Then he agrees, and he is transferred to the cell of the fat pig. The pig didn’t notice the change, and when the guards gave Malphas the drug, they warned him, “Because of his fat, you’ll have  eight to nine minutes only.” Malphas waited until the pig was asleep, then used the drug the guards gave him while he was asleep after that he used wire to tie him to the bed. He wrapped the  steel wire around the pig’s neck, arms, and legs—tight, unforgiving, ensuring there was no escape. But he didn’t kill him immediately. He stayed on the pig’s body, waiting patiently for him to wake up.


    When the fat pig’s eyes fluttered open, confusion turned to rage as he realized he was bound. He glared at Malphas with murderous intent, convinced that as soon as he was free, he would make him pay. But when Malphas signaled the guards to cut the power, plunging the cell into darkness, that rage dissolved into something else. Fear. The pig knew what the darkness meant. The guards’ eyes were watching him from beyond the doors,  coldy staring at him and the lights being out wasn’t a mistake—it was planned. His body, weakened by the drug, he couldn’t resist. The wire dug into his flesh, and worst of all, even his tongue was caught in the wire, the end resting firmly in Malphas’s hand.


    The first stab was slow, deliberate, sinking into the pig’s stomach. The knife sliced through layers of fat, avoiding vital organs. The pig tried to scream, but Malphas yanked the wire, slicing into his tongue just enough to make him understand—if he made another sound, his tongue would be torn out. His muffled whimpers filled the cell as Malphas twisted the knife cruelly, making sure the pig felt every moment. Then, with eerie calm, he walked to the toilet, filled a cup with the foul water, and forced it down the pig’s throat. The pig gagged, trying to vomit, but the wire tightened once more. He realized then—death would not come swiftly.


    Malphas didn’t rush. He carved away the excess fat first, his blade slicing deep but with calculated precision, making sure the pig bled slowly. The pig’s body convulsed, but Malphas was merciless. Piece by piece, he stripped the flesh away, exposing raw, trembling muscle. The pig’s muffled cries turned to inhuman wails, echoing through the corridors. Every prisoner heard them—and for the first time, even the most hardened criminals felt a chill creep down their spines.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The pig’s screams finally burst forth, uncontrollable, inhuman wails that fill the entire juvenile prison. Every prisoner hears it—their blood runs cold. Even those who have murdered, who have tortured others before, find themselves frozen in place. The warden, hearing the screams, lets out a low chuckle.


    "He’s finally begun."


    The guards who were laughing before now stand silent. One of them, unable to hold back, vomits at the sight. Another looks away, his face pale, his body trembling. None of them can comprehend the level of brutality they are witnessing. The pig thrashes, but the MC continues, his blade moving with sickening precision. He was not skilled enough to take the face cleanly—so instead, he smashes it. Again and again, using the blunt end of the knife, reducing it to a pulp of shattered bone and torn flesh.


    As the guards opened the cell, their bodies froze. The stench of blood was overwhelming, but it was the sight that stole the air from their lungs. Skin peeled and discarded like unwanted cloth, shards of bone scattered, and the face unrecognizable. The grotesque remains were barely human. But what stood before them was even more terrifying.


    Charon steps out of the cell, his clothes soaked in blood, small bits of flesh clinging to his skin. His eyes, hollow yet gleaming with a sadistic thrill, scanning the terrified faces around him.


    “Take care of it,” he mutters coldly, his voice echoing like a death knell. His expression remains unchanged as he walks toward the showers, leaving behind a trail of crimson footprints.


    One of the guards, trembling, barely able to breathe, whispered under his breath:


    “Malphas”


    The others flinched at the name.


    “Do you know the tale of Malphas?” another guard murmured, voice shaking. “The harbinger of chaos pure destruction, leaving nothing but agony in his wake.”


    And from that moment, the name stuck. Malphas. The embodiment of terror. A name that would haunt the corridors of the juvenile prison and beyond.