The Pan

Chapter 2 - The Pan

Torin stood in the dim hallway, staring at the three men blocking his path. The one in the middle was Brask—thick-shouldered, scarred, eyes cold. To Brask’s left stood a lean man gripping a metal rod. To the right, another held up the crumpled notice Torin had slipped under their door days ago. The words “Rent Due” were still clear.

Brask’s gaze slipped past Torin and settled just behind him.

Black trash bags sagged in the corners, their plastic stretched tight around whatever rot they carried. Dust filmed the floor. Above it all, a dead bulb hung from the ceiling, its wire dangling like a loose vein. A thin mattress stood propped against the far wall, stained and yellowed, one corner peeling away from the stuffing beneath.

Brask stared at it for a beat. Even the mattress looked like it wanted out.

“Look at this shit,” Brask said, voice low and amused. “You live like a rat and still come knocking on my door for money.”

Torin kept his voice steady. “Why are you here, Brask? Your rent is still due. And when I came to collect, you ignored me.”

The man with the notice crushed it in his fist. Paper crackled between his knuckles. Torin shifted his weight. His eyes darted to the kitchen counter—knife block, chipped mug, a heavy glass jar. His fingers twitched at his side.

Then Brask moved. His hand snapped out and caught Torin by the collar. The fabric bit into Torin’s throat as Brask hauled him forward. Torin barely had time to suck in a breath; in a split second their head collided.

A dull crack punched through his skull. His knees buckled, and the room lurched sideways beneath him.

“You,” Brask snarled, breath hot against his face. “How dare you come asking for rent in front of my girl? I was about to get the good part, and you ruined the fucking mood.”

Torin’s lip already tasted of blood; still, ll he forced the words out anyway. “You have to pay the rent if you want to stay. Otherwise, get lost.”

His voice shook as he tried to speak, the words catching somewhere between his throat and his teeth. He swallowed hard and tried again, but the tremor was still there. His lower lip quivered despite the way he clenched his jaw, and he turned his face slightly, as though he could hide it if he refused to look at anyone.

Then his left leg gave a small jerk.

He felt the muscle jump beneath the old injury, the same involuntary twitch that had plagued him whenever the pain became too much. He shifted his weight onto his other leg, hoping that would settle it, but the trembling only grew worse. His calf tightened and released in uneven spasms, making his knee dip beneath him.

He caught himself before anyone could see him stumble.

For a moment, he stood perfectly still, fighting his own body. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He forced a slow breath through his nose, but another tremor ran down his leg, sharper this time.

The old limp was coming back. And this time, he couldn't make it stop.

Brask shook him by the collar. “Fucker. You want to end up like your family, huh?” He glanced at the other two men and let out a short, ugly laugh. “You know his big sister was a whore who spread her legs for anyone. And look at him limping... ha ha. His sister was found dead, naked on the road. His father even licked spit off the floor for him and his mother.”

Torin’s vision narrowed until Brask’s face was little more than a blur. He didn’t wait for whatever came next. He twisted against the fist in his collar and drove his own fist upward, catching Brask hard across the jaw.

Brask’s head snapped sideways. His grip broke, and Torin lurched backward, suddenly weightless without the hand holding him upright. He went down hard, his back slamming against the floor as the impact punched every last breath from his lungs.

For a moment, he could only lie there, mouth open, fighting for air that wouldn’t come.

The man with the metal rod stepped in before Torin could get his footing. The rod crashed into his bad leg with a sickening, wet crack, and pain tore up through his thigh so violently that his vision flashed white. His leg folded beneath him. He hit the floor on his stomach and threw his arms over his head as the boots came down, thudding into his ribs, his back, wherever they could reach.

Brask recovered and joined them. His boot drove into Torin’s side, then again, each blow knocking what little air he had left from his lungs. “You want rent? Here. Take your fucking rent.” He stomped him again. “If your sister or mother were still alive, I’d make sure they got the same vulgar fate.”

Torin’s injured leg spasmed beneath him, twitching uselessly with every impact. He clenched his jaw until it hurt, refusing to give them the sound they wanted. Tears filled his eyes anyway, burning hot as they blurred the room. He dug his elbows into the floor and dragged himself forward, inch by inch, toward the kitchen. A boot caught him in the ribs and rolled him sideways, but he pulled himself back onto his stomach and kept crawling.

His fingers closed around the kitchen knife that had fallen earlier. Torin twisted onto his side and swung it backward without looking. The blade found the nearest man’s ankle with a sickening resistance. He screamed and crumpled, clutching at his leg as Torin tore the knife free and rolled onto his back, slashing wildly at the others. They stumbled away, suddenly wary of getting close.

Torin grabbed the edge of the kitchen table and dragged himself upright. His left leg buckled beneath him, barely able to bear his weight, while warm blood trickled from the cut above his eye and ran down his cheek. He had just enough time to see Brask charging again, his face twisted with rage.

Torin’s hand shot toward the stove and closed around the heavy iron pan. Heat burned through his palm, but he barely felt it. As Brask came within reach, Torin swung with everything his battered body had left.

The pan slammed into the side of Brask’s head with a deep metallic thud. Brask’s charge stopped dead. His eyes lost focus, his knees folded, and he crashed to the floor, both hands flying to his skull as a raw cry tore from his throat.

Torin flipped the knife in his hand and threw it. The blade spun past the last man’s shoulder and struck the wall with a sharp clatter. He froze, then stumbled backward toward the door, eyes fixed on Torin.

“Let us go. Please—let us go.”

Torin pushed himself upright, one hand gripping the iron pan. His bad leg dragged behind him, barely carrying his weight. Blood had run from the cut above his eye and dried across his cheek, but his eyes remained wide and fixed on the men. His lips parted, pulling into a strange, breathless expression that made the man stop retreating for a moment.

Then fear won.

They grabbed their injured companion and hauled him toward the door, stumbling over themselves in their hurry. The door slammed behind them, and the room fell suddenly quiet.

Torin remained standing for another few seconds, swaying where he was. His chest rose and fell violently. Then whatever had been holding him up finally disappeared. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor. The pan slipped from his hand and struck the wood beside him.

Blood gathered beneath his chin and fell in slow drops onto the floor. His hands trembled uncontrollably. His injured leg throbbed with every heartbeat, but he barely looked at it.

Instead, he crawled toward the low table.

His cracked phone lay where he had left it. He dragged himself closer, smeared blood across the screen, and managed to unlock it. A channel was still open. A few old videos sat there with pathetic view counts—twenty-three views, nine views, barely any likes.

Torin stopped on the latest video, and he tapped the video.