The blindfold on his eyes slips, and a light of intense vengefulness blows out from Brightâs eyes.
It was due to the sudden light reaching his eyes plus him widening it. The pupils dilate visibly.
He swears to burn the face of the Shithead into his mind. His arrow formed from his great fury and hate will no longer be pointed at an uncertain target. It is no longer pointed at just some term âInner City aristocratâ that was just a broad social class. It is now an enemy with a definite form and shape, in flesh and blood, a target he can see and feel.
He would imagine himself killing them, his hands around the neck of that person. To see that face reddened and distorted from suffocation. To see his eyes bloodshot and swelling as if ready to pop out the next second, until his gaze diffuses from losing consciousness. Or he will send him to the electric chair, feeling the strong current flowing freely in his body, feeling how it is to be helplessly out of control and pissing themself.
Yet, Bright is going to be disappointed.
What he saw is only the figure of a man who has clad himself in a great white robe. He is slightly shorter than him, at about 1.83 metres . From the width of his shoulders, he doesnât seem physically broad nor is he thin. His physique is probably lean. He doesnât show any skin at all. He is wearing a balaclava, mask and gloves; his skin would be unable to breathe.
Though this is not a complete failure, because Bright can see that black pair of eyes.
The pair of eyes are black. Cold. Deep. Brightâs gaze on it immediately makes coldness seep in from the bottom of his feet, as if gazing into an abyss. Itâs the eye of a predator, as if one is looking down at other creatures, its food from the top of the food chain. Itâs also food that has sullied itself disobediently. He can feel the danger instinctively, as if his soul is trying to escape from its physical body.
Through his expression, Bright is certain he is not just someone who is doing the deed on behalf of someone. It must be the Shithead himself, a high-standing Inner City aristocrat. The fucker who ordered his public performance then tortured him in private.
Bright does not give up and tells himself this is a good step. At least he knows the eyes, height and approximate physique of his mortal enemy.
He is confident he can recognise him the next time they meet. (NopeâŚ)
At the same time a confusion arises, why such a big robe? Wonât it be inconvenient? Or, is he trying to cover up something?
This little incident is completely different to the other protagonist of this punishment.
The black fabric falls and the brown eyes full of life emerges. Its colour then becoming like amber under the bright sunlight, but way more lively than the solidified tree sap, and more resonant to the emotions of the heart. Thereâs a fire burning from the deepest depths of the soul. Capable of burning everything with life as the fuel and mind as the oxidiser.
Too brilliant!
Hopkin is amazed, and countless poems and songs of praise flash through his mind. Yet neither is the horn of war as thrilling and exhilarating, nor is the spear of Ares as sharp and pointed.
Then a strong desire takes shape wanting to take them for his own.
If his reflection can be imprinted â frozen in those eyes, how amazing would that be!
He must make those eyes gazing at him the moment before it loses its lustre, and engrave himself into it forever.
This thought makes Hopkinâs heart skip a bit. He feels the rare emotions of joy and satisfaction, as if opening a present finding it above and beyond what he was expecting.
The lips under the mask has curled into a smile.
Hopkin doesnât move for several seconds as if dazed by this predicament. In truth, he is holding himself back intensely so that he does not accidentally taint the present in the box.
You cannot be impatient, he warns himself. This must be savoured bit by bit.
This present is fragile.
Then, the man whose body is hung up, with wounds snaking across his whole body, laughs, âyouâre hard?â
His sight lands just below his belt, implying his suspicions. Did he wear a robe because of this?
The manâs voice has cracked since a while ago. The blood on his lips dried up as well, appearing black. Some of it from the whip, some from his own bite. He does not seem to mind as he continues speaking on his own.
Hopkin swallows. He is excited. From the scalps on his head to the tip of his toe, every one of his cells in a joyous chorus.
It cannot be said to be a seduction. Itâs not what the expression of the man is saying. Nor can it be said to be a provocation, because his voice sounds so weak and fragile. And above all it cannot be said to be an insult, because he is looking way more overindulged right now.
He says, âI want to see you cum tooâŚâ
A wild thrashing ensues on the manâs body. If what it was was an elegant waltz with its tempo well in control, then now it is a passionate tango, full of the fiery sexiness of the Wild West. Its rhythm intense and exciting.
Pon-cha-cha-cha, Pon-cha-cha-pon-cha.
The aristocrat dressed in a white robe has the long whip tied around his hand. His head lifting slightly and his body shivering a little, this state lasting a while before it abruptly stops.
A milk white flower of lust blossoming below his robe, making the white fabric visibly wet. Though the slave will be unable to enjoy the spectacle, as he has fainted from exhaustion.
Since he is out of the show, Bright decided not to waste this chance.
He chose to faint when it was near midnight. Then he regained his stamina quickly in the game while using the time to rest and cure his wounds. Latiao sits loyally next to his feet. He hugs it tightly, enjoying the warmth. Then he lets himself return to the real world.
He can feel his whole body aching. His two legs are lifted and dragged, his back sliding along a corridor. His whole body is being pulled along like a dead dog. Sharp pain arising whenever his wounds are reopened. He dared not open his eyes so he had to endure and relax himself without moving at all.
The dragging stops. Someone put something like an oxygen mask on his mouth and nose. Then he is lifted high, then with a splash, thrown into slightly warm liquid.
Someone is saying something next to him, âwith him hurt like that, itâll need at least two hours. Itâs rare sir can have so much fun.â
âTch tch, he sure is unlucky,â another man remarks of Bright, then he complains about not being able to rest in the middle of the night, saying to his companion, âcome, letâs have a drink.â
âLeave him alone here?â
âEveryone is already off work besides us. We can just fish him out early tomorrow.â
The footsteps move away gradually. Bright waits for a while, ensuring that there is no more sound, before opening his eyes.
He is in a gigantic, transparent glass cylinder. A light blue liquid enveloping his body. He can feel his bleeding stopped and the pain lessened. There is a comfortable itchiness.
This should be somewhere like a medical room. There are more cylinders like his lined up in a row.
He looks around cautiously, and does not see anything like a CCTV. Since nobody is coming before daybreak, he tries opening the lid above him. Luckily it was not locked. He climbs out of it successfully.
The liquid drops onto the ground following him. He takes a nearby towel and cleans it up so that he does not leave a trace.
He looks over the operation table and the unidentifiable machines next to it. Thereâs a sharp scalpel on it. He takes it and slashes at his contestant bracelet. The material must have been tough; there isnât a single scratch.
Bright sighs and puts the scalpel back where it is. He wasnât hoping much either. Itâs just an experiment so he wasnât very disappointed.
Then he looks over to the left. Thereâs one of those gigantic futuristic screens you could see in sci-fi movies. He knows he doesnât know how to use those with just a glance. Bright doesnât take his chances and just wanted to observe it up close. Though when he nears it the system can sense someone coming, and activates automatically.
âPlease input the password.â A dialogue box pops up in front of him. Thereâs a virtual keyboard below it.
The username is âAdmin,â you can tell it is a public computer for work. They didnât even bother to change the username. It is also not very securely protected as it isnât using biometrics like sound, face or retina scans.
Bright tries his luck and inputs 6 digits.
It is successfully booted. A short jingle sounds.
Bright feels anxious, then seeing how it doesnât seem to have raised concerns anywhere else, looks at the virtual screen. Then he tries to experiment with how to use it while being in such a good mood he wanted to whistle.
This is a lesson in blood, people. Donât use 123456 as your passwords.
Authorâs notes: I hope the moderators are kind to me.