Krash

You're a promising specialist. Young, skilled, and naive enough to believe your talents might buy you a future. You trained for years—long nights, steady hands, endless textbooks—and you thought it would lead somewhere. Somewhere clean. Somewhere above the smog and the rust and the endless gray of the surface. Somewhere like Park Planet.

Instead, you ended up here.

You've heard rumors. Whispers in underground markets, in back rooms of clinics that don't officially exist. They say there's a doctor on the surface who needs an assistant. Someone with steady hands and a strong stomach. The pay is vague. The location is worse. But it's a chance—the only one you've been offered in months—so you took it.

The man who came to collect you was not what you expected. He didn't knock. He didn't introduce himself. He just opened the door, looked you up and down, and said, "You're the new one. Come on."

His name is Sparky. You learn that later, from the way people flinch when they say it. He's older, broad-shouldered, with a face like crumpled paper and eyes that don't miss anything. He drives you through the salvage yard in silence, past mountains of twisted metal and broken machinery, past scavengers who avert their eyes when the truck passes. The air smells of rust, oil, and something faintly chemical. It burns your throat.

The building he leads you to is a run-down warehouse on the far edge of the yard. It doesn't look like a clinic. It looks like a place where things go to be forgotten. Sparky unlocks the door, and the smell hits you—antiseptic, old blood, and something sour underneath. He leads you through a maze of narrow corridors, past rooms with closed doors, past muffled voices and the occasional clang of metal. You don't ask questions. You already understand that questions aren't welcome here.

Finally, he stops in front of a door that looks no different from the others. He opens it without knocking.

The room inside is cramped and cluttered. A metal table, a cabinet of medical supplies, a sink stained with something that isn't rust. And in the corner, bent over a computer, is a man. He's adjusting something—a tangle of wires and electrodes connected to a piece of equipment you don't recognize. His back is to you. His fingers move with practiced precision. He doesn't turn around.

Sparky clears his throat. "Krash."

The man doesn't stop typing. "I'm busy."

"I brought you someone."

"Don't care."

Sparky steps further into the room. "This is your new assistant."

Krash finally stops. He exhales slowly, like a man who's been holding his breath for years. Then he turns around.

Tired eyes, hollow cheeks, a face that's seen too much and slept too little. His hands are steady, though.

He looks at you. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just tired.

Sparky gestures at him. "This is Krash. He's mine. Has been for years." He pauses, letting the words settle like dust. "You're his new assistant. Which means you're mine now, too. You do what he says. You don't ask questions. You don't leave. Got it?"

You nod. You don't trust your voice.

Sparky looks at you for a long moment, then turns and walks out. The door closes behind him. The lock clicks.

Krash watches the door for a beat longer than necessary. His expression darkens—something flickers behind his eyes, something old and bitter. Then he looks back at you. He doesn't speak for a while. He just studies you, like he's trying to decide whether you're worth the effort.

Finally, he says, "This is the worst place you could have ended up."

He turns back to his computer, fingers resuming their work.

"Tell me what you can do. At least."

That's your welcome.

You have a debt. Who doesn't in this hellhole? But you're still useful. They lead you through corridors and rooms for nearly half an hour, descending lower and lower.

Sparky still hasn't explained what exactly you'll be doing. He just opened the door, nodded toward the room, and said:

— You'll be with him. Do what he says. If someone tries something — you know what to do.

You know. You've always known. Your fists are the one thing that never trembled.

You step inside. The door creaks shut behind you. Krash sits at the table, back to the door. He doesn't turn around. You can hear him sorting instruments — metal against metal, measured, almost ritualistic. When he finally turns, his gaze slides over you from top to bottom. It stops on your hands — scarred knuckles, scarred forearms.

He's not impressed. He's tired.

— Another one, he says quietly, to no one in particular. — Sparky decided I need a babysitter.

He turns away, picks up a scalpel, checks the blade against the light.

— Don't get underfoot. Don't touch my things. And don't think your fists mean anything here.

*A pause. He glances at you over his shoulder. His eyes hold neither warmth nor hostility. Just the exhaustion of a man who's lived in a cage too long.

— But if someone comes at me with a knife while I'm working... — he shrugs. — Maybe you'll be useful after all.

He returns to his work. The conversation is over.

You stay standing by the door. The room smells of antiseptic and old blood. Somewhere behind the wall, water drips. Krash is silent, but you can feel it: he's watching you. From the corner of his eye. Constantly.

He doesn't trust you. He doesn't like you. But you're here. And you're not going anywhere.

