Good Man Gone Bad:
In the heart of a thunderstorm, a man kneels alone in the middle of the street, drenched and defeated. Raymond, a bankrupt store owner, is nothing more than a dead man walking. Rain batters his face, but the torrent raging inside him is far worse—an unstoppable flood of anger, vengeance, bitterness, regret, and self-loathing. These dark emotions swirl within him, fueling a storm of madness that tears at the fragile threads of his sanity. His chest heaves as if breathing is a burden, each exhale releasing a part of him that he can never reclaim.
Raymond clutches his head, fists trembling, before slamming them into the wet pavement in raw frustration. His knuckles bleed, yet he welcomes the pain as a distraction from the emotional torment consuming him. It is in that moment, soaked and broken, that something snaps—the last bit of his humanity is gone, leaving behind only rage. His mind fractures and Raymond rises from the ground, his eyes hollow but burning with a twisted purpose.
“I’ll show them,” he whispers to the storm, his voice low and guttural. He no longer feels like the man he once was. He has transformed into something far darker—a force of destruction.
As he stalks down the street, a sick satisfaction fills him. The man who was once known as honest and kind now relishes his fall. He throws a punch into the nearest storefront window. Crack. The glass splinters then shatter with a violent burst. Raymond grins, feeling a rush of power surge through his body. The next window he punches breaks even faster. Each strike sends ripples of vibration through the air, and with every punch, his strength multiplies. The storm around him pales in comparison to the one he is unleashing.
With each punch, his body channels a new force: a terrible, vibrating energy. Before long, Raymond realizes he has mastered a deadly technique—the concussion punch. This punch releases waves of vibration into anything it touches. Brick walls crack. Windows tremble and shatter into jagged fragments. Even solid concrete groans under the force, though it doesn’t break entirely. But the real danger lies in what happens to living beings. Any person, or even animal, hit by this punch would immediately suffer a concussion—a vicious, invisible attack that disrupts the brain with a single, bone-rattling impact.
Raymond has transformed into a Class-A fighter overnight, no longer a victim of his past, but a man consumed by the destructive power he now wields.
The First Victim:
As the rain pours down, headlights cut through the storm, revealing a lone figure walking down the middle of the street—Raymond, drenched, disoriented, and distant. Inside the car, a man and his son drive slowly through the rain, heading home from a long day. The father, one of Raymond’s loyal customers, recognizes him instantly. Despite the rain-soaked apron and the strange, vacant expression, he knows this is the same Raymond who once greeted him warmly in the bakery.
“Hey, that’s Mr. Raymond,” the son says from the backseat, noticing the familiar figure.
The father, concerned, rolls down the window slightly, letting in the cold rain. “Mr. Raymond!” he calls out. “What are you doing out here? It’s pouring! Need a ride?”
There’s no response. Raymond continues to walk slowly toward them, his eyes—small and squinting, almost as if they’re closed—locked on the car. His fists are clenched, trembling with the dark energy coursing through him. The man inside the car grows uneasy, but before he can roll up the window, Raymond is already standing in front of their hood.
“Mr. Raymond? Are you okay?” the father asks with a note of worry now in his voice.
Without a word, Raymond raises his fist. In one swift, brutal motion, he slams it down onto the hood of the car. BAM. The impact sends a pulse of vibration energy through the entire vehicle. The front windshield cracks immediately, spiderwebbing outward in a violent pattern. All the side windows shatter simultaneously as if hit by invisible sledgehammers.
Inside, the car is wrecked. The force of the concussion punch has done more than damage to the vehicle—the father and son both feel the terrible effects. The vibration surges through their bodies, making their heads spin. Their vision blurs. The son clutches his head, feeling like the world is spinning out of control. Both father and son are struck with a sudden wave of nausea.
The father leans forward, grabbing the dashboard, his breath shaky. “Mr. Raymond… what are you doing?” he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper, the question hanging in the air.
But there’s no answer from Raymond—only cold, silent fury. The son, too young to fully understand what is happening, tries to speak but only manages a weak groan before vomiting, his body overcome by the concussion’s disorienting force. He collapses against the seat, unconscious.
