I limped through the doors of Rose Physical Therapy Association like a war veteran returning from battle—except instead of shrapnel, I’d been betrayed by a clearance-rack stripper pole and the godless momentum of a twirl mid-livestream.
"It was worth the 50 gifted subs and 2 honeypacks."
The receptionist didn’t look up.
“Name?”
“Ben,” I grunted. “You might’ve seen the clip. It's the one where physics files for a restraining order.”
She blinked. Slowly. Typed something into her computer—probably Do Not Resuscitate.
I adjusted the half-thawed bag of peas duct-taped to my knee.
“For the record, I stuck the landing. It was the dismount that betrayed me.”
“Room three,” she replied. “And try not to… spin.”
I shuffled down the hallway. The air was thick with the scent of lavender, iodine, and something that whispered you’re not leaving the same.
A man stepped into view—built like Galactus, arms like concrete slabs, and a man bun that radiated cult-leader energy. He wore scrubs, technically, but they shimmered slightly. Like they were absorbing light.
He smiled too wide.
“You’re in good hands now, champ.”
The massage gun in his grip whirred to life—except it didn’t sound like a massage gun. It sounded like a jet engine gargling gravel. Or laughter.
Just before everything went dark, I glanced toward the mounted TV in the corner. It flickered through static, then held for a moment—
A paused frame from Fantastic Four (2005). Jessica Alba mid-glare. Chris Evans mid-smirk.
I blinked.
Then nothing.
I woke up.
Groggy. Cold. A dull ache in my neck. The air was thick and damp, like the inside of a basement gym towel left in a microwave. I rubbed my eyes and instinctively reached for my glasses.
“Looking for something?”
The voice slithered through the air like smoke.
I screamed. Full chest. Nearly shit myself.
Scrambling to my feet, a lightning bolt of pain shot through my ankle, sending me right back to the ground. My hand flew to it—hot, swollen.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, “I’ve got water retention in my ankles!”
My own voice echoed off concrete walls like a warning siren.
And that’s when I noticed I wasn’t alone.
I saw them.
Raised on a platform no more than ten feet away, barely lit by a flickering overhead light, stood four figures. Watching.
I’d know those faces anywhere.
Ioan Gruffudd. Michael Chiklis. Chris Evans. And…
Jessica Alba.
Each of them wrapped in deep navy-blue bodysuits. Glossy. Tight. Stamped with a metallic silver “4” across three of their chests.
The Fantastic Four.
They’d come to save me.
My hands shot to my face in joy.
“YIPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” I squealed, clapping like a toddler on Pixy Stix.
But none of them moved.
No smiles. No triumphant monologue. Just—blank stares.
Except The Thing. His rocky torso trembled before a booming laugh erupted from him like falling boulders. Then the others joined in—low chuckles, cold and theatrical.
“Oh boy,” Chris said through a smirk, “he’s got no idea what’s happening.”
“What the hell do you mean?” I snapped. “Am I not getting rescued?”
Jessica stepped forward, hips swaying, and pointed to the left.
“On the contrary,” she said, voice low and smooth.
I turned.
“OH FUCK.”
A long, metal table stretched out beside me—its surface gleaming under flickering fluorescent light. Rows of unfamiliar instruments lined it. Surgical. Industrial. One device looked like a juicer with intent. And among them, a small glass jar.
Inside it? A single snail.
Staring directly at me.
Not blinking.
“This is the weirdest sex dungeon I’ve ever seen,” I whispered. “And I’ve been on 13th and Chestnut.”
“Oh look, he does get it!” Chris clapped mockingly.
“This is gonna be fun,” The Thing rumbled. His tongue ran across cracked stone lips.
My instincts screamed. My lungs obeyed.
I let out a cry so guttural it rattled a camera I hadn’t noticed in the corner. Jessica approached. Smooth. Calm. A syringe in hand. No words.
She plunged it into my arm.
Warmth bled into my veins.
My stomach churned with heat.
The world tilted.
My legs buckled.
I collapsed.
My cheek slapped cold cement.
Darkness swallowed me.
"Wakey wakey!"
The Thing’s voice jolted me back. A wet echo in my ear.
My eyes snapped open.
I was hanging.
Suspended three feet above the floor, wrists bound in soft restraints that reeked of lavender and bad decisions. A skin-tight bathrobe clung to my skin. Nothing underneath but fear... and a questionably enthusiastic smile.
The Thing buckled his pants in the corner.
I darted a glance downward.
No pebble dust.
No… pain?
Then—a sound.
Behind me.
Wet. Continuous.
Squirting.
Some vile hose or bottle—releasing a never-ending squelch.
Jessica’s voice cut through:
“Our movie was trash. Let’s make a new one.”
Chris’s voice joined in, teasing:
“Bet our little streamer here’s got some spicy ideas. I hear he writes naughty fanfic.”
“Oh I read fanfic,” The Thing growled. “Ever heard of Den of Vipers? I’d be Diesel in two seconds with a pretty little thing like this.”
“I should’ve asked Hex what that book was about,” I muttered. “And why she kept asking if I was ‘loosey goosey.’”
Suddenly, the squirting stopped.
Silence. Just the soft hum of the camera and the faint squeak of a rope pulley behind me.
That’s when I saw it.
Spray-painted on the back wall in rough, white letters: BBR.
My blood ran cold.
“What the hell is BBR?” I whispered. My eyes tracked the room.
Then—something flew past my face.
A bottle.
Plastic. Pink lid. Rolled to a stop near the wall.
My eyes locked on the cursive letter J across the front.
“No,” I whispered. “Oh HELL no.”
“NOT LIKE THIS! AIN’T NO FUCKING WAY!” I screamed until my throat cracked.
Chris hit a button on the wall.
Music filled the room.
“Don’t stop now… straight to the top now…”
I howled louder.
And then—the door opened.
A shadow stretched into the room.
He stepped through.
A man in mirrored aviator sunglasses. Wearing a robe identical to mine. And… stilettos. Towering. Confident.
And then I realized what BBR meant.
Jessica’s voice slinked in:
“Mr. Combs… he’s ready for you.”
“Because it’s Bad Boys for life.”
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