The Escape
The cell was dark, cold, and unforgiving. Days blurred into weeks.
Mikimo sat in the corner, his fingers tracing the rough floor, his mind calculating every possible escape.
Then, he found it.
A dull knife, wrapped in a dusty cloth, hidden beneath a loose brick in the wall. The blade was worthless in its current state, but Mikimo had nothing but time.
He searched until he found a stone—just the right size to fit in his hand.
For weeks, he worked tirelessly.
Scrape. Sharpen. Scrape. Sharpen.
His fingers bled. His body ached.
But eventually, the blade gleamed.
A test.
He pressed the edge against a slab of wood. With a slow, deliberate motion, he sliced through.
Perfect.
Next came the fire.
Using a twig and carefully placed stones, he sparked a flame. He heated the knife, strengthening it.
A day passed. Then another.
Patience.
Three months crawled by, but Mikimo never lost focus.
He used the knife as a saw, hacking at the steel bars little by little.
Until finally—SNAP.
The bar fell.
He pushed the door open.
Freedom.
Now, it was time for blood.
The guards never stood a chance.
Mikimo moved like a ghost, silent and ruthless.
One by one, they fell.
Throats slit. Skulls crushed.
By the time he reached the boss's assistants, he was soaked in red.
Their screams echoed in the halls.
He gouged out their eyes, letting them feel every second of their suffering. Their bodies twitched and convulsed before finally going still.
Mikimo wiped the blood from his face, took a step forward—
BANG.
A gunshot rang out.
Pain exploded in his shoulder.
He staggered, gritting his teeth, but there was no time to stop.
More bullets rained down.
He dashed down the hallway, weaving between gunfire, his breath ragged but steady.
Room after room—empty.
Until one wasn't.
A shadow stood in the dimly lit space.
The air shifted.
Mikimo locked eyes with the figure.
No hesitation.
The figure lunged.
Faster than Mikimo expected.
Their bodies crashed through the window, glass shattering around them.
The world spun.
Mikimo slammed into the hard concrete back first, the impact sending a jolt of agony through his body.
His opponent?
Landed like a damn superhero.
Slowly, Mikimo pushed himself up, spitting blood onto the pavement.
The figure stepped forward.
Mikimo gripped his blade.
No words. Just violence.
He struck—aiming for the throat.
The figure dodged with ease, countering with a gut-wrenching punch to the stomach.
Mikimo choked on the impact.
Before he could react, he was launched into a metal cage, the bars rattling from the force.
His body screamed in pain.
He barely lifted his head as the figure stepped into the light.
A cold, metallic mask.
Armor reflecting the flickering streetlights.
Then, the name.
"They call me The Iron Maiden."
Silence.
Then—
Mikimo laughed.
Low at first. Then louder. Unhinged.
"You son of a b****," he rasped. "Do you think you of all people… could beat me?"
His voice dripped with madness.
"Heh… Heheheheh… You sure are hilarious."
His fingers twitched. His body rose like a demon possessed.
Eyes burning with hunger.
Ready to kill.
The Iron Maiden cracked his knuckles.
No words. Just understanding.
This wasn't a fight.
This was war.