The heavy metal door of the abandoned factory slammed shut with a deafening clang that echoed through the vast, empty space. Dust motes danced in the weak beams of light filtering through grimy, broken windows high above.

  The air hung thick and cold, heavy with the smell of rust, damp concrete, and years of neglect. Broken machinery lay silent like forgotten metal skeletons, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, a slow, steady rhythm marking time in this place of decay.

  Adam didn't have time to take in the grim surroundings. He was still reeling from the shock of being grabbed off the street, silenced, and shoved into John Walker’s flashy convertible. The journey had been a terrifying blur of speed and fear, his mind racing, heart pounding against his ribs. Now, that nightmare ride ended abruptly as John's friends dragged him roughly from the car and into this desolate building.

  Their cruel laughter bounced off the high ceilings and cold metal walls as they half-carried, half-dragged him deeper inside. Then, with a final, contemptuous shove, they threw him forward.

  Adam stumbled, his legs tangled, and crashed hard onto the unforgiving concrete floor. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending a jolt of sharp pain through his already aching body – a painful reminder of the beating he’d taken just the day before.

  He lay there for a stunned moment, gasping for breath, the cold dampness of the floor seeping through his thin clothes. Grit pressed against his cheek. The metallic tang of fear mixed with the dusty air he inhaled.

  His mind struggled to catch up. Just minutes ago, he’d been filled with excitement, planning his future, holding the certificate for his new land. Now? Now he was here, in this derelict factory, surrounded by his worst enemy and his thugs. The sudden, brutal shift was dizzying, terrifying.

  He realized with chilling certainty just how deep the danger ran, how quickly his tentative steps towards a new life could be crushed. I have to get out of here, the thought screamed in his mind, urgent and desperate. If they keep me here, if they decide to finish what they started… everything is over.

  Meanwhile, John's friends, energized by their successful capture, paid little attention to Adam struggling on the floor. Their focus shifted immediately to his meager belongings.

  With rough hands and gleeful anticipation, they snatched the simple canvas bag Adam had dropped when he fell. They acted like pirates dividing treasure, though Adam had little worth stealing.

  "Let's see what our little loser has been carrying around," one of them sneered, dumping the bag's contents onto the dirty floor. A couple of worn notebooks slid out, pages bent. A half-empty plastic water bottle rolled away with a hollow clatter. A few loose pens scattered. And then, the single $100 bill Adam hadn't yet stored in his inventory – the original one from Eric.

  One of John's friends, a lanky guy with a cruel smirk, snatched up the bill. He held it up between two fingers, examining it dramatically in the dim light. The others crowded around, peering at it. Then, loud, derisive laughter erupted, even louder and more mocking than before.

  "Whoa, big spender!" the lanky one jeered, waving the bill dismissively in the air as if it were a dirty tissue. "Look at this! A whole hundred bucks! Is this all you got, beggar?"

  "Seriously? That's it?" another one chimed in, kicking idly at one of Adam's notebooks. "Pathetic."

  Even John Walker, who had been watching silently with a cold, satisfied expression, let out a dark chuckle. It wasn't a sound of real humor, but one of pure contempt. The combined laughter echoed through the cavernous factory, amplifying Adam’s sense of isolation and humiliation.

  Their cruel amusement stung Adam’s pride, making his cheeks burn. He wanted to lash out, to tell them about the real money hidden away, about the gold bars, about the land deal. He wanted to wipe the smug looks off their faces. But as he watched them, huddled together laughing at his supposed poverty, a different thought sparked in his mind – a desperate, calculated plan.

  They thought he was weak, pathetic, broke. What if he leaned into that? What if he convinced them he was even more helpless, even more broken than they imagined? Maybe, just maybe, if they saw him as utterly insignificant, completely crushed, posing absolutely no threat, they might lose interest. They might rough him up, sure, but maybe they wouldn't go further.

  Maybe they wouldn't kill him today. His survival, the survival of his plans, depended on making them believe he was beneath their serious attention.

  Acting quickly, drawing on every bit of self-control he possessed, Adam pushed himself up from the floor. He deliberately stumbled, making his movements look weak and uncoordinated. He staggered towards John, who was now holding the $100 bill. Adam forced his voice to tremble, injecting notes of desperation and fear into his tone.

