: Kratos, the pinnacle of brute strength at 200 pounds of rippling muscle, his biceps bulging like steel cables, capable of shattering wills with a glance; Chaz and Stryker, each 185 pounds of sculpted power, their frames honed for dominance, every movement exuding controlled menace. Renn, though muscled and formidable with his chiseled torso and powerful limbs, fell short of the lieutenants’ might. Teddy was merely average, his frame unremarkable, a soft layer of flesh over sturdy bones. Duke, the weakest, appeared brittle as glass, his scrawny limbs trembling faintly. Max, below average with his nerdy, bespectacled visage and lanky build, looked profoundly vulnerable. To the officers, these four were mere bugs—insignificant vermin they could pulverize at leisure. Yet tonight, Kratos intended to degrade them into pigs, groveling beneath their boots in a spectacle of abject humiliation.
“Strip everything off—fast!” Kratos slurred, his command a whip-crack that brooked no delay.
Duke, already tamed by prior torments and desperate to evade further pain, complied instantly, peeling off his dark green T-shirt, revealing a bony chest marred by faint bruises from past encounters; his black shorts dropped next, followed by his black sneakers, leaving him naked, shirtless, and barefoot, his pale skin prickling in the cool, stale air of the office, his vulnerability laid bare like an offering.
Renn, still processing the absurdity, had only removed his T-shirt, exposing his chiseled abs and broad shoulders, when Kratos lunged forward, his flax-wheat boot rocketing into Renn’s stomach with a sickening thud that doubled him over, air exploding from his lungs in a pained gasp, his knees buckling as he clutched his midsection, shock and pain contorting his face.
Teddy and Max, galvanized by the violence, stripped rapidly, their dark green T-shirts flung aside to reveal unremarkable torsos—Teddy’s slightly soft, Max’s thin and pale—followed by black shorts and sneakers, joining Duke in humiliated nudity, shirtless and barefoot, their bodies exposed and defenseless, the cold tiles biting at their soles, amplifying their sense of powerlessness.
“Crawl under the table,” Kratos demanded, pointing to the high table’s confined underside, his boot tapping impatiently.
They complied sluggishly, dropping to hands and knees, inching toward the cramped space, their bare skin scraping against the gritty floor, already feeling the weight of their degradation. Kratos, Chaz, and Stryker accelerated their pace with kicks to flanks and rears, the boots connecting with dull thuds that sent jolts of pain through their bodies, the officers hurling insults for entertainment: “Move, you filthy pig! Faster, or my sole’s gonna stomp your asses!” The kicks were erratic, some grazing ribs, others landing squarely on buttocks, each strike a reminder of their inferiority, the laughter above mingling with the sting of impact, turning their crawl into a humiliating scramble into the shadowy huddle beneath.
The officers vaulted over their backs with casual brutality, the table creaking as they settled onto the stools, planting their massive boots on the privates’ heads and torsos. Kratos’s flax-wheat soles trampled the heads of Renn and Max, the starburst treads digging cruelly into scalps, the sole edges scraping skin raw, the weight pressing skulls against the cold floor. Chaz claimed Teddy’s head, twisting his sole idly, the circular patterns grinding as if marking territory. Stryker dominated Duke’s, pressing down with sadistic leisure, as if extinguishing a spark of defiance. They resumed chatting and swigging beer, their laughter booming through the room—each guffaw triggering stomps that rattled bones, the boots treating the privates as negligible cushions, their humanity erased under the sadistic design of those flax-wheat towers.
Beneath the table, the four whispered in low, frantic tones, their voices barely audible over the officers’ revelry. “What the actual fuck is this?” Teddy hissed, his breath hot against the confined air. “They’re drunk and using us as goddamn footrests?”
Duke whimpered, his voice cracking. “Just… endure. I can’t take another beating.”
Max adjusted his glasses, now fogged with sweat, his voice shaky. “This can’t be protocol… it’s like some fucked-up power game.”