The father turns, looking at his son, his eyes wide with panic. “No… no…” he mumbles before the overwhelming nausea takes hold of him too. His head slumps forward, hitting the steering wheel. Honk. The car horn blares, a long, unbroken sound echoing through the rainy street.
Raymond watches the scene, his fists still trembling. The once-good man is now completely gone. His madness has consumed him, and with it, any hope of returning to the person he once was. The sound of the horn rings out into the stormy night, a symbol of the darkness that now defines him.
As the horn blares behind him, Raymond turns away from the wrecked car and the bodies inside. The rain continues to fall, but it no longer bothers him. His soaked apron clings to his body, the strange mustache framing his cold, indifferent expression. Step by step, he moves further down the street, toward the next shop window—his next target.
And yet, as he prepares to unleash more destruction, there is no flicker of emotion in his eyes. No regret for the people he’s harmed, no sorrow for the lives shattered behind him. He feels nothing—no shame, no pity, no remorse.
He is no longer the man he once was. Raymond, the honest store owner, is dead. In his place, there now stands a relentless force of destruction, consumed by madness and driven by the power of his newfound rage.
With another clenched fist, he strikes. Another window falls to his power.
The Arrest:
As thunder rumbles ominously overhead, the news report blares on TV screens across the town, detailing the chaotic rampage of a bankrupt store owner. “Citizens are advised to stay indoors as Raymond, a man known for his bizarre appearance—complete with a weird mustache, apron stained with who-knows-what, and perpetually squinted eyes—smashes glass windows throughout the neighborhood… Beware, as this seemingly honest man has lost all sanity!”
The camera cuts to footage of Raymond, soaked to the bone and grinning maniacally as he smashes yet another window.
Meanwhile, in the police station, Chief Grayson—a man with a receded crown and one side of his hair grown long to sweep across his head, concealing his baldness—gathers his lackluster team of five underlings. “Alright, team! We’re going after this lunatic! Remember, we’re the law!” he declares, puffing out his chest as if that will make them more intimidating.
The cops march onto the stormy streets, determined to restore order or to get a good beating on someone for joy. As they round a corner, they spot a figure sitting outside a restaurant’s kitchen—a chef on his break, taking a moment to enjoy a cigarette while watching the news on his phone. He has perpetually squinted eyes, a bizarre mustache, and an apron stained with who-knows-what, just as described in the report. To top it off, he’s bald.
“There he is!” Grayson shouts, pointing dramatically.
“Wait, I’m not—” the chef begins, raising his hands in surrender.
But before he can finish, Grayson and his team descend on him like thugs rather than officers of the law, batons raised high. One of the underlings snickers, “Look at your bald head at such a young age! You must be a relative of our chief!” Grayson, who is also half-bald, angrily slaps the officer right in the face, silencing him.
“Focus!” he barks, eyes narrowing as they approach the chef.
“Looks like we’ve got a suspect!” another officer exclaims, swinging his baton with reckless abandon. The chef, initially compliant, attempts to explain, “I know what you think, but I’m really not him!” But his words are drowned out by the sound of batons connecting with flesh.
The cops strike him mercilessly, landing blows to his ribs and legs, sending him sprawling to the ground. He gasps as the first hit lands, the force causing him to cough, blood spattering the pavement. They kick him relentlessly, their boots connecting with his sides as he curls into a protective ball. He cries out in pain, but they don’t relent, their laughter echoing around them as they relish this moment of power.
“Resistance is futile!” one officer taunts, pressing the chef’s face down into the cold pavement while grinding the smoldering end of his cigarette against his skin. The chef writhes in agony, blood trickling from a wound on his forehead as he tries to plead, “Please, I’m just a chef!”
As they continue their brutal assault, Grayson casually searches the chef’s pockets, pulling out all his cash and stuffing it into his own. The chef’s eyes widen in disbelief, but he is powerless to stop them.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoes nearby, drawing their attention. They turn to see the real Raymond in action, fists flying through another store’s glass window, his apron flapping in the wind.