  "Please…" he pleaded, reaching out a shaky hand towards the money, his eyes wide with fake panic. "Please, give that back! That's all I have! I haven't eaten since yesterday! If you take that, I won't be able to eat tonight! I'll go hungry!" Each word was carefully chosen, designed to paint a picture of utter destitution, to make himself seem as pitiful and non-threatening as possible.

  John's face twisted into a mask of cruel amusement. He clearly found Adam's desperate act highly entertaining. His eyes danced with malicious delight as he watched Adam plead. Then, without warning, without even a flicker of hesitation, John lifted his leg in a swift, brutal motion. The toe of his expensive shoe connected sharply with Adam's jaw.

  Pain exploded on the side of Adam's face. Stars burst behind his eyelids. He felt his head snap back, and the force sent him sprawling backwards, crashing onto the cold, hard concrete floor once again.

  More laughter erupted from the gang, louder and more vicious this time. They clearly reveled in his pain, his humiliation. The sound of their mocking cackles seemed to bounce off every metal surface, amplifying his shame, making the vast factory feel like a suffocating echo chamber of cruelty.

  A metallic taste filled Adam's mouth – blood. His jaw throbbed fiercely. Tears stung his eyes from the impact, but he blinked them back furiously. Despite the searing pain, despite the wave of anger and hatred that surged through him, Adam clenched his fists hidden at his sides and fought desperately to suppress his true feelings.

  Stick to the plan, a voice screamed inside his head. Act weak. Survive. He knew, with chilling certainty, that his plan depended entirely on convincing these thugs he was completely helpless. If they saw even a flicker of defiance, if they sensed any hidden strength, they might decide to eliminate him right here, right now.

  And if they killed him, all his plans, all his hopes for the future, for revenge, would be shattered into a million pieces, lost forever in this filthy, abandoned building.

  His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped drum. He forced his body to remain limp, defeated. He turned his head slightly, letting them see the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

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  His eyes burned with a mixture of real pain and carefully feigned despair. 'I have to make them believe I'm completely helpless,' he repeated silently, fiercely, like a mantra. 'If they decide to kill me now, my entire plan will fall apart. Survive. Just survive.'

  Just then, the lanky friend who had found the money clapped John on the back, breaking through the laughter. "Damn, John!" he exclaimed loudly, clearly impressed.

  "When you said you were gonna make this loser's life hell back in college, I kinda thought you were just talking big. But looking at him now…" He gestured towards Adam crumpled on the floor.

  "Wow. You really pulled it off! He looks even more pathetic than he did back then! This is even better than I imagined!"

  The blatant praise clearly pleased John. He puffed out his chest slightly, a smug look spreading across his face. Tormenting Adam, proving his dominance over him, seemed to be a source of genuine pride for him, a confirmation of his own power and status.

  Seeing John basking in the praise, Adam knew he needed to push his act further, to solidify their perception of him as utterly broken. Taking a shaky, deliberate breath, he let out a sound that was half-sob, half-whimper.

  It sounded pitiful, weak. He curled himself into a tighter ball on the cold concrete, making himself look smaller, more vulnerable. He brought his hands up to clutch his face, hiding his expression but making his trembling shoulders obvious.

  "Please…" he choked out, his voice thick with fake tears and desperation. "Please, just let me go… I really have nothing left. You can see… that money… it’s all I have. If you take that, I’ll starve… I’ll starve out on the streets…" He let his voice trail off into another sob, ensuring his performance of utter despair was convincing.

  For a brief moment, the air grew still. The laughter died down slightly. John and his friends exchanged quick glances, perhaps momentarily considering if his breakdown was genuine, if he really was this pathetic. Adam held his breath, hoping his act was working.

  Then, any shred of doubt, any possibility of sympathy, vanished. Instead of pity, his display of weakness seemed to fuel their cruelty even further. They burst into even louder, more mocking laughter than before. It was harsh, grating, bouncing off the walls, surrounding Adam, making him feel even smaller, more isolated in his feigned misery.

  "Aw, is the little baby gonna cry?" one of them taunted.