Renn grunted under Kratos’s weight, his neck straining. “Keep it down—they’ll hear us.”
But Stryker overheard, his boot stomping down on Duke’s mouth, muffling a yelp as the tread pressed lips against teeth, drawing a faint trickle of blood. “No chatter, pigs! You’re here to serve, not speak!”
Silence fell, broken only by the officers’ raucous banter and the clink of bottles. Then Kratos commanded, his voice slurred but menacing: “Lick our soles—clean every fucking inch.”
The privates maneuvered awkwardly in the tight space, contorting their bodies to turn faces upward, their bare backs scraping the floor, necks craning painfully to reach the hovering boots. Tongues extended reluctantly: Renn and Max dragging theirs across Kratos’s gum rubber outsole, the concentric circles gritty with camp soil—earthy mud scraping the palate with a coarse, mineral bitterness, flecks of grass from well-trodden paths adding a sharp, vegetal bite that stung their taste buds, the nubuck’s leathery essence underscoring the degradation with a faint, oily tang that clung to their tongues like a curse. Teddy lapped at Chaz’s tread, the starburst grooves releasing embedded dirt that tasted of dusty trails, a gritty, chalky texture mixed with the faint rubber tang of the sole, each swipe a reminder of his subservience. Duke endured Stryker’s pivot patterns, the mud and grass residue forming a harsh, mineral slurry that coated his tongue in a filthy paste, the abrasive grit scraping his lips raw as he worked, the flavor a humiliating blend of earth and sadistic rubber.
Kratos stomped on Renn and Max’s faces mid-lick, the treads grinding into cheeks and foreheads, leaving red welts as he bellowed: “Every square inch, face-fucks!” Chaz and Stryker mirrored the action, their boots slamming down to enforce meticulous obedience, the sadistic design of the flax-wheat AF1s heightening the fetishistic horror—each groove a trap for dirt, each stamp a mark of dominance, forcing the privates to taste their own abasement with every swipe.
Craving documentation of their conquest, Kratos turned to Chaz and Stryker with a drunken grin, his voice slurred but gleeful: “Yo, let’s take some pics, bros—gotta immortalize these pigs under our boots!”
Chaz and Stryker erupted in laughter, slamming their bottles down in approval. “Hell yeah, let’s make ‘em famous!” Chaz roared, while Stryker added, “Gonna look hot on my feed!” Then Kratos ordered at the privates: “Crawl out—line up in the room’s center, on your bellies, now!”
They scrambled forth, crawling across the cold tiles, their knees and palms stinging from abrasions, aligning prone in a pitiful row, backs vulnerable and glistening with sweat. Kratos mounted Renn and Max’s backs in the center, his 200-pound frame compressing spines agonizingly, the starburst treads digging into flesh, leaving angry red imprints that throbbed with each pulse. Chaz stepped onto Duke and Renn’s backs, his 185 pounds eliciting grunts as the circular patterns pressed deep, bruising muscle. Stryker set a 10-second iPhone timer on the table, the device propped precariously, then leaped onto Max and Teddy’s backs, another 185 pounds drawing pained gasps as the soles ground against vertebrae.
They held motionless for the first shot, boots imprinting deep welts that burned like brands, the privates’ faces pressed into the floor, inhaling dust and shame. Kratos demanded a second: “Arms over shoulders, you miserable fucks.”
Stryker dismounted, his boots thudding as he crossed to reset the timer, then leaped back with a cruel bounce that drove the air from Max and Teddy’s lungs. Kratos, centered, draped his thick arms around Chaz and Stryker, pulling them close in a mocking display of camaraderie, their boots sinking deeper into the privates’ backs as the flash immortalized their supremacy over the shirtless, trembling bodies below.