“Oops, wrong guy!” Grayson yells, realizing their mistake. He kicks the chef away, who groans in disbelief, still handcuffed and rolling helplessly in the alley.
“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?” Grayson barks, but the chef groans in frustration, having tried to explain all along.
“Raymond is actually not bald after all!” one cop comments, watching the real Raymond continue his rampage with unkempt hair flapping in the wind. The poor chef, still on the ground, lets out a pained sigh, his head spinning as they finally abandon him to chase the true culprit.
Fight vs. the Smoking Cop:
Raymond turns just in time to see Grayson and his lackeys approach, their postures a mix of arrogance and barely concealed fear. Leading the group is a cocky officer casually smoking a cigarette, his hands tucked in his pockets as if this was just another routine intimidation. He swaggers toward Raymond, puffing smoke lazily into the rain-soaked air.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Grayson taunts from behind, trying to sound more confident than he feels.
The Smoking Cop doesn’t rush. He strolls up to Raymond, his eyes gleaming with contempt. “You think you’re some kind of tough guy, huh?” he sneers, pulling the cigarette from his mouth with one hand while the other reaches up to grab Raymond’s chin. He holds Raymond’s face firmly, the burning cigarette dangerously close to his skin. “How about I give you a nice little burn to remember me by?”
But before he can press the cigarette into Raymond’s skin, Raymond strikes. His hand snaps up with frightening speed, delivering a brutal slap across the Smoking Cop’s face. The force of the blow is overwhelming, sending the officer flying backward. His body twists as he hits the pavement, skidding across the wet street, face grinding painfully against the rough asphalt for several meters.
He finally comes to a stop, dazed and battered, his cigarette lying far out of reach. His face is a mess, the pavement having torn at his skin. Groaning, he tries to lift himself up, his hands shaking as blood mixes with the rain on the ground beneath him.
Though clearly in agony, the Smoking Cop may have been spared a worse fate. Unlike the others, he didn’t receive one of Raymond’s devastating concussion punches. As painful as the slap was, it may have made him the lone survivor among the five lackeys, though that’s little comfort as he lies there, humiliated and broken.
Raymond, as always, says nothing. His face remains blank, his eyes cold and distant. He steps over the fallen officer without a glance, without acknowledging his suffering. To Raymond, the man is nothing more than an obstacle already forgotten, as he moves forward toward his next opponent with the same cold, mechanical precision of a man who’s lost all humanity.
Fight vs. the Part-Time Cop:
Raymond stands in the rain, his expression cold and unyielding as the next officer steps forward. Unlike the others, this man isn’t just a cop—he’s a part-time cop by day and a gangster by night, working tirelessly to support not just one, but several families. His rugged face is worn with years of exhaustion, and his uniform is faded from too many shifts.
Without a word, the part-time cop pulls out a rusted metal pipe from his belt, a tool he’s used more in back alleys than on the streets. He tightens his grip, eyes narrowing with the determination of a man who has mouths to feed. He knows this fight is dangerous, but he needs the paycheck. He can’t afford to lose.
“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters under his breath, stepping toward Raymond with the pipe raised high.
Raymond remains still, emotionless, waiting for the attack. The part-time cop swings the pipe with all his might, the rusted metal cutting through the air. But Raymond doesn’t bother dodging. Instead, he throws a punch—direct and precise—meeting the pipe head-on with his fist.
As soon as the two collide, a violent shockwave ripples outward. The vibrations from Raymond’s concussion punch travel through the metal pipe, reverberating straight into the cop’s body. His eyes widen, his grip falters, and his entire body seizes up as the terrible force hits him.
His head spins, his vision blurs, and he stumbles backward, clutching his temple as the concussion sets in. His breathing becomes labored, and he struggles to stay on his feet. He knows he’s done for.
“I’m sorry… my wives… my children…” he murmurs, his voice trembling with regret as his legs give out beneath him. The pipe clatters to the ground, and the man collapses, clutching his head in agony. The concussion is too much for him to bear, his thoughts clouded and his body unable to respond. He falls into unconsciousness, leaving behind only his whispered apology for the families he’ll never see again.