  "Look at him, groveling for a hundred bucks!" another sneered.

  John stepped closer, looming over Adam curled on the floor. He crouched down slightly, dangling the single $100 bill just inches from Adam's face, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum.

  "Here," John sneered, his voice dripping with scorn and contempt. "You want your precious money so badly? Is this what your pathetic life amounts to?"

  Adam’s heart pounded wildly in his chest. 'Yes… just a little closer… make them believe it,' he thought frantically. He had to commit fully to the act. Weakly, slowly, he lifted a trembling hand, his eyes fixed on the dangling bill with exaggerated desperation. He made his fingers seem clumsy, barely able to reach. Every tiny movement was slow, labored, calculated to scream 'broken' and 'pathetic' to his tormentors.

  He was almost there. His fingertips brushed against the edge of the bill.

  But before he could grasp it, another blow came. One of John's friends, perhaps bored with the psychological torment, delivered a vicious kick directly into Adam's stomach.

  Pain exploded in his gut, sharp and sickening. The air rushed out of his lungs in an involuntary gasp. This time, the agony was blindingly real. A raw, choked sob escaped his lips, completely genuine, torn from him by the sheer force of the impact. He doubled over instinctively, clutching his stomach.

  Despite the unbearable, searing pain, Adam’s mind clung desperately to his plan. 'Endure it… just endure it… almost there…' he thought, forcing himself to stay conscious, forcing himself to remember the goal: survival. This act of weakness, even fueled by real pain now, might be the only thing buying him time, buying him a chance to see tomorrow.

  John watched Adam gasp and writhe with cold satisfaction. He then deliberately placed his heavy boot onto Adam's chest, pressing down firmly, pinning him to the cold, unyielding floor. Breathing became even harder under the pressure. Slowly, deliberately, John brought the $100 bill up again, twirling it between his fingers right in front of Adam's pain-filled eyes. He savored the moment, savoring Adam's helplessness.

  Then, with a sudden, shocking act of casual cruelty, John ripped the bill cleanly in half. Then ripped the halves into quarters. He let the four small pieces flutter down, landing mockingly on Adam's face and chest.

  "Listen up, worm," John hissed, his voice thick with malice, his face close to Adam's. "Just so we're clear. I was actually planning to finish you off today. Put you out of your misery for good." He let that sink in, enjoying the flicker of terror he surely saw in Adam's eyes. "But," John continued with a cruel grin, "my father told me not to. Said it might cause unnecessary complications right now. So, lucky you. You get to live… for now."

  His grin widened, becoming even more menacing. "But don't you dare think this is over. This isn't even close to over. This is just the beginning. A little taste of what's coming for you."

  And with those ominous words hanging in the air, John lifted his boot slightly, only to bring it down again in another vicious kick, this one aimed squarely at Adam’s ribs. Adam cried out, curling tighter, instinctively wrapping his arms around himself, trying desperately to shield his already bruised body from the blows that followed.

  One kick after another landed – heavy, dull thuds against his side, his back. Each impact sent waves of agony through him. The pain was almost blinding, threatening to pull him under into unconsciousness.

  But Adam bit down hard on his already split lip, tasting blood again, forcing himself to stay awake, forcing himself to endure. Amidst the brutal, relentless assault, one clear thought burned through the haze of pain: 'I have to survive. I WILL survive this.'

  John seemed to feed on Adam's pain, his anger swelling with each strike. His face was contorted in a mask of fury, his eyes burning with a dangerous, uncontrolled intensity. He drew his leg back for yet another powerful kick, aimed perhaps at Adam's head this time.

  But just as he launched it, the lanky friend who had found the money grabbed John's arm, pulling him back slightly. "Whoa, easy there, John," the friend said, his tone mocking but also carrying a hint of caution.

  "Don't forget what your dad said. No killing. Besides," he added with a nasty chuckle, "think how much more entertaining it'll be if this loser just starves to death on the street like the beggar he is? Watching him waste away slowly? That’s way funnier than just ending it now, right?"

  John paused, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with exertion and rage. He glared down at Adam, then seemed to consider his friend's words. The idea of a slower, more humiliating end for Adam clearly appealed to his cruel nature. He lowered his leg slowly.

