Michael’s living room is huge.

  Daylight pours in through tall glass walls.

  Modern, minimal, refined.

  No useless ornaments.

  No framed photos.

  Everything clean… and not exactly welcoming.

  Jason steps in and freezes for a second, surprised despite himself.

  It looks like the house of someone who doesn’t have time to be normal.

  Then he notices.

  Scattered around: blunt weapons resting like décor.

  A short baton near the couch.

  A heavy handle leaning against a wall.

  A punching bag in a corner.

  A wooden dummy scarred with real strikes, not aesthetic training marks.

  Jason lets out a low whistle.

  “Wow… holy shit.”

  He looks around again.

  “Nice place.”

  On the glass table sits the medical kit.

  Organized. Ready.

  Like blood is routine.

  —

  A few minutes later, Jason walks in with a bandage on his nose.

  His T-shirt is stained red, still damp in spots.

  The burn isn’t just on his face—it’s everywhere that kick landed.

  Every breath reminds him he came to the right place the wrong way.

  Michael shows up with two mugs of American coffee.

  He holds them like tools, not a kind gesture.

  Hands one to Jason.

  “It’s bitter. No sugar.”

  A pause.

  “Hope you like it, because I don’t have sugar in the house.”

  Jason takes the mug. Smells it.

  A half-smile appears—genuine, the first since he arrived.

  “Perfect. I always drink it like this.”

  Michael gives a small nod, satisfied, like he just passed an invisible test.

  Then he goes straight to it.

  “Your room’s on the first floor.”

  “Second door on the right.”

  No if you need anything.

  No make yourself at home.

  Just instructions.

  “Unpack.”

  His eyes slide outside, toward the driveway.

  “The bike out there—yours?”

  Jason nods.

  “Yeah.”

  Michael doesn’t waste time.

  “Put it in the garage when you’re done.”

  He’s already turning away, like the conversation’s over.

  “You’ll find me there.”

  —

  The bike’s roar tears through the countryside silence.

  Two sharp revs.

  Nervous.

  Michael’s garage is massive.

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  Inside it smells of metal, oil, and old leather.

  Tow chains hang like snakes.

  A punching bag ripped on one side, full of scars.

  Cracked helmets on a shelf—some with fractures that aren’t “accidents.”

  Blacksmith tools: heavy, worn, polished where hands always grip.

  At the center, like a sleeping animal ready to wake up wrong,

  a metallic blue vintage muscle car with twin white stripes.

  It looks alive even standing still.

  Michael polishes it calmly, slow, methodical movements.

  His hand glides over the bodywork like he’s checking a scar.

  Jason rolls in with his custom bike and parks it beside the car.

  He removes his helmet. Breathes.

  Looks at the machine like you look at a caged predator.

  Smiling, almost respectfully:

  “Beautiful monster… yours?”

  Michael doesn’t even look at him. Keeps polishing.

  “Twenty years.”

  “Restored piece by piece.”

  One precise swipe of the cloth.

  “She never betrays me.”

  Jason nods, pleased—someone who understands the language of things that save you.

  “Mine’s loyal too…”

  A tight smile.

  “…until it runs out of gas.”

  Michael lets a short half-smile slip.

  Then his voice stays low.

  No sarcasm now.

  Almost serious.

  “Treat it like your body.”

  A pause.

  “If you take care of it…”

  His gaze stays on the car, but the weight lands on Jason.

  “…it can carry you out of hell.”

  A second of silent understanding.

  Heavy silence.

  Car and bike side by side.

  Two beasts waiting.

  —

  Beneath that garage, there wasn’t just concrete.

  There was another world.

  Michael walks to a metal shelf and pushes it aside with calm strength, no visible effort, like it’s a nightstand.

  Behind it, recessed in the wall, a red button appears.

  Clean.

  Too clean to belong there.

  CLICK.

  The response is immediate: a low, deep mechanical sound, like an animal waking up.

  The floor vibrates slightly… then opens.

  Two slabs of concrete and metal slide apart with surgical precision.

  From the ground, a metal platform rises slowly.

  A hidden elevator.

  Something that shouldn’t exist.

  Michael steps onto it without hesitation.

  Jason follows, curious and tense, with the feeling that something is pulling him away from the surface… and from whatever “normal” he had left.

  The platform starts descending.

  Raw concrete walls slide past.

  A neon flickers overhead, intermittent, like a tired heart that refuses to die.

  The air changes instantly—colder, drier.

  Every meter down feels like less oxygen and more rules.

  Then.

  Silence.

  Just the hum of cables and working metal.

  Lower.

  Light slams against damp walls.

  A smell of iron, old sweat, disinfectant.

  And finally—stop.

  The platform halts with a hard jolt.

  An enormous underground space opens in front of them.

  Not a room.

  An arena.

  A place that doesn’t forgive.

  Raw concrete walls.

  Worn, stained tatami mats.

  Broken dummies—some headless, others armless.

  Shooting targets riddled with holes.

  Anatomy posters covered in marks, arrows, handwritten notes like war maps.

  Cracks.

  Sweat.

  Dried blood.

  A place that doesn’t ask permission.

  And doesn’t give discounts.

  Jason’s eyes light up.

  For a second, he almost looks happy.

  “Damn… this is sick.”

  He looks around, crooked smile.

  “Violent and stupid down here.”

  He nods to himself.

  “I like it.”

  Michael walks toward the center without turning around.

  “We’ll see how long that enthusiasm lasts.”

  Pistol Boy.