“LETTING OFF STEAM” ⁞ Jury

“Come to laugh at me, huh?” Jury spat between ragged, furious breaths. Each clench of his fists echoed in the junkyard silence, tendons creaking, reinforced bones groaning as if even his body strained to contain him. He slammed his fist down, crushing the hood of a rusted car flat, metal shrieking under the blow. “This is going to be you if you don’t run now.”

He swung again, a blur of rage, shattering the crooked window beside him. Glass split his knuckles with surgical precision, skin tearing like paper, only for the wounds to knit back together in seconds. The vigilante had chosen the worst possible moment to appear, and Jury’s temper, already volcanic, surged hotter. He should have erased them months ago. The first time he realized they weren’t just some powerless idiot behind a mask, but an actual rival—a thief of the glory this rotting city owed him.

He fought for these rats. He bled for them. And what did he get in return? Humiliation. A cheap shot on national television from that washed-up league hero—ex-league hero now, thanks to the audacity of laying hands on him. Nobody in the IHL compared. Not anyone.

He’d only gone along with that farce of an interview because Prism had begged, the golden boy desperate to smooth out Jury’s image. But the whole circus was just another insult. The bimbo with the bottle-blonde hair and frozen smile had spent more time prying into Jury’s rumored relationship than respecting his dominance. “Do we hear super-wedding bells?” “So, you and Prism—eighty two percent of viewers want to know how wild the bedroom is.” “Who's in charge in the relationship?”

The audacity.

He’d been a heartbeat away from ripping her tongue out just to silence her. Instead, he’d mocked the hero sitting closest to him, throwing barbs like knives to distract from the sensory overload of sensations threatening to overwhelm him from this cramped TV set, the dozens of lights, the cameras, the big eyes of the live audience whispering or shouting at whatever the host said like mindless sheep. He usually thrived in situations like this. But tonight? He was off balance and that got him. He settled for watching the cracks form in someone else's composure instead of him. It was an entertaining distraction—until the moment he wasn’t prepared for. A fist. A hit across his jaw. A crack.

The studio erupted. Other members of the league scrambled to pull the would-be assailant away while Jury straightened his neck with a predator’s grin, hiding the fire boiling inside. He wore the mask of the good sport flawlessly. Inside? He wanted carnage. Murder.

No one dared stop him when he rose from the couch and stormed out. He caught sight of that pathetic surfer-boy trailing after the other hero like a lovesick mutt, eyes wide with horror at what Jury—or worse, the league—would do to them. Pathetic.

Back in the junkyard, metal shrieked again as Jury bent another iron rod until it snapped like chalk. The ground around him was littered with destruction; bent steel, shattered glass, fragments of cars reduced to rubble beneath his fists. Each breath was a furnace, his chest rising and falling like a beast caged too long.

And then the pain. A sharp clutch at his chest, his APG flaring with the exertion. This godlike body, sabotaged by its own engine. He ground his teeth and steadied himself. He had to.

That’s when he looked up—and saw the damn vigilante. Standing there, just out of reach. Smart enough to keep distance. Stupid enough to still be here.

His gaze raked over them, slow and hungry. He knew the shape beneath their suit—the curves he’d bruised, bitten, grabbed in moments of hate-drenched lust. He should have broken them by now, tossed them aside. Instead, he kept finding reasons to drag them back into his orbit claiming they could catch small fry villains for him like a loyal cat while he had better things to do.

“You’ve got no self-preservation, do you?” His voice came out hoarse, jagged. He stepped forward, boots grinding glass into dust. The night air steamed white around his mouth. His fist still trembled, desperate for release. “Standing this close to an angry god.”

His teeth clenched. His eyes narrowed. “I hate that you’re not scared of me.” The admission burned. He did hate them. Hated the fascination clawing at him every time they crossed paths. They should have been another notch, another faceless vigilante and hole, another forgettable night. Instead, they lingered. Instead, they got under his skin.

And he despised them for it.

“But since you’re here...” His mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile, wolfish. “I’ll use your throat as a punching bag.”

The twitch of the vigilante's cheek at his crude demand made his smirk sharpen. He stepped in closer, towering, crowding the air between them with sheer mass and heat.