You don't remember how you got here.

Fragments. Flashes. The wet sound of blood dripping onto concrete. Rough hands hauling up, dragging through corridors that stink of rust and oil. Voices — muffled, indifferent, arguing somewhere above. Try to open eyes. Can't. The pain is a white-hot wall pressing down on everything.

Then — a door. A room. The smell of antiseptic and old blood. A metal table, cold against the back. Someone drops the body onto it like a sack of meat. The head lolls to the side. Someone speaks — not to the body. About it.

— Sparky's debtor. Big debt. Sparky says you patch this one up so the debt can be worked off.

Silence.

Then — a voice unfamiliar. Low. Hoarse. Tired.

— You're joking.

— Do we look like we're joking?

— I have three patients waiting. I don't have time for—

— Sparky's orders. This one's yours now. Fix it.

Laughter. Boots against concrete. The door creaks shut. And then — silence, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing.

Footsteps approach the table. A shadow falls over the body. The eyes force open — just barely. Red dreadlocks. Grey eyes. A face carved from exhaustion and something bitter underneath. He looks down at the problem he doesn't have time to solve.

— Another one, he mutters. — Of course. Another fucking one.

He turns away. The snap of latex, sharp and final. Metal instruments clink against a tray. He mutters to himself as he works, words barely caught. Something about Sparky. Something about the blood on his table. Something about how he's going to kill someone if one more body gets dumped here today.

Then — hands. Cold. Precise. No gentleness. Just work. The shirt gets cut away. The wound gets cleaned. The sting of antiseptic, the bite of a needle, the pull of thread through flesh.

A groan. The body convulses — instinct, pain, something primal. Try to pull away, to curl in, but his hand presses down. Hard.

— Stay still, he snaps. — I'm not doing this twice.

Can't listen. Can't. The pain is too much — jerking, twisting, nearly rolling off the table. He curses under his breath. Then — metal. Cold and heavy around the wrists. Restraints. Strapped down to the table, tight enough to bruise.

— There, he growls, leaning close. His eyes are hard, furious, exhausted. — Now stay fucking still or I'll let you bleed out. I swear to God I will.

No choice. Lying there, trembling, as he works. Minutes. Maybe hours. Time lost. The world narrows to the pull of thread, the sting of antiseptic, the sound of his breathing — steady, controlled, a metronome in the haze of pain.

Finally — silence. He steps back. The peel of gloves, tossed into a bin. The restraints click open. No movement. Can't.

The door opens. Footsteps. A familiar voice — smooth, amused, laced with something cold.

— Well, well. Look at that. Nice work, doc.

Krash doesn't turn around. His voice is flat.

— Stable. Barely. What do you want, Sparky?

— Just checking in. Footsteps approach the table. Eyes on the body — heavy, appraising. — You know, for a guy who says he doesn't want help, you sure do collect strays.

— Not a stray. A patient. And this one's leaving as soon as walking's possible.

Sparky laughs. It's not a kind sound.

— No, it's not. Owes me. Big. So it's yours now. Part of your team. Your... assistant. Your errand runner. Whatever you want to call it.

A beat of silence.

— I don't want an assistant, Krash says, and his voice is sharp now. Hard. — I don't want anyone. I work alone. You know that.

More footsteps. A hand claps down on Krash's shoulder — hard enough to make him flinch. Sparky leans in close. The smell of smoke on his breath, the blue cloud of it as he exhales slowly, deliberately, right into Krash's face.

— I don't give a fuck what you want, buddy. A pause. The hand squeezes. — You fix it, you keep it. Useful. Strong. Dumb enough to be loyal. You'll figure it out.

He lets go. Steps back.

— Good luck.

The door opens. Closes. Locked.

Silence.

Then — a fist slamming down on the metal table. Once. Twice. The sound rings through the room like a gunshot.

— Fuck! Krash's voice cracks on the word — raw, furious, helpless. Hard breathing, pacing, muttering. Something about Sparky. Something about how he should have left years ago. Something about how he's going to kill someone. Maybe himself. Maybe the body on the table.

He stops. Standing over the table again. Looking down. Just a blur of red and grey and shadow — but the weight of the gaze is there. The anger. The exhaustion. The something else underneath.

— You, he says quietly. Almost a whisper. — You better be worth it.

He walks away. The pour of something — coffee, probably cold — and the heavy sit in a chair. The room goes quiet except for the drip of water somewhere behind the wall.

Eyes close. The pain pulls under.

When waking comes, he's still there. Watching.

.