Victimize The Killers Chapter 1: Blood in the Pavement.

Chapter 1: Blood in the Pavement.

Pain.

Shit.

Pavement is the worst teacher. Its lessons are sharp, merciless, carved into bone. The slam empties my lungs, rattles my glasses sideways. For a second I drift out—just dark, painless void—before laughter drags me back.

Not monster laughter. Worse. Kids. Rotten little parasites in hoodies. From petty thieves to would-be killers in the span of a summer.

“See how the bald motherfucker crashed like the Titanic? Hah, classic!”

Their leader’s a rat-faced boy with a nose piercing and acne glowing under the streetlight. The other two cackle on cue, eager hyenas.

“The Titanic sank, you idiot,” I mutter, spitting dust. My voice is flat, but my insides coil. I feel the anger bubble, bitter and alive, begging to spill.

I’m twenty. Old enough to know better, too young to stop myself.

My name’s Davis Tony. Drifter, bald head, glasses, wiry frame. People say I look harmless, even a little handsome in a nerd-next-door way. But my eyes ruin it. They stare too hard. People flinch.

I took martial arts to keep the anger somewhere legal. To learn control. But tonight? I don’t feel like control.

“I could break your teeth,” I tell the kid. My tone is calm. Too calm. “And I might.”

The leader grins, not hearing the warning. “What he say?” His voice cracks, whiny. The hyenas bark-laugh again.

Fine.

Whap! My palm slams under his chin. His body snaps back, a grotesque marionette with strings cut. Cartilage crunches. Blood sprays like bad cologne. He drops, shrieking through his hands.

“My nose! Ya broke my nose—!”

Yeah, I did. I flick blood from my palm and shake my wrist loose, bones aching, tendons humming like guitar strings. His friends freeze. Their eyes scream this wasn’t supposed to happen.

I straighten up. My breath is steady. For once, my head feels clear.

And then the world breaks.

A red box flickers in the air in front of me. Floating. Glowing. Too clean to belong to this cracked concrete reality.

[Excessive violence detected. Candidate confirmed.]

I blink. My gut clenches. The punks don’t move—they’re frozen, mouths open mid-gasp. Even the blood droplets hang in the air like red glass beads.

“What the hell…” I whisper.

My hand twitches. Reflex. I swipe. The red box dissolves into static and reforms.

[Welcome, Davis Tony.]

[You have been chosen to participate in the Killing Game.]

[Your role: Target.]

[Fifteen professional killers. Artists of violence. They will come for you.]

Another swipe.

[Survive as long as you can. Kill, if you must. Indulge every desire.]

[There is no escape.]

I laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s insane. The sound echoes against empty buildings.

This isn’t a prank. Not VR goggles. Not teenagers with some app. Time is dead. The air is stiff. Dust motes hover like little gods.

For once, my anger isn’t boiling. It’s ice. Cold and sharp.

Fifteen killers. Hunting me.

The thought should crush me. Instead, it lights me up.

You don’t survive twenty years drifting without knowing you’re disposable. My life has always been cheap. This game? It’s honest about that.

I step over the nose-bleeding brat. His eyes flicker, stuck in frozen time, and I stare into them. Harmless face, terrifying eyes—that’s me.

“Guess I’m in,” I murmur.

The box pulses red, like it heard me.

[Acknowledged.]

The world exhales. Time crashes back in. Blood splatters the ground, the brat shrieks fresh, his friends scatter into the night like cockroaches. Tires squeal. Doors slam. Somewhere a dog barks. Reality reboots.

I stand alone on the cracked pavement. Wrist sore. Knuckles tingling. Eyes burning with something I can’t name.

Davis Tony, twenty-year-old drifter. Harmless-looking, bald-headed, glass-wearing loser. Martial artist with an anger problem.

Now?

Target.

And I think—for the first time in years—I finally know what I’m supposed to do.

-0-

The city feels wrong tonight. I'm on my way to get some weapons and supplies. While I like my fists just fine, they come up short against 15 professional killers.

Every step down cracked sidewalks vibrates, like I’m walking on the skin of something alive. My breath fogs even though the air isn’t cold. Streetlamps hum too loud. The world itself is buzzing, waiting for me to twitch wrong.

That’s when she appears.

Ink. That’s the first thing I notice. A body marked with black tattoos, curling down her arms and climbing her neck, shifting in the half-light like snakes. She’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous—sharp jaw, calm mouth, dark hair tied back. Her eyes narrow on me the moment she spots me under the dead streetlamp.

“You’re a candidate,” she says. Not a question.

Her voice carries weight, like it comes from a place older than both of us.

I adjust my glasses. My bald head is sweating, my wiry frame stiff. “And you are?”

“Eke.” Her lips twitch, like a half-smile. “And you’re alive, which means you haven’t faced the test yet. Interesting.”

I shrug. Harmless on the outside. Always harmless. “What test?”

She steps closer. The tattoos on her skin shimmer faintly, like the night itself bends around them. “Your weapon. Your archetype. The game doesn’t send you in naked. You draw it out. Carve it from yourself. Like this.”

Eke kneels and presses her palm flat on the broken pavement. Blood wells from her hand—too fast, like it was waiting. The ground flickers. A box of red light flares into being:

[Archetype: Shaman. Weapon: Spirit Knives.]

Her tattoos glow. Blades form in her hands, jagged, transparent like smoke. She twirls them once, and the air hisses.

“This is how we fight.” She straightens, knives resting casually at her sides. “You’ll want to bring yours out before the meeting.”

The Meeting. My gut tightens. The word feels capitalized.

“How?” I ask.

She looks me over like she’s already measured my bones. “Blood. And will. That’s all it takes. Try it.”

I press my hand against my wrist, digging nails until skin breaks. The blood stings as it slides over my knuckles. A box flashes before my eyes.

[Archetype: Brawler. Weapon: Iron Wrath.]

A weight blooms in my fists. Not metal. Not exactly. My hands are just hands, but heavier, humming like an engine beneath skin. I flex them and the pavement cracks beneath my knuckles.

Eke whistles low. “Dangerous. Fitting.”

Her smile is too knowing. Too certain. She thinks I’m like her. Just another candidate.

But I’m not.

I’m the Target.

And if she finds that out? I’m dead.

So I move first.

The Iron Wrath pulses in my arm as I swing. My fist connects with her chest, and the impact booms through the alley. She gasps once, eyes wide, and crumples. Blood spills from her mouth. Tattoos flare frantic, crawling, trying to stitch her body whole.

Her knives clatter and vanish into mist.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Maybe I mean it. Maybe I don’t.

She coughs a wet laugh. “You… bastard.”

Her body slackens. But her eyes don’t close. The tattoos blaze, hotter, brighter—then rip off her skin like smoke peeling from fire.

A figure made of ink and light tears free. Her soul.

It latches onto me.

Cold spears through my spine. My vision doubles. Her voice, sharp and cutting, slides into my ear though her body lies still at my feet.

“You think you won, Davis Tony?”

I stagger back, fists still humming. “No…”

“You killed me. And now you carry me.” Her laugh is hollow. “Shaman blood doesn’t vanish. We haunt. We bind. You thought you gained freedom, but you just shackled yourself.”

I slam my fists into the wall. Bricks crumble. The ghost doesn’t fade.

“Shut up.”

Her whisper curls under my skin. “You don’t even know the rules. Blood does more than summon weapons, idiot. Blood opens doors. Blood stains reality until it obeys. Spill it on glass, and you’ll see the path to the others.”

I freeze. “What did you just say?”

She chuckles, voice sharp as a blade. “Oops. Guess I spoiled the trick. But what’s the use? You’ll be dead soon anyway.”

Her words echo in me, unwanted but useful.

I drag her body into shadow, cover her face with my jacket. My stomach twists, but my mind is clear. The Iron Wrath is still humming in my veins.

A broken mirror leans against a dumpster nearby. Probably tossed from some apartment. Its surface catches the lamplight, cracked into a spiderweb of reflections.

I cut my palm again, let the blood drip onto the glass.

The surface ripples. The cracks melt into crimson lines. The mirror breathes, then opens like a curtain.

Beyond it is darkness. And in the darkness, I hear voices. Laughter. Murmurs. Predators waiting.

The Meeting.

Eke’s ghost hisses at me: “You’re insane. They’ll rip you apart.”

I adjust my glasses, heart steady. My bald head gleams with sweat, my wiry frame tight as wire. My eyes burn with something hungry.

“Then I’ll meet them first,” I say.

And I step through the mirror, Eke’s laughter following me into the dark.