They dismounted with deliberate jumps—Kratos onto Renn and Max, collapsing them flat with pained groans, their faces smearing into the tiles; Chaz and Stryker onto their respective victims, Teddy and Duke crumpling under the force, their breaths hitching as ribs strained. Stryker uploaded the image to his social feed, depicting the trampling of the four shirtless privates, tagging Kratos and Chaz with a caption that read, “Breaking in the pigs—#Hell’sGateStyle.” Comments flooded in rapidly: some users thirsting, “Trample me next—those AF1 boots are fire!”; others gushing, “Fucking hot—pure power play, post more!” The privates, still prone, felt the sting of their exposure ripple beyond the room, their humiliation now a public spectacle for strangers to ogle and desire.
The officers snatched fresh beers, resuming trampling and jumping on the prone backs for amusement, boots thudding rhythmically amid raucous laughter, the flax-wheat soles leaving a patchwork of bruises—purple and red blooming across pale skin like grotesque tattoos. Each jump was a calculated act of degradation, the Air cushioning amplifying the impact, the treads biting into flesh with sadistic precision, the privates’ stifled cries swallowed by the officers’ drunken mirth.
Kratos leaped onto Renn’s back, his 200-pound frame slamming down with crushing force, then growled with drunken menace, “Crawl!, move!”
Renn, leveraging his formidable strength, rose on all fours, his muscles bulging under the strain of Kratos’s 200 pounds, the flax-wheat boots planted squarely between his shoulder blades, the starburst treads digging into his skin with every laborious shuffle. Renn’s face was a mask of gritted determination, sweat streaming down his brow, stinging his eyes as he circled the room, each movement a testament to his resilience but also a humiliating display of subservience. Kratos rocked deliberately atop him, his weight shifting to maximize discomfort, the boots’ grooves scraping red welts across Renn’s back, the sole edges catching on skin, drawing faint abrasions that burned with every step. The officers jeered, Kratos taunting, “Look at the mighty leader—reduced to my mule! Keep moving, or I’ll grind you into the floor!” Renn’s breaths came in ragged gasps, his arms trembling but holding, the humiliation searing deeper than the physical pain, knowing his strength was being twisted into a spectacle of submission for their amusement.
Chaz attempted with Max: “Rise, slave! Carry me, or regret it!” Max, his lanky frame buckling under the attempt, faltered immediately, his knees collapsing as Chaz’s 185 pounds overwhelmed him, his glasses slipping down his nose as he crumpled face-first to the tiles with a pathetic whimper. Chaz sneered, upending a beer bottle over Max’s head, the cold, foamy liquid cascading down his scalp, matting his hair and streaming into his eyes, the sticky froth pooling around his face on the floor. The beer’s sour, yeasty tang mingled with the dirt already smeared on his skin, creating a humiliating cocktail that clung to him like a second skin, the scent invading his nostrils as he gasped, his glasses fogging with the liquid, blurring his vision. Chaz stomped on Max’s back for good measure, the circular treads imprinting fresh welts, his laughter cruel: “Can’t even lift me, nerd? You’re less than nothing!” Max’s cheeks burned with shame, the beer-soaked floor cold against his face, his body trembling under the weight of his failure and the officers’ disdain.
Stryker turned to Duke: “Up, fag!” Duke, already broken by past torments, tried desperately but collapsed instantly, his frail body unable to support Stryker’s 185 pounds, his knees buckling as he sprawled onto the tiles, a choked sob escaping his lips. Stryker poured a full bottle of beer over Duke’s head, the icy liquid drenching his hair and running down his bare back in rivulets, stinging the bruises already forming from earlier stomps. The beer soaked into the floor beneath him, mixing with dust to form a gritty sludge that clung to his skin, the sharp, alcoholic bite filling his senses as it dripped into his eyes and mouth, amplifying his weakness with every sodden breath. Stryker ground his boot into Duke’s back, the pivot patterns carving red lines into his flesh, sneering, “Too weak to even try? You’re not even a pig—you’re a fucking speck!” Duke’s body shook with suppressed sobs, the beer pooling around him like a moat of humiliation, his spirit crumbling further under the weight of his inadequacy and the public mockery now immortalized online.
