Painkiller-2-Gabriel Diego

Gabriel Diego

When he closed the door, the noise from the studio was sliced away like with a knife. The crystal chandelier was too bright, and he narrowed his eyes. Unlike the divine soft light in front of the camera, the lighting here was cold, precise—like surgical lamps. As he loosened his tie, the silk slid over his fingers like the shed skin of a snake.

The decanted red wine was dark, congealed like a blood clot. He poured half a glass but didn't drink it, only swirled it and stared at the wall. The TV was still on, looping his interview from earlier in the day on mute.

Gabriel Diego's life was far removed from the radiant image he presented on screen. To maintain the persona of a "savior," his days were meticulously filled with political and business engagements. In his luxurious office, he swirled his wine with visible agitation. When his secretary approached with the schedule, he waved them off. "Stay on course. Is the meeting with the mayor confirmed?"

The Gabriel in front of the camera, so bright and gracious, was a world away from the real man. In truth, Gabriel cared nothing for public approval. He was immersed in a struggle for power.

"Here is the information on Michael Jacob," the secretary said, handing him a file. Gabriel reached for it and accidentally brushed the secretary's hand. Instantly, his demeanor shifted to fury. "I told you to wear gloves!" The secretary apologized and withdrew. Gabriel reviewed the MJ dossier, then smiled and made a call. After some rejections, the two finally agreed to meet in a rural ranch one week later.

Gabriel stood before the bathroom mirror. The light was dim, shadowless like that of an operating theater.

First, he lifted the corners of his mouth by 15 degrees—inviting, but not overly eager. Then, he paused and checked for crow's feet. None.

Again. 25 degrees, curving gently with kindness. Lower the brows, half-lower the lashes, invoke the shadow of divine mercy.

No. Too contrived.

He breathed deeply, relaxed his facial muscles, and tried again.

Step 1: Slight upward curve of the lips—as if listening to a child's innocent question.
Step 2: Soften the eyes. Dilate the irises, absorb the light, suggest sincerity.
Step 3: Glide the Adam's apple—like swallowing a sigh. The perfect empathetic micro-expression.

In the mirror, Gabriel Diego—the TV savior, miracle of the slums, ender of pain—smiled at himself.

He blinked.

The man in the mirror stared back expressionlessly.

The man in the mirror began removing makeup. As cotton swabbed beneath the eyes, a deep blue emerged. When the foundation was wiped away, a faint scar showed across the cheekbone. A scar from the slums—a tuition fee paid at fourteen.

Twenty years ago, Gabriel had been a boy from the Brazilian slums. He once lived in a skyscraper, had everything. Then, everything was lost. He couldn't understand why his father's failures had condemned him and his mother to poverty.

Potatoes boiled in brackish water. A crying mother. A father who never came home. Even as a child, he couldn't understand why the sins of the father fell on the innocent.

He had one unwavering wish—to reclaim those carefree days when he had it all. This desire drove him. It was fueled by a secret he had never shared.

He could sense people's thoughts, emotions, and pain through touch. And more than that—he could steal it. Not erase it—transfer it to himself. But pain didn't last in him; it could be transferred again, to another living being. Rabbits, stray cats, even the drunk homeless.

He learned this ability could be traded. Relieve the drug lord's pain, earn money and protection. Induce pain, then offer relief—for a price. Pain was the ultimate currency. So long as he monopolized the means to soothe it, he was untouchable.

"The Farm"

The feeding trough was full, but none of the horses were eating. Heads bowed, vacant eyes.

Gabriel stood outside the fence. Jacob rested his forehead against an old horse's muzzle.

"I tried rabbits, sheep, crows… In the end, cattle and horses work best."

Gabriel said Jacob stared into the horse's pupils—like murky glass soaked in water. Other animals stood still, eerily silent.

"Painkillers," Gabriel tapped a metal tag—clink, clink. "Veterinary grade. Enough to keep them alive… That little girl's osteosarcoma, seven-year-old, three months of pain—all stored here."

The rain grew heavier. When Jacob let go, the horse suddenly shook its head, rotated its left ear like a precision instrument. It gently bit Jacob's sleeve—not tugging, just holding. Warm saliva soaked into the linen. Then, it began to eat.

Jacob stared at his white fingers, realization dawning.

These animals are living vaults. And the man before him—

Gabriel pulled colorful capsules from his pocket, tossing them into the trough. The horses slowly gathered, rolling the "candy" with their tongues.

A lightning bolt split the sky. In the blinding light, Jacob saw clearly—all the horses were weeping.

"Stay with me always."

"He refused." Gabriel murmured by the French window, gently stroking his neck as if confirming something. "Fortunately… he didn't take this."

He looked at his reflection and smirked.

His mother had died four years ago of advanced laryngeal cancer. Before she died, she held his hand and whispered, "Save more people."

But what he felt was her soul's despair. She no longer wished to live, yet couldn't bear to say it aloud. He realized even the purest love carries pain and lies.

Even if he took her pain, it wouldn't change the end. Pain can be eased—not erased.

He often felt like his throat was being cut, but never screamed. He locked that guilt away like a bomb.

What's the point of this power if I can't save the one I love?

This power led him here—to the same table as the governor, to near-omnipotence. And so he devised the perfect salvation plan.

Gabriel had known Jacob's story from the start.

This lazy man could absorb pain—but not the emotions.

How unfair.

In the luxury car's back seat, Gabriel traced his neck unconsciously. With each use of his power, fragments of memory invaded—fear of death, betrayal, soul-eating regret. Shards of glass in his soul, accumulating for twenty years.

But Jacob? He brushed a homeless man and the pain vanished. No cost. No residue. Sickeningly pure.

Neon outside the car distorted Gabriel's face in passing flashes.

He should've hired Jacob. The perfect tool. No need to understand the politics. Just stand beside the "saint" and play his role.

The world would love them.

But he wouldn't. Because if the world learned how easily pain could vanish—who would need the glass-eating savior?

Prison. Gabriel sat across a steel table, fingers tapping a document.

"JR," he said silkily, "I hear you're very interested in sentence reduction."

JR, mid-40s, gaunt, yellow-eyed, missing teeth—classic lifer. His eyes were clear and calculating.

"Gabriel Diego," JR chuckled. "The saint off the screen. Visiting me? Should I be flattered?"

Gabriel said nothing, pushing forward the paper.

Special Commutation Agreement
Clause 7.2: Subject agrees to voluntarily receive designated pain samples. Sentence reduction at 1:100 ratio.

JR scoffed. "'Pain samples'? Scientific torture now?"

"Torture? No, it's a transaction. Take the pain, reduce your sentence."

He leaned in.

"Especially… certain pain."

JR's eyes changed.

"You understand."

Gabriel sat back. "Michael Jacob… You killed his whole family, didn't you? He's stored a lot."

JR's knuckles whitened. "So I take the pain, and he forgives me?"

A pause. Then JR burst into laughter. "Do I have to pretend to regret it?"

Gabriel raised a brow, satisfied. "Good."

He stood and left.

Diego Foundation, State-Approved: Pain Transfer Plan Added to Medical Insurance

Journalists block the prison gates.

"JR wishes to atone. He will accept all the pain Michael Jacob endured," Gabriel said firmly before entering.

Light and cracks.

Gabriel sat in his office, watching the news, wrapped in silence.

His fingers traced his neck.

The memory of the blade at his throat would never fade.