All he knew was the endless, mechanical rhythm of bodies using his, filling him, emptying him, leaving him hollowed out and bleeding on the cold concrete.

Jonah’s cunt was a raw, pulsing wound between his legs. By all rights, it should have split apart under the relentless assault of Alphas who cared nothing for the body they were destroying.  

His throat was worse. The screams had stopped hours ago. Now when he tried to scream, all that came out was a thin, reedy whisper, a sound like wind through dead leaves.

There was nothing left inside him except a vast, echoing silence where his mind used to be.  

He just... existed. A body on the ground. A doll with its stuffing pulled out. A thing that had been used and used and used until there was nothing left to take.

His body should have given out hours ago, but it hadn't. That traitorous, resilient, indestructible body, had kept going. Had kept surviving in the most merciless way possible.

Jolly stepped back, tucking himself back into his pants with the casual efficiency of someone who had just finished a routine task. His cock was slick with blood and slick and seed, and he didn't bother to clean it, just zipped his pants and let the mess dry on his skin. Above him, his smirk was wide and satisfied, the expression of a man who had accomplished exactly what he set out to do.

“Still awake, princess?” Jolly crouched down, bringing his face level with the Omega's, and his hand came up to pat Jonah’s cheek, a series of light, mocking taps that made Jonah’s head loll to the side. “I'm impressed.”

Both of Jonah’s cheeks were red from the slaps he had received earlier. Every time he had been too loud, too vocal in his pain, someone had struck him. His face was mottled with bruises, his lip split in three places, his jaw aching from being forced open for hours on end.  

Jolly's fingers tapped his cheek again, harder this time, trying to get a reaction. “Hello? Anyone home?”

Plump lips parted, but no sound came out. His vocal cords were too damaged.  

Jolly stood, wiping his hand on his pants, and looked over at Yun, who was pulling his own pants back on, securing them with the casual efficiency of a man getting dressed after a workout. His shirt was still rumpled, his hair still disheveled, but there was a satisfied looseness to his limbs, a contentment that made Jonah’s empty stomach turn.

“I’ve still got plenty of energy left.” Yun said with a shrug, and glanced down at Jonah’s crumpled form, at the blank emptiness of his face, and his lip curled. “But I've lost interest.”

A small, wet exhale left Jonah, that might have been relief or might have been despair. Slender fingers twitched against the concrete, the only movement he could manage, the only proof that he was still alive.

Jolly laughed, the sound echoing off the alley walls. “Lost interest? After all that planning?”

Yun shrugged again, pulling his shirt straight. “He's boring now.” Gestured dismissively at Jonah’s broken body. “Just another Omega on the ground. Nothing special about him anymore.”

One by one, they stepped out of the alley, leaving behind nothing but footprints and laughter and the wet, glistening stain spreading beneath Jonah’s broken body.

Few minutes have passed since the footsteps have faded. The alley was silent now except for the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the main road and the ragged, wet sound of his own breathing.

Jonah lay where they had left him. The gravel bit into his skin, sharp little stones that had long since stopped registering as pain. 

‘Move,’ he thought, and the word was distant, muffled, like someone was shouting at him from the bottom of a deep well. ‘You have to move.’

But his body wouldn't listen. His limbs were dead weight, his muscles locked in place, his bones held together by nothing but willpower and the stubborn, inexplicable fact that he was still breathing. His lungs expanded and contracted, each breath a labor, each exhale a tiny victory. That traitorous, resilient, indestructible body, was refusing to give up.

‘Why?’ he wondered, and the question was bitter, was pointless, was the only thing his shattered mind could hold onto. ‘Why won't you just let me die?’

He didn't want to die. That was the worst part. His heart didn't know how to quit. 

‘Then get up,’ he thought again, and this time the word was sharper, more insistent.  

Slowly, agonizingly, he began to push. Every inch he lifted himself off the ground sent fresh waves of pain radiating through the raw, pulsing wound between his legs. His arms shook so violently he could hear his teeth chattering.

But he kept pushing. Elbows pressed beneath him, barely lifting his head off the ground, and the world spun violently, the alley tilting sideways, walls rushing in.

“Ah..”