  With a final, contemptuous kick – hard enough to make Adam gasp again, but lacking the killing force of the previous ones – John signaled that the beating was over. For now.

  "Yeah," John spat out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You're right. Much more fun that way. Let's leave this piece of trash here to rot."

  His voice was cold, devoid of any emotion except disgust. The group began to move towards the exit, gathering the few scattered belongings they deemed worth taking (perhaps Adam’s notebooks, just for spite), leaving the torn money on Adam's face. As they reached the heavy metal door, John paused and glanced back one last time at Adam’s still form on the floor. His eyes gleamed with pure malice.

  "Don't worry, Adam," he taunted, his voice carrying clearly in the echoing space. "I'll make sure to check in on you. Maybe once a week? Wouldn't want you dying too soon, before the real fun begins."

  And with a final, chilling burst of laughter, John and his gang walked out of the factory, pulling the heavy door shut behind them, plunging the vast space back into near silence, leaving Adam utterly alone on the cold, unforgiving floor.

  For several long minutes, Adam didn't move. He just lay there, curled in a protective ball, barely breathing. Every inch of his body screamed in agony. His ribs felt bruised, possibly cracked.

  His stomach churned with nausea. His face throbbed, his lip was split, and he could taste the salty tang of his own blood mixed with the grime of the floor. The torn pieces of the $100 bill felt like brands of humiliation stuck to his skin.

  The silence of the factory pressed in on him, broken only by the distant, rhythmic drip of water and his own ragged breaths. It would have been easy to give in to despair, to let the pain and humiliation overwhelm him, to just lie there and fade away.

  But then, slowly, painstakingly, something else began to stir within him. Beneath the agony, beneath the fear, a small, defiant smirk tugged at the corners of his bruised mouth. He looked up, his vision blurry, towards the high, grimy ceiling far above.

  'They think I'm weak,' he thought, the words forming clearly in his mind despite the pain. 'They think they broke me. They think I'm finished.' And in that thought, he found not despair, but a strange, fierce glimmer of hope. 'Good.'

  'Let them think that. Let them underestimate me.'

  Every cruel kick, every mocking laugh, every shred of torn currency – it wasn't just pain and humiliation. It was fuel. Fuel for the fire of determination burning deep within his battered heart. He wouldn't let them win. He wouldn't let John Walker crush his spirit, not this time. He had come back for a reason. He had plans. He had power they couldn't even imagine.

  He pressed a trembling hand against his aching chest, feeling the frantic but steady beat of his own pulse. A promise. He was still alive. Slowly, gritting his teeth against the waves of pain, he began to gather his strength. Moving hurt, every tiny shift sending fresh jolts of agony through his body, but his mind was already working, sharp and calculating.

  He cataloged every insult, every blow, storing them away not as trauma, but as motivation. Reminders of what he was fighting against, reminders of the debt that John Walker and his family owed him – a debt he fully intended to collect.

  He forced himself to take slow, deeper breaths, ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs with each inhale. The harsh reality of his situation – beaten, robbed of his last dollar (as far as they knew), left for dead in an abandoned factory – didn't crush his resolve; it forged it stronger, harder, sharper. With every painful heartbeat, he silently swore to himself that he would not be broken. He would survive this. He would heal. He would get stronger.

  The empire he envisioned, the future he had just started to build with the purchase of the land – it all depended on him getting up off this floor. It depended on him enduring this brutal test and proving John Walker wrong.

  As he lay there, the torn pieces of Eric's $100 bill still clinging to his bloody face like mocking confetti, a grim sense of satisfaction settled deep within him, wrestling with the pain. 'They think I'm weak,' he repeated in his mind, the thought becoming a shield. 'They think I'm helpless. And that is exactly what I want them to believe.'

  For now, their underestimation was his greatest advantage. They would leave him alone, assuming he was finished. They wouldn't be looking for him to rise again. And when he did rise – stronger, smarter, armed with a secret they couldn't comprehend – they would be caught completely off guard. Their surprise would be his weapon. Their downfall, his ultimate goal. The game wasn't over; it had just become much more brutal, and much more personal.