Maximilian's whole body jerked at the command, terror ripping through him.

"N-NO!" he shrieked, voice outright shattering from the urgency with which he spoke. "You're insane! You've gone completely mad if you think I'll-! I WON'T! I WON'T! DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

He scrambled on shaking legs, slipping in blood and water, hands flailing against the tiles as if they could shield him. His fear was frantic, unfiltered, animalistic. Spit flew with every word.

"I REFUSE! I WON'T PICK UP ANYTHING! I WON'T!"

Dante just watched him.

Cold. Unmoved. Expression carved from stone.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm enough to freeze bone.

"I'm not asking for you to comply, Maxie."

The second slap cracked across Maximilian's cheek, snapping his head sideways.

"I'm ordering you," Dante growled, stepping forward.

Another slap.

"As a superior man,"

SLAP.

"As a superior fighter,"

SLAP.

"A superior"

SLAP.

"fucking"

SLAP.

"existence."

Maximilian whimpered, knees buckling, hands raised in a useless guard that did nothing.

Dante loomed over him.

"Now…"

SLAP.

"Pick"

SLAP.

"up"

SLAP.

"the"

SLAP.

"fucking"

SLAP.

"soap"

SLAP.

"motherfucker."

The last slap wasn't a mere strike; it was a hammer. Dante's hand crashed into Maximilian's face, sending the obese man flying. His feet left the wet tiles, his body spinning awkwardly before crashing down hard onto the shower floor, skin smacking against concrete and water.

This time, Dante didn't catch him by the throat.

Maximilian lay there, coughing, blood pooling, vision doubled and swimming, his hands trembling against the tiles.

Dante stood over him, silent, monumental, the sound of water raining around them like applause.

Maximilian's cheek throbbed, vision doubling, breath hitching in wet, rattling gasps. But the worst part wasn't the pain.

It was the clarity.

Somewhere in the back of his rattled skull, a terrified, unwilling thought surfaced:

Dante was showing him on purpose.

This is what they felt.

The girls he cornered.

The ones who couldn't fight back.

The ones bound by contracts, threats, debts, and silence.

The ones whose bodies shook while he loomed over them.

His physical superiority over them had been just as vast, just as hopeless, as the gulf between him and Dante now.

The naked helplessness.

The certainty that no one was coming.

The knowledge that resistance only made it worse.

For a heartbeat, just one, he stared into that realization.

But did remorse flicker?

Did guilt bloom?

Did he feel even a flicker of shame?

No.

Rage surged instead, foul and frantic.

"Th-they wanted it!" he screamed. "They signed! They agreed! Those were MY women! I'm INNOCENT, you fucking nig-"

He never finished.

Dante leaned forward and spat, a thick, heavy glob splattering across Maximilian's broken mouth and cheek, silencing him. Before Maximilian could wipe it away, Dante's feet came down, planting firmly on the side of his head, pressing him into the cold shower tiles. Water pooled around his face, mixing with blood, spit, and filth.

Max let out a choked gasp.

Dante looked down at him with immense feelings of hatred. Then his gaze drifted lower.

To the trembling, pale, sweat-slick flesh of Maximilian's backside, now exposed and facing him.

His lip curled in undisguised disgust, as if the sight before him was the vilest thing he'd seen his entire life.

Slowly, Dante lifted his chin and looked upward into the steaming shower mist. But he was not looking at the ceiling; his thoughts went beyond the concrete, toward the sky where the almighty resided.

His hand rose, fingers tracing the sign of the cross with immense reverence.

Then he spoke with the gravity of a condemned man whispering to a grave.

"Lord," he murmured, voice low and solemn, "I do not ask forgiveness. I know full well I don't deserve it. I did a lot of bad things, lived my life knowing there was no salvation for me."

His feet pressed harder, grinding Maximilian's cheek against the tile.

"That's why I ask only for strength. Strength not to falter. Strength not to go limp before I carry out my great mission."

His fingers tapped his chest, his shoulder, the other shoulder, creating another deliberate cross.

"Grant me the resolve to go through with what I must…"

The slumbering serpent rose, as if the almighty heard the man's prayer.

Water rained.

Maximilian whimpered.

Dante lowered himself.

This would be a day Maximilian could never forget, neither would he be allowed to…

Just like his victims, his body would remember.

The sound of the water became a roar in Maximilian's ears right as the serpent rose and Dante's shadow swallowed him whole.

After that, time stopped meaning anything.

Only one thing remained certain:

Maximilian would never forget.

And more importantly… he would never be allowed to.

His body remembered first.

Sitting became a punishment.

Every bench, every bunk edge, every metal chair felt like a red-hot brand pressed into him. He sat sideways, then stood, then paced, then cried without sound. Even after physically healing, his body would recoil, flinch, and spasm at phantom pressure.

The showers were even worse.

What had once been routine turned into unadulterated terror.

The moment a guard barked, "Shower time," his breath seized, his pupils shrank, and sweat poured down his neck. Under the spray, he spun, twitching, scanning corners, convinced a towering dark silhouette would emerge from the steam at any moment.

He tried to refuse.

Tried clinging to the bunk.

Tried bribery.

Tried threats.

It didn't matter.

This was not a luxury hotel but a strict prison facility.

The same guards who abandoned him that day dragged him out, ignoring his shrieking accusations, and hosed him down like unruly livestock, the water blasting against his shivering flesh while he sobbed and cursed.

If that wasn't bad already, the guards always ensured to blast the hole in his behind with the highest pressure, ensuring he remembered what they allowed to happen to him.

And then came the toilet.

Once, it had been a quiet comfort, after his rich meals, the relief felt luxurious.

But now?

Every time his body loosened,

Every time something passed,

Every time that sensation returned…

So did the nightmare.

He muttered.

He whimpered.

Sometimes he clawed the walls.

He stopped eating. Better hunger than that reminder.

Soon, Maximilian became:

A man afraid to bathe.

A man afraid to eat and relieve himself.

A man who couldn't sit, couldn't sleep, couldn't be alone with his own body.

A tortured shell.

A mental patient with no doctor.

And all of it, every tremor, every breakdown, every sleepless night, was the exact reflection of what he had once inflicted upon terrified, coerced, cornered women.

Meanwhile, far above the cell blocks, in an office reinforced like a bunker, the Iron Shepherd sat behind his desk. His expression was unreadable, fingers tapping a slow rhythm.

He knew.

He knew exactly what was happening this very moment.

In his hand, he held a small framed photo of his daughter, his bright-eyed princess who could do no wrong, smiling with innocence that the world had no right to stain.

His thumb brushed the glass.

It could have been her.

And even if it wasn't… Other women, just as bright, hopeful, and deserving of opportunities, were robbed of the life they were meant to lead because of this one man.

And so the Iron Shepherd did not rise.

He did not call the guards.

He did not intervene.

His voice, when it finally left him, was barely above a whisper:

"He must pay."

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