Hacking the Game Didn’t Go as Intended

Rigid with tension, I turn around nervously with my back pressed against the wall. My heart thrashes wildly in my chest as I notice a group of men approaching, resembling a pack of hyenas closing in on their prey.

Sinister smirks and ominous snickers accompany each menacing thug, their concealed weapons adding an extra layer of threat.

One man, unmistakably a sociopath, leisurely sweeps his tongue along the blade of his knife, a dark promise etched in the gesture. My bladder weakens at the chilling sight.

Fueled by dread, I attempt to escape into the alley like the stray cat had done. But a cackling hyena emerges from that direction, revealing the calculated nature of their ambush.

“You’re a difficult man to pin down, Mr. Williams.”

WHAM!

Following the snide remark, a flash of movement catches my attention. The wind briefly parts ways, and in the next moment, my nose bends at an angle I'm pretty sure it wasn't meant to—and searing pain shoots up into my head.

My body slams against the wall of the convenience store, and trash cans tumble to the ground with me, their contents cluttering the pavement.

The lackey responsible for the blow steps back, wearing a complacent grin. Blood seeps from my nose and mouth, the metallic taste of iron saturating my tongue.

A guttural grunt escapes my throat as another lackey clutches a fistful of my hair, lifting my head. My eyes flutter open to a tall man in formal attire, confidently seated on a makeshift stool that a fellow lackey has unfolded, his legs crossing in an intimidating flair.

It's unmistakable... he is, without a doubt, the leader.

“Mr. Williams,” the man begins, his half-lidded eyes stern and unwavering. “I am a man of discipline; I believe in rules and equivalent exchange. Contrary to popular belief, the underworld—much like the rest of society—is governed by strict rules and regulations. Without order, chaos ensues, and without communication, misinterpretation is inevitable.

Even in my… unique field of work,” he gracefully gesticulates with his hands, “there are strict protocols to be followed. By agreeing to do business with us, you consented to those terms, am I wrong?”

Still reeling from the blow to my face, the taste and smell of blood make me queasy. Words become muffled and slurred, and the grinning faces of the men morph into grotesque contortions reminiscent of a horror movie.

A pained series of cries tear from my lungs as I’m assaulted by a barrage of kicks to the face and torso.

“Answer the question, or we’ll pound you into paste,” one of the thugs threatens, his beady eyes wide with malice.

Before I can catch my breath, my head is yanked backward again, hard—and my bloodshot eyes meet those of the man I borrowed money from weeks ago. There's no pleasure in his expression, just a cold dissatisfaction with my pain-induced silence. But what could I do? I am weaving in and out of consciousness.

Without a word, he gracefully slides from his stool and approaches me in a single fluid motion, his gaze fixed on my nametag. Deft fingers gently unclasp the pin from its catch, and in the next moment, a sharp object pierces my earlobe.

I clench my teeth as a groan escapes me. The onslaught of pain shakes me to my very core. In this intense moment, an unprecedented sense of regret courses through every fiber of my being, a regret born from the desperate choices that brought me to this harrowing juncture.

Three weeks ago, I borrowed money from a notorious loan shark. To make matters worse, I was now running and hiding from them after missing the payment deadline.

I knew I wouldn’t escape unscathed, but the stark contrast between anticipating pain and actually experiencing it is overwhelming. The pain coursing through me now surpasses any level of torment I can imagine.

Can this possibly get any worse?

“Listen up, kid,” the man's voice becomes a chilling whisper. “What we’re running here is a business, not a LEGO set. Unlike the normies, we don’t have the justice system on our side, so we have to make proper examples of clients like you to prevent others from taking us lightly.”

The moment he rises and strides away, his underlings descend upon me like vultures on a carcass. While I struggle fruitlessly to defend my face against the flurry of kicks and stomps, the leader is busy exchanging his jacket for a crowbar.

My eyes snap open in dread.

“No, please,” the plea escapes my throat before I can string together a coherent thought. An eerie premonition of what awaits tightens my entire body with horror. I summon the last shreds of strength that adrenaline provides, my nails splitting as they grip the concrete. But, before I can budge an inch, the hyenas pin my limbs.

The leader looms over me like a spawn of hell, his eyes devoid of all emotion. “You break the rules, you suffer the consequences—equivalent exchange,” he utters, tilting his head. “You seem very proud of your legs that you've been using to run and hide.”

“W-Wait a minute—”

CRACK!

Time seems to warp, my eyes trembling wildly as the unpleasant sound of breaking bone reverberates through the narrow alley. Waves of scorching pain surge through every cell in my body, and a primal roar tears my lungs, drowning out the sadistic cackling of the hyenas.

My body is suddenly drenched in sweat. Without a conscious thought, I lift my head, my vision blurred by the excruciating pain, and gaze down at my leg. It is not only discolored but also twisted at an angle that defies anatomical possibility.

Next, I catch the unremorseful gaze of the man who just crippled me. His demeanor has transformed, shedding the veneer of a calm and composed leader. Instead, he wears the visage of a malevolent force, poised to bestow unmerciful retribution.

“Let’s see if you’ll be able to run next time when you’re in a wheelchair.”

That was the signal.

The man’s fingers tighten around the crowbar, and his lackeys watch in undisguised excitement.

“…Fifty percent,” I mutter under my breath.

The crowbar freezes in mid-air, and all eyes fixate on me.

“What?”

“Fifty percent!” I shout breathlessly.

A hyena whistles in awe.

“I… made a time-sensitive investment with the money,” I explain in a stupefied manner, saliva drooling from the corners of my mouth. “I’m… regretful it turned out this way, but I’ll make amends by repaying the loan with a higher interest rate.”

The leader looks down at me without a hint of sympathy, weighing my proposal.

“It’s… my first time missing a payment; show mercy just this once. Besides, putting me in a wheelchair will only delay the repayment further.”

WEE-WOO-WEE-WOO-WEE-WOO!

The approaching wail of police sirens fractures the tension, compelling the leader to reach a decision.

“Tsk,” he clicks his tongue, visibly annoyed at losing control of the situation. His Oxford dress shoe presses down onto my face, as though snuffing out a spent cigar. “You have until the end of the month to return what you owe… along with the additional interest.”

Swapping the crowbar for his jacket, the man casually reaches for a vape pen. After drawing a deep puff, he takes one last glaring look at his handy work before sauntering off with his crew. They are clearly disappointed that they missed out on a bit more amusement.

Soon after, I hear the stifled cries of the Robinsons as they frantically rush over from the store. It appears they witnessed the ordeal and promptly called the authorities.

The timing is impeccable, but I lack the strength to say that or reassure them that I'm fine. My body is numb, my strength drained, and it isn't long before unconsciousness sweeps over me.