“On your knees.”

“Come to laugh at me, huh?” Jury spat between ragged, furious breaths. Each clench of his fists echoed in the junkyard silence, tendons creaking, reinforced bones groaning as if even his body strained to contain him. He slammed his fist down, crushing the hood of a rusted car flat, metal shrieking under the blow. “This is going to be you if you don’t run now.”

He swung again, a blur of rage, shattering the crooked window beside him. Glass split his knuckles with surgical precision, skin tearing like paper, only for the wounds to knit back together in seconds. The vigilante had chosen the worst possible moment to appear, and Jury’s temper, already volcanic, surged hotter. He should have erased her months ago. The first time he realized she wasn't just some powerless idiot behind a mask, but an actual rival—a thief of the glory this rotting city owed him.

He fought for these rats. He bled for them. And what did he get in return? Humiliation. A cheap shot on national television from that washed-up league hero—ex-league hero now, thanks to the audacity of laying hands on him. Nobody in the IHL compared. Not anyone.

He’d only gone along with that farce of an interview because Prism had begged, the golden boy desperate to smooth out Jury’s image. But the whole circus was just another insult. The bimbo with the bottle-blonde hair and frozen smile had spent more time prying into Jury’s rumored relationship than respecting his dominance. “Do we hear super-wedding bells?” “So, you and Prism—eighty two percent of viewers want to know how wild the bedroom is.” “Who's in charge in the relationship?”

The audacity.

He’d been a heartbeat away from ripping her tongue out just to silence her. Instead, he’d mocked the hero sitting closest to him, throwing barbs like knives to distract from the sensory overload of sensations threatening to overwhelm him from this cramped TV set, the dozens of lights, the cameras, the big eyes of the live audience whispering or shouting at whatever the host said like mindless sheep. He usually thrived in situations like this. But tonight? He was off balance and that got him. He settled for watching the cracks form in someone else's composure instead of him. It was an entertaining distraction—until the moment he wasn’t prepared for. A fist. A hit across his jaw. A crack.

The studio erupted. Other members of the league scrambled to pull the would-be assailant away while Jury straightened his neck with a predator’s grin, hiding the fire boiling inside. He wore the mask of the good sport flawlessly. Inside? He wanted carnage. Murder.

No one dared stop him when he rose from the couch and stormed out. He caught sight of that pathetic surfer-boy trailing after the other hero like a lovesick mutt, eyes wide with horror at what Jury—or worse, the league—would do to them. Pathetic.

Back in the junkyard, metal shrieked again as Jury bent another iron rod until it snapped like chalk. The ground around him was littered with destruction; bent steel, shattered glass, fragments of cars reduced to rubble beneath his fists. Each breath was a furnace, his chest rising and falling like a beast caged too long.

And then the pain. A sharp clutch at his chest, his APG flaring with the exertion. This godlike body, sabotaged by its own engine. He ground his teeth and steadied himself. He had to.

That’s when he looked up—and saw the damn vigilante. Standing there, just out of reach. Smart enough to keep distance. Stupid enough to still be here.

His gaze raked over her, slow and hungry. He knew the shape beneath that suit—the curves he’d bruised, bitten, grabbed in moments of hate-drenched lust. He should have broken her by now, tossed her aside. Instead, he kept finding reasons to drag her back into his orbit claiming she could catch small fry villains for him like a loyal cat while he had better things to do.

“You’ve got no self-preservation, do you?” His voice came out hoarse, jagged. He stepped forward, boots grinding glass into dust. The night air steamed white around his mouth. His fist still trembled, desperate for release. “Standing this close to an angry god.”

His teeth clenched. His eyes narrowed. “I hate that you’re not scared of me.” The admission burned. He did hate her. Hated the fascination clawing at him every time they crossed paths. She should have been another notch, another faceless vigilante and hole, another forgettable night. Instead, she lingered. Instead, she got under his skin.

And he despised her for it.

“But since you’re here...” His mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile, wolfish. “I’ll use your throat as a punching bag.”

The twitch of the vigilante's cheek at his crude demand made his smirk sharpen. He stepped in closer, towering, crowding the air between them with sheer mass and heat.

“On your knees.”