Then the support gave way. His head slammed back onto the ground, sending a fresh wave of pain through his already battered body.

He forced his eyes open, willed his body to move again. This time, he managed to get his knees under him, pushing down with what little strength he had, and somehow rose to his feet. Legs wobbled beneath him, ready to betray him at any second, but he remained upright.

Darkness crept into his vision at the edges. A few steps forward, and his knees buckled almost immediately. Instinctively Jonah’s hand shot out, smashing against the cold brick of the alley, gripping for support.

“Come on,” Jonah muttered to himself, the words heavy with exhaustion.

His other hand came up, fumbling at his chest, finding the torn edges of his shirt. The fabric was barely there, just enough to cover nothing. But it was the only thing left of the clothes he had worn this night, the only thing left of the person he had been before tonight.

Fingers closed around the edges, pulling them together, holding them against his chest. The shirt was too torn to close properly but he held it anyway.  

‘I need to cover up.’ he thought, and the thought was almost funny. There was nothing left to hide. He had been damaged too much, worn down to an Omega that no Alpha could ever desire.

After what felt like an eternity, Jonah drew a deep, shuddering breath and slid his bare foot forward. It was a small victory that he didn’t fall, still bracing against the wall with one hand, taking slow, measured steps, each one dragging a soft whimper from his swollen lips.

Just as he neared the mouth of the alley, a shadow fell across his path, making him flinch. ‘Another Alpha?’ When the stranger’s face came into view, Jonah’s eyes widened in shock. Knowing it was their neighbor’s husband, Mr Shen, likely drawn by the sound of Jonah’s whimpers. Grocery bags weighed down one hand, along with a small toy car, probably meant for his son.

It was the same man who had smiled at Jonah in the elevator, who had asked about his classes, who had once helped him carry groceries when his arms were too full. A man who was supposed to be safe.

But his eyes were not safe.

First, they took in Jonah’s battered face. Then, slowly followed the trembling figure’s movements, noting the torn shirt Jonah had clutched desperately against himself. Lingered there for a moment, on the exposed skin before moving lower.

‘Stop looking,’ Jonah wanted to say, but his throat was closed, his voice trapped behind the swelling and the terror and the shame.  

Dark bruises in the shape of fingers, wrapped around his thighs like ownership. Five fingers on each thigh, pressed deep into the soft flesh, the marks of hands that had gripped him, spread him, held him down while other hands did things he couldn't bring himself to remember.

Mr. Shen's eyes were fixed on them now, on the pale, exposed skin that should never have been seen by anyone except someone who loved him.

A warm trickle sliding down those inner thighs, slow and thick, trailing down his legs in thin, milky rivulets that caught the dim light from the street. Some of it had pooled in the hollow of his knee, some of it had mixed with the blood.

And all of it was visible in front of this man, this neighbor, this father of two, to see.

The bags slipped from Mr. Shen’s loosened grip, hitting the ground with dull thuds. An apple rolled free, wobbling unevenly before coming to a stop near Jonah’s unsteady feet.

Jonah barely had time to react before the dense phenomenon hit, and his legs gave out. He landed in a heap, hands still pressed to his chest, whole body curling inward like a wounded animal trying to protect its softest parts.

“Please, just—” He didn't know what he was asking for. For help? For mercy? For this man to turn around and walk away and pretend he had never seen anything?

When Mr. Shen's hands closed around his wrists, Jonah didn't fight.

What was the point? Fighting had only made it worse. Had only made them hold him down harder, made them take longer. Those lifeless eyes fixed on some distant point above him, the strip of sky between the buildings, the stars that were fading as the sky began to lighten.

Those fingers were calloused, the hands of a man who worked with them. They wrapped around Jonah’s trembling wrists, feeling the bones there, the pulse that was still fluttering like a trapped bird.

‘Just bear with it,’ Jonah told himself, and the thought was distant, hollow, like someone else was thinking it.  

Last scrap of clothing that had been covering him, slid free from his shoulders, the torn fabric whispering against his skin, and Jonah let it happen. Let Mr. Shen expose the rest of his ruined body to the cold night air. The bite marks on his shoulder were crusted with dried blood. His nipples were raw, chafed, still red from mouths that had sucked and bitten.

To be continued...