The Piledriver Principle

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Piledriver Principle

"You never cross the line when it comes to bullying Marikit."

— Pepito Espiritu

"And yet," Mr. Torente snorted, his gaze sweeping the room, "Miss Lakanbini here seems to think this sad little town might attract adventurers."

The chuckle that bubbled out of him was a wet, guttural bark, meant to sting.

"Can you believe it? Hey, brat—you can laugh too, y'know."

Susan's head bowed, her shoulders drawing in. Her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles stark white. She didn't speak—her silence was a heavy blanket of public humiliation that he clearly relished.

"You get it now, don't you?" Torente leaned in, invading my personal space. His breath—a noxious cloud of cheap tobacco and stale arrogance—washed over my face. "There's no future here. No merit. No hope."

"But…" he purred, "if you give me the exclusive rights to your 'lighters,' I'll do this miserable town a favor—I'll set up a branch of Dehin's Goli right here."

Susan opened her mouth to object.

"I've already told you—"

"Shut up, Miss Lakanbini. I'm not talking to you."

He punctuated his words with a sharp, dismissive snap of his fingers, cutting her off like she was an unruly pet.

"I'm talking to him. The 'atelier.'"

Susan's gaze flicked to me. A raw, exposed plea in her eyes.

You decide, her silence screamed.

She was putting it on me now.

"So what will it be?" Torente grinned wide. "Let me in, and this dump turns into a boomtown. Refuse, and… well."

"Of course," he added smoothly, "if you do partner with Dehin's Goli, we can help improve your business. Replace that little helper of yours. Get you some real talent."

My stomach dropped.

"What did you just say?" I asked, my voice low, trembling with quiet fury.

"You know," he drawled, like he was speaking to a particularly slow child, "that kid you've got helping you? Let's be honest—you don't need some brat slowing you down. And those filthy demi-humans"—he waved vaguely toward Tina and Yara—"hanging around? We'll clean things up for you. Get you some proper help."

Time stopped.

Marikit.

I didn't even look at her. I could feel the heat of her humiliation without seeing her face. The shame. The sting.

And then—click.

A circuit snapped shut.

This wasn't just about lighters anymore. This was about people. About family.

Back then?

I swallowed my rage.

I tried to reason with my boss. I tried to explain that belittling the new hires, calling them "dumb" and "hopeless" in front of everyone—it wasn't leadership. It was abuse.

He laughed.

HR didn't care.

Said I was "too sensitive."

I quit before I could punch anyone.

They called it a resignation.

I called it survival.

I promised myself that next time, I wouldn't stay quiet.

That if someone ever crossed that line again—

If someone ever treated my people like trash again—

I wouldn't walk away.

Torente leaned in again.

"So what'll it be, brat?" he said, like he'd already won. "One little 'yes' and your whole world changes."

He waited.

I smiled.

So did he.

And then—

WHAM.

"YOU SORRY, GREASY, BLOATED, RACIST SACK OF—!"

My fist connected with his smug face.

The crunch was immaculate. Like cracking the top of a crème brûlée.

He staggered back, shrieking—but I wasn't done.

"You wanna talk about employees? You wanna insult my people?!"

I grabbed him—a full-body clinch, locking around his prodigious belly. With a grunt from the core of my soul, I lifted.

His feet flailed.

"You messed with the wrong brat, Tito Jabba the Hutt!"

And then—

A brutal, gut-wrenching seat drop.

I spiked his skull into the floorboards like a flaming meteorite.

The CRACK was glorious.

A suplex for the history books.

He collapsed into the floor like a grotesque fish, gasping, groaning, clutching his oversized ego... and possibly his spine.

I stood over him, panting, adrenaline howling in my ears.

"I hate violence," I barked, my voice raw. "I HATE what it makes me become!"

Then I dropped my tone—low, lethal, no room for debate.

"But sometimes… it's the only language bullies like you understand. Especially when you make fun of Marikit."

The room was silent.

Jaws hung slack.

Eyes wide.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Except Marikit.

She stepped forward. Her voice was trembling—but her eyes?

Burning.

"Kuya Pepito…" she whispered.

Then she looked down at the wreckage that used to be Mr. Torente.

"You always did talk too much, Mr. Torente."