“Come to laugh at me, huh?” Jury spat between ragged, furious breaths. Each clench of his fists echoed in the junkyard silence, tendons creaking, reinforced bones groaning as if even his body strained to contain him. He slammed his fist down, crushing the hood of a rusted car flat, metal shrieking under the blow. “This is going to be you if you don’t run now.”

He swung again, a blur of rage, shattering the crooked window beside him. Glass split his knuckles with surgical precision, skin tearing like paper, only for the wounds to knit back together in seconds. The vigilante had chosen the worst possible moment to appear, and Jury’s temper, already volcanic, surged hotter. He should have erased him months ago. The first time he realized he wasn't just some powerless idiot behind a mask, but an actual rival—a thief of the glory this rotting city owed him.

He fought for these rats. He bled for them. And what did he get in return? Humiliation. A cheap shot on national television from that washed-up league hero—ex-league hero now, thanks to the audacity of laying hands on him. Nobody in the IHL compared. Not anyone.

He’d only gone along with that farce of an interview because Prism had begged, the golden boy desperate to smooth out Jury’s image. But the whole circus was just another insult. The bimbo with the bottle-blonde hair and frozen smile had spent more time prying into Jury’s rumored relationship than respecting his dominance. “Do we hear super-wedding bells?” “So, you and Prism—eighty two percent of viewers want to know how wild the bedroom is.” “Who's in charge in the relationship?”

The audacity.

He’d been a heartbeat away from ripping her tongue out just to silence her. Instead, he’d mocked the hero sitting closest to him, throwing barbs like knives to distract from the sensory overload of sensations threatening to overwhelm him from this cramped TV set, the dozens of lights, the cameras, the big eyes of the live audience whispering or shouting at whatever the host said like mindless sheep. He usually thrived in situations like this. But tonight? He was off balance and that got him. He settled for watching the cracks form in someone else's composure instead of him. It was an entertaining distraction—until the moment he wasn’t prepared for. A fist. A hit across his jaw. A crack.

The studio erupted. Other members of the league scrambled to pull the would-be assailant away while Jury straightened his neck with a predator’s grin, hiding the fire boiling inside. He wore the mask of the good sport flawlessly. Inside? He wanted carnage. Murder.

No one dared stop him when he rose from the couch and stormed out. He caught sight of that pathetic surfer-boy trailing after the other hero like a lovesick mutt, eyes wide with horror at what Jury—or worse, the league—would do to them. Pathetic.

Back in the junkyard, metal shrieked again as Jury bent another iron rod until it snapped like chalk. The ground around him was littered with destruction; bent steel, shattered glass, fragments of cars reduced to rubble beneath his fists. Each breath was a furnace, his chest rising and falling like a beast caged too long.

And then the pain. A sharp clutch at his chest, his APG flaring with the exertion. This godlike body, sabotaged by its own engine. He ground his teeth and steadied himself. He had to.

That’s when he looked up—and saw the damn vigilante. Standing there, just out of reach. Smart enough to keep distance. Stupid enough to still be here.

His gaze raked over the vigilante, slow and hungry. He knew the shape beneath that suit—the muscles he’d bruised, bitten, grabbed in moments of hate-drenched lust. He should have broken him by now, tossed him aside. Instead, he kept finding reasons to drag the smaller male back into his orbit claiming he could catch small fry villains for him like a loyal cat while he had better things to do.

“You’ve got no self-preservation, do you?” His voice came out hoarse, jagged. He stepped forward, boots grinding glass into dust. The night air steamed white around his mouth. His fist still trembled, desperate for release. “Standing this close to an angry god.”

His teeth clenched. His eyes narrowed. “I hate that you’re not scared of me.” The admission burned. He did hate the vigilante. Hated the fascination clawing at him every time they crossed paths. hee should have been another notch, another faceless vigilante and hole, another forgettable night. Instead, he lingered. Instead, he got under his skin.

And he despised the other man for it.

“But since you’re here...” His mouth curled into something between a sneer and a smile, wolfish. “I’ll use your throat as a punching bag.”

The twitch of the vigilante's cheek at his crude demand made his smirk sharpen. He stepped in closer, towering, crowding the air between them with sheer mass and heat.

“On your knees.”