Raymond stands over him, unflinching. He doesn’t acknowledge the man’s pain, nor does he react to the tragic final words. With the same cold indifference that’s taken over him, he steps past the fallen cop, his fists still clenched, his mind already on the next target. The storm rages on, but for Raymond, it’s just another night of destruction.
The Ground Shake:
The next three cops, visibly shaken by the chaos unfolding before them, cautiously approach Raymond. Fear flickers in their eyes as they hesitate, unsure of their next move. Rather than rushing in for an attack, they try to play it safe.
“Let’s just box him in,” one of them suggests, his voice trembling slightly as they begin to circle Raymond, hoping to trap him.
But Raymond, ever cold and unflinching, doesn’t give them the chance. He slams his fist into the ground with terrifying force, and the pavement buckles under the impact. A shockwave radiates outward, rippling through the rain-soaked street.
Caught off guard, the three officers stagger as the ground beneath them trembles. Unable to keep their footing, they flail wildly before crashing into each other in a chaotic heap, like a trio of bowling pins knocked down by an invisible strike. They hit the ground with a thud, limbs tangled, groaning in confusion and pain, their weapons scattered around them.
Raymond’s eyes remain fixed ahead, indifferent to their pitiful state. No glance, no hesitation, as he steps forward, leaving the disoriented cops behind in the wake of his destructive power. The ground still reverberates faintly from his strike, a testament to the force he now wields.
The Final Straw:
With his underlings beaten and sprawled across the pavement, Grayson, now desperate and panicked, pulls out his gun. His hands tremble as he shakily levels the weapon at Raymond. “Alright, you’re going down!” he shouts, though his voice betrays his fear.
But Grayson’s aim is so abysmally poor that he doesn’t even point the gun in the right direction—he’s nearly 90 degrees off target. He fires, and the bullet ricochets off a nearby wall, zipping past a hot dog stand with a high-pitched whistle.
Sensing something is off, the hot dog vendor feels the wind of the speeding bullet rush by his head. He jerks his head to the side with lightning reflexes, narrowly dodging it by a hair. “Phew! Good thing I’ve been practicing my Kung Fu!” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief.
Grayson stares, dumbfounded momentarily, his face red with embarrassment. He turns back to Raymond, who is completely unfazed by the spectacle. No laughter escapes Raymond’s lips, nor does he even acknowledge Grayson’s failed attempt. He simply looks past him, his mind already locked on his next target.
Grayson, realizing he’s outmatched and that Raymond is ignoring him altogether, turns to more cowardly methods. He spots a food delivery guy on a scooter passing by and, with no shame, points his gun at him. “Get off the bike!” he yells. The terrified delivery guy quickly abandons his scooter, and Grayson hops on, revving the engine and speeding away without looking back.
Raymond watches the scene unfold, but he doesn’t bother to chase after Grayson. To him, the fleeing cop isn’t even worth the effort. His cold, unblinking eyes shift to his next objective—the glass window of a nearby storefront. Without hesitation, Raymond’s path of destruction continues, as he takes aim at the next fragile target.
The Cliffhanger:
Meanwhile, far above the chaos unfolding below, Michael and Colin stand on the 50th floor of a towering skyscraper, gazing through the expansive glass window. Colin, arms crossed in a display of quiet dominance, watches the path of destruction Raymond carves through the streets, his expression unwavering.
“The sleeping hyena has awakened,” Colin says, his voice low and commanding, carrying an air of certainty.
Michael glances at him, raising an eyebrow. “Most people would say ‘sleeping tiger’ or ‘sleeping dragon.'”
Without even a flicker of reaction, Colin, still with his arms crossed, replies coolly, “I meant what I said. He’s strong, but not strong enough. You should be able to handle him.”
His words linger in the air, heavy with both warning and expectation, closing the chapter with an unsettling tension—a promise of the inevitable confrontation to come.
The sleeping hyena… lol