Nikolaj hunched forward, locking eyes with Jonathan. Jonathan suppressed a laugh, the thought crossing his mind that Nikolaj resembled one of those stern men from 1940s German propaganda posters. He ran his tongue over his teeth, then spat onto the grass, still trying to catch his breath from his last round of grappling with Milan. Milan now stood on the sideline, watching with four other guys, their eyes glued to the scene.

  The sun beat down mercilessly, turning sweat into an unwelcome companion that clung to their skin. Yet, the cool touch of the grass beneath their bare feet offered some small comfort. The tension thickened as they stared into each other’s eyes, waiting for Milan’s call to begin.

  "Go!" Milan shouted.

  In an instant, Nikolaj lunged at Jonathan, giving him no time to recover or catch his breath. Jonathan had barely begun to steady himself when the attack came, relentless and calculated. Nikolaj was determined to exploit every ounce of Jonathan's fading stamina.

  Jonathan had earned his spot by defeating Milan in the last round—a hard-fought victory—but in this game of “King of the Hill,” the rules were ruthless. The winner had to stay and defend their place for as long as they could, no rest, point were tallied at the end to see who won.

  The two friends crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs, each giving their all. Their bodies twisted and strained, every muscle working overtime. Jonathan managed to wrap his arm around Nikolaj’s neck, aiming for a chokehold, despite his slightly smaller size he was way faster and swift on the ground. But Nikolaj fought back, his hands clawing at Jonathan’s grip as he tried to wrench himself free. The struggle was raw and desperate, neither man willing to give an inch.

  Suddenly, Jonathan struck Nikolaj with a sharp elbow kick, catching him just below the ribs. It was a dirty move—illegal by the rules of their game—but neither Jonathan nor Nikolaj seemed to care. The folks on the sideline debated or not whether the kick had even taken place. The match didn’t stop; the tension between them had boiled over into something far more primal. Nikolaj gasped but recovered quickly, his face twisting in anger as he surged forward, pinning Jonathan beneath him.

  Both men were losing themselves, something darker surfacing between them. For Jonathan, a flash of rage lit up memories he’d buried deep, and for Nikolaj, the rising heat of frustration blurred the lines between play and survival. They both gritted their teeth, sweat mixing with dirt as their bodies slammed against the ground.

  The match turned brutal. Nikolaj swung a wild fist that grazed Jonathan’s jaw, and Jonathan retaliated with a blow that landed squarely against Jonathan’s temple. The air was thick with grunts and labored breathing, their friendship momentarily forgotten. It wasn’t about skill or technique anymore—it was about rage.

  Soon both were throwing punches with reckless abandon. The sideline erupted into chaos as Milan and the others rushed in, desperate to separate them. Jonathan, with Nikolaj trapped in a chokehold, delivered a brutal strike to his face with his free hand before they were finally pried apart.

  Jonathan’s chest heaved, his hands trembling as he glared at Nikolaj. Across from him, Nikolaj spat blood onto the grass, his eyes alight with unspoken fury.

  “I’ll fucking kill you!” Jonathan yelled, his voice raw with emotion. The declaration hit like a thunderclap, taking everyone off guard.

  “You fucking retard!” Nikolaj roared back, his own voice cracking with rage. “Let’s try that again! I’ll gut you where you stand!” His words carried venom, and for a moment, it felt like the entire village had turned their attention to the scene.

  Przemek, walking back from the gate, froze as he took in the chaos unfolding. Jonathan, restrained by Amir, struggled furiously.

  “Fucking let me go!” Jonathan shouted, shoving himself free from Amir’s grip. Without looking back, he stormed toward the mansion, his shoulders tense with anger and frustration.

  Nikolaj, still on the ground, coughed violently, his throat raw from the chokehold. He glanced after Jonathan, his expression shifting from anger to worry.

  “Yeah, we ain’t wrestling anymore!” Milan shouted, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere.

  Jonathan kept walking, his face flushed and tear-streaked. His sniffles punctuated the silence as he used his palms to wipe his eyes, his grimace a mixture of pain and exhaustion.

  “Jonathan, I’m sorry!” Nikolaj called out, his voice cracking with regret. He scrambled to his feet, trying to catch up, but Przemek stepped between them. With a firm gesture, he signaled Nikolaj to stand down before closing the distance to Jonathan.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Placing a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, Przemek slowed his pace to match his friend’s. “You good, man?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

  Jonathan didn’t respond right away. He just kept walking toward the mansion, his head slightly bowed, as Przemek stayed by his side.

  The basement carried a chilling weight to it due to its past as an improvised prison under the mansion's previous owners. But it was reason they were kept alone down there. Thick stone walls loomed, their surfaces scarred with scratches and stains that no one dared to examine too closely. The air was always damp and cold, but for Przemek, Nikolaj, Amir, and a few other men from the home guard, it had become their secret haven.

  It started with the discovery of a hidden stash of liquor bottles, dusty relics from a time long gone. Whiskey, vodka, even a few rare labels none of them could pronounce. They’d dragged an old table and mismatched chairs down from upstairs, and before long, the basement had transformed into their badly kept secret—a space for gambling, drinking, and forgetting the weight of their duties above ground.

  Tonight, the group huddled around the poker table, their faces lit by a single dangling bulb that swayed slightly whenever someone shifted too hard in their chair. Shadows danced along the rough stone walls, adding to the room's eerie atmosphere. Empty bottles lined the corners, and the table was littered with beer glasses and cigarette butts inside of those.

  Przemek leaned back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he studied the cards in his hand. His expression was unreadable. Across from him, Nikolaj furrowed his brow, his cheeks flushed from both the whiskey and the frustration of a losing streak.

  “Raise,” Nikolaj muttered, tossing a stack of crumpled notes into the pot with a shaky hand. His eyes darted between the cards on the table and Przemek’s impassive face, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing.

  Amir chuckled, leaning forward to glance at the pile. “Bold, Nikolaj. You sure you’re not betting on a pair of twos again?” he teased, earning a chorus of laughter from the others.

  “Shut up, Amir,” Nikolaj shot back, his lips twitching into a reluctant smirk.

  The game continued, the atmosphere thick with tension and camaraderie. Occasionally, someone would crack open another bottle or lean back to share a half-slurred story about the latest patrol. The chill of the basement didn’t seem to bother them, not after the whiskey had warmed their blood.

  But even in their laughter and banter, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the space’s dark history. The stone walls seemed to breathe with memories, and though no one mentioned it, everyone avoided looking too long at the scrathes or the dark stains that refused to fade.

  “It’s a brain tumor, I think,” Peter said, his voice low and thoughtful as he leaned back in his chair. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, glancing at Amir, who sat across from him.

  “What makes you say that?” Amir asked, exhaling a plume of smoke and tilting his head with mild curiosity.

  Peter tapped his temple lightly, as though the answer were written there. “I mean, increased pressure in the skull messes with the blood flow. Not only does it send people into that... state, but it also explains the red eyes. The blood flow causes it.”

  Amir raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “You learned this selling cars in your previous life?” he quipped, taking another drag from his cigarette.

  Before Peter could respond, Przemek let out a quiet snicker, though he didn’t lift his gaze from his cards. His expression remained calm and unreadable, the perfect poker face.

  “I thought the Chinese said it was mold. Or maybe it was the Koreans,” Nikolaj chimed in, his voice casual as he remained focused on his cards, barely glancing up.

  Peter frowned slightly, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. “Mold? That’s ridiculous. Mold doesn’t cause pressure in the skull or blood-red eyes.”

  Nikolaj shrugged, still studying the hand he’d been dealt. “I don’t know, man. Mold gets everywhere. People breathe it in, screws them up. Makes more sense than the blood flow theory,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement.

  Amir let out a short laugh, leaning forward to grab his beer. “Yeah, mold explains everything. Next time I get a headache, I’ll just blame it on damp walls.”

  “Hey, don’t say that,” Peter shot back, his tone sharp enough to cut through the chuckles. “My sister had lung problems when she was younger because our apartment had mold.”

  For a moment, the room fell quiet, the weight of Peter’s words hanging in the air. But Amir, ever the instigator, leaned back in his chair, a sly grin spreading across his face.

  “Yeah, that explains a lot,” Amir quipped, his voice dripping with mock sincerity.

  The men around the table burst into laughter, their voices echoing off the grim stone walls. Peter’s face darkened, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and resignation. He clenched his cigarette tighter, letting the ash drop onto the table.

  “Real funny,” Peter muttered, his eyes darting toward his cards as he tried to ignore the lingering smirks. The game moved on, but the crackling tension at the table made it clear: no one ever left these nights unscathed—whether by a hand of cards, a lost bet, or the sharp edge of a well-placed insult.

  “You talked to Jonathan yet?” Amir asked Nikolaj, breaking the silence two rounds of cards later. The table, once filled with noise and bodies, had thinned out, leaving only Nikolaj, Amir, and Przemek. The low hum of an old fridge in the corner filled the gaps between their words.

  Nikolaj glanced up from his cards but didn’t answer right away. Before he could speak, Przemek interjected, his tone calm but firm.

  “Don’t bother him,” Przemek said, his eyes locked on the cards in his hand. “He’s going through a lot right now.”

  Amir’s gaze shifted between them, his expression unreadable, though a faint smirk lingered on his lips. “Yeah, well—” Nikolaj finally spoke, hesitating before nodding toward Przemek. “Przemek’s right.”

  The room fell quiet again, the weight of Jonathan’s absence settling over them. Amir leaned back in his chair, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray as if considering whether to push further. But he didn’t. Instead, the game carried on in silence, the shuffle of cards the only sound left in the room.