The cycle persisted—stomping, drinking, kicking—until 1am, the officers inebriated and fatigued, their movements sloppier but no less cruel, the privates splayed flat on the floor, bodies mottled with bruises—purple, black, and red blooming across their backs and sides like a grotesque canvas painted by the flax-wheat soles. Their skin was streaked with dirt from the boots’ treads, sticky with dried beer, and raw from abrasions, each mark a testament to their degradation, their nakedness a stark reminder of their stripped humanity.
Before exiting, Kratos slurred, his voice heavy with drunken malice: “Line up on your backs—faces up, mouths wide open, now!”
The four complied feebly, dragging their battered bodies to align supine, their faces upturned, mouths gaping like sacrificial vessels, the cold tiles biting into their bruised backs. Kratos unzipped, exposing his 9-inch cock, and unleashed a scorching, acrid torrent of piss into their mouths—a hot stream tasting of sharp ammonia laced with the sour, salty residue of beer, filling each orifice in sequence with a relentless flow that burned their throats and overflowed, soaking their faces in a humiliating deluge. Chaz and Stryker followed with their 8-inch cock, their streams blending with Kratos’s remnants: the mixture intensified, a pungent fusion of uric bitterness, alcoholic sharpness, and a faint metallic tang from their combined fluids, creating a vile cocktail that spilled over lips, stung eyes, and pooled on the floor beneath, the privates gagging and choking as they were forced to swallow or drown in the degrading flood.
Kratos trampled Renn’s face post-act, his flax-wheat sole grinding into his cheek, the tread’s grooves embedding dirt and piss into his skin as he growled: “Clean this office by morning—or your entire platoon suffers. I’ll turn your day off into pure hell, you worthless mule.” The boot twisted, leaving a red imprint that throbbed with Renn’s pulse, the humiliation of being marked so intimately searing his pride.
Chaz spat a thick gob of saliva onto Max’s face, the warm spittle sliding down his cheek, mingling with the piss as he stomped, the tread grinding the mixture into Max’s skin, sneering: “Pathetic nerd—clean it, or you’re done.” Max flinched, the spit and piss a degrading mask that burned with shame.
Stryker mirrored on Duke, spitting and stomping, the sole pressing Duke’s face into the wet floor, the starburst treads smearing the vile concoction across his lips: “You’re nothing, fag—get to work.” Duke’s eyes welled with tears, the combined fluids a bitter reminder of his brokenness.
The trio staggered out, the door slamming shut with a finality that echoed in the privates’ ears. After 6-7 hours of relentless abasement, Renn rose first, his body aching but his mind unbroken, reclaiming human posture with grim determination. He donned his dark green T-shirt, black shorts, and black sneakers, each movement a defiance of the ordeal, though his skin bore the marks of Kratos’s treads like badges of survival.
The others lay dazed, grappling with the trauma, their bodies slick with piss, beer, and dirt, bruises pulsing with every heartbeat. Renn kicked their sides firmly, his voice steady: “Up—dress. We clean now. We push through together, no breaking.”
Teddy rose slowly, pulling on his clothes, his voice thick with frustration: “This was fucking insane, Renn. Why us? It’s like they’re getting off on this shit—those pictures online? We’re a goddamn spectacle now.”
Max stood shakily, wiping piss and spit from his face, his glasses smeared, his tone bitter: “My back’s killing me, my mouth tastes like a sewer, and now the whole world’s laughing at us. What the hell did we do to deserve this?”
Duke remained floored, weeping softly, his body curled in on itself. “I can’t… it’s broken me more, Renn. I’m nothing—just their fucking pig.” His sobs shook his frame, the taste of piss lingering like a curse.
Renn walked to Duke, kicking his face, his voice firm but not unkind: “You’re not nothing. Get up, dress, help us clean. We survive this together. No more breaking—not tonight.” Turning to Teddy, he added, “Teddy, pull yourself together. We’ve got a job to do, or it’s hell for everyone tomorrow.”
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