Chapter 49 — Turns Out the Whip's Effect Is Only Temporary
The two Black gangsters blocked the sidewalk.
William didn't even look at them. He simply walked past —
not because he was afraid, but because he didn't feel like wasting energy.
Unfortunately, they had other plans.
"Yo, you — don't we know you from somewhere?"
And that right there was why nighttime is the most dangerous hour in America.
William stopped and slowly turned around. If this wasn't handled right — it would get bloody.
The street was dim, the only lamp nearby flickering uselessly. Anyone without Self-Healing wouldn't even see these men clearly — only floating clothes in the dark.
Their waistbands bulged.
They were armed.
William responded calmly:
"People misremember thousands of faces a day. Maybe you just mixed mine up with someone else?"
But no — they didn't.
"Hold up — I KNOW this motherfucker!"
One of them snapped his fingers as the memory returned.
William instantly sensed where this was going.
Empty street.
No cameras.
No witnesses.
Perfect.
Strike first. Ask nothing.
Before they could react, William lunged.
Two punches — one for each — right into the solar plexus.
Both men collapsed to the asphalt, curled up on the ground in agony.
But William knew better than to stop there. If he let them walk away with a beating, they'd come back with friends and guns.
So he reached into his storage space and pulled out:
the palm-oil-soaked leather whip.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The whip lashed across their backs, shoulders, and legs. Not enough to kill — but enough to carve pain into memory.
William paused.
Time to test the effect.
"You two — stand up."
The response was immediate and instinctive, like a reflex burned into bone marrow:
"Yes, master!" ×2
Both gangsters forced themselves to their feet, their faces twisted in pain, yet standing straight because an urge stronger than pain commanded obedience.
William's eyes sharpened.
The whip worked.
William cracked the leather whip again, lashing both gangsters.
Instead of rage, their posture only grew more submissive. Heads down. Eyes glued to the dirt. Not a flicker of defiance.
With this whip… it's basically racial suppression.
The thought flickered through William's mind with dark amusement.
His eyes drifted toward the empty lot behind the motel — a patch of weeds, trash, and silence.
Perfect.
"You two. Come with me."
They followed without hesitation.
A short walk later, the three of them stood in the overgrown field. William snapped his fingers — and a shovel materialized in his hand from his storage space.
The same shovel he used when he "made" a grave for Terry.
"Dig."
He pointed at the dirt.
"Dig a hole big enough for two bodies."
The gangsters froze — not in rebellion, but in pure fear. They knew he was telling them to dig their own graves. Yet their limbs didn't obey their minds.
One even bowed slightly when stepping past him.
"Y-yes, master…"
There was only one shovel, so one gangster dug while the other clawed at the dirt with his bare hands. Both worked like their lives depended on it — because they did.
William simply watched. He wanted to know how long the whip's [Obedience +1] would last.
Best case — permanent. Worst case — temporary but still useful.
If it was temporary, then with Fiona he'd have to be… careful.
Couldn't just start lashing people randomly.
The pit took shape. Deep enough for a body — but not two.
They continued digging.
Then — they suddenly stopped.
As if a switch flipped. As if their brains were rebooting.
"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO US!?"
One gangster screamed, panic exploding. The other tried to bolt — tripped climbing out of the hole, and tumbled back in.
The first yanked out his revolver and pointed it at William.
So the whip's effect wasn't permanent.
Annoying, but it had already proven useful.
William sighed and reached into his inventory again — pulling out the