Rose and Christopher stared at the wrecked convertible, faces twisted with outrage. They stormed off to find the motel manager and demand answers.
Soren, on the other hand, stayed perfectly calm. He was too busy wondering if he'd gone soft lately.
How the hell did these lowlife punks even think they could mess with me?
He didn't give the stolen car another glance. He just turned and walked away.
Slapton wasn't really a town—it was a glorified village. It only took him a few minutes to find the short-haired punk's house from earlier.
Upstairs in the bedroom, the kid was propped against the headboard.
His broken arm was in a cast and slung across his chest. His stabbed thigh was wrapped in thick bandages.
Even injured, he was happily watching a porno on the TV, one hand busy under the blanket.
Right as his breathing started getting heavy and he was about to finish—
He caught a black shadow in the corner of his eye by the window.
The kid's scalp went numb. He went soft instantly.
CRASH!
Soren kicked the window in and stepped through the shattered glass.
He crushed the shards under his boot while eyeing the punk on the bed.
"Respect. Even with broken bones you're still going at it. Too bad your taste in porn is as weak as your balls."
The short-haired kid scrambled to yank his pants up.
"Wait—listen, the car wasn't me—"
He remembered what happened earlier that day and shrank against the wall, begging for mercy.
Soren wasn't in the mood for excuses. He strode over, grabbed the kid's one good arm, and twisted.
Snap!
"AAAAAHHH!!!"
The punk's scream tore through the night. His last unbroken arm was now shattered too.
The bloodcurdling howl woke his parents downstairs.
"Fuck! What the hell is all that noise?!"
His father—a fat, sloppy man—kicked the bedroom door open without even looking inside first.
"You little shit, you asking for another beating?!"
But when he saw the broken glass, the blood, and his son's second arm hanging useless, pure rage filled his eyes.
"You son of a bitch! I'm gonna kill you!"
The injured kid, sweating in agony, suddenly got bold now that Dad was here. "Yeah! Fuck him up! That's the asshole who beat me earlier!"
In his mind, he'd only lost earlier because he'd underestimated the guy. His dad was a big, heavy bastard—surely he could crush this skinny mixed kid, right?
The fat man roared and grabbed the baseball bat from behind the door, swinging it straight at Soren's head.
Soren's eyes turned ice-cold. Demonic power surged into his leg. One kick.
The overweight man flew backward like a cannonball, smashing through the wall behind him and cracking the next room's wall too.
He was embedded in the plaster, coughing up chunks of organ and blood. He wasn't getting up again.
The mother behind him screamed and ran downstairs in panic.
A minute later, angry voices rose from below.
The short-haired kid's mom had come back—and she'd brought reinforcements.
A whole crowd of mean-looking locals blocked the doorway, weapons in hand, ready to lynch someone.
Soren's gaze swept over the angry mob. He raised an eyebrow.
"These all your mom's boyfriends?"
The insult hit the mother like a slap. Her chest heaved with fury.
How the hell does he know?!
Shamed and enraged, she pointed a shaking finger at Soren and shrieked, "You crazy bastard! What the fuck are you talking about?! What did my boy ever do to you?! How could you do this to a child?!"
Soren ignored her. He walked over to the trembling punk still huddled in the corner and looked down at him.
"Want to tell them yourself?"
The kid stared into Soren's faintly glowing red eyes and started shaking so hard his teeth chattered.
Stuttering and sobbing, he spilled everything—how they'd tried to steal the car in broad daylight, how he'd ordered his crew to slash the tires and trash it at night.
The mother didn't even hesitate. "It's just a stupid car! He's only a kid!"
"Even if he caused trouble, who the hell are you to punish him? You're not from around here!"
Crunch!
Soren stomped down twice, shattering both of the kid's kneecaps.
"AAAAAHHH!!!"
The punk howled.
Soren smiled at the crowd in the doorway. "Relax. I'm not gonna kill him."
The mother watched her son writhe in agony, heart breaking. But after seeing what Soren could do, she didn't dare step inside—even with all those people behind her.
The local thugs, however, weren't used to being humiliated like this.
A burly man shoved the woman aside and stormed into the room, baseball bat raised.
"Messing with a kid doesn't make you tough, you little—"
He never finished.
Soren grabbed him with one hand, spun, and slammed him into the floor.
"Too weak to play hero?"
He followed up with one punch.
The floorboards exploded. The man went completely still, half his body sunk into the broken wood.
The noisy crowd outside fell dead silent.
The loudmouths who'd been shouting seconds ago now looked like they'd seen a ghost.
Some were already quietly backing toward the stairs, trying to slip away.
Soren stood up straight, brushed the dust off his hands, and looked at the terrified locals.
"Anyone who walked through that door tonight gets a little souvenir from me."
The second the words left his mouth, pure darkness exploded outward from Soren.
The lights died. The entire house plunged into pitch black.
Only two glowing crimson points moved through the darkness like a ghost.
The sounds of bones snapping and people screaming filled the air.
When the darkness finally faded, the house was silent again.
The once-aggressive crowd now lay in pools of blood.
Every single person in the hallway and bedroom had their arms and legs twisted at impossible angles—some even tied together in cute little bows.
Soren hadn't killed anyone. That would've been illegal.
He'd simply crippled every limb they had—including the fifth one.
Death was too easy.
Making them spend the rest of their lives bedridden, helpless, humiliated, and in constant pain? That was the real gift.
Over the next few hours Soren moved through Slapton like a shadow.
He visited every other punk who'd helped wreck his car that day.
All night long, screams echoed from different houses.
Not a single person dared come out to help.
Every one of those spoiled brats—and every parent who'd raised them—ended up with all four limbs broken.
If the parents couldn't teach their kids right, they could damn well pay the price for their crimes.
By the time the sky started to lighten, Soren strolled back to the motel like nothing had happened.
To his surprise, Rose and Christopher were still awake.
They sat in the lobby wearing jackets, looking anxious as they waited for him.
The second he walked in, Rose rushed over.
"Mr. Soren…"
She asked carefully, "Is… everything taken care of?"
Soren stopped, pulled a thick wad of cash from his pocket, and fanned it casually.
He'd cleaned out every house he'd visited. Probably twenty or thirty grand total.
"After a very friendly conversation, they realized their mistake and agreed to pay for the damage at fair market value."
He tucked the money away and nodded at the couple.
"Get some rest."
With that, he headed upstairs, muttering to himself:
"Bunch of broke-ass losers. All that tough talk, and their houses were one cockroach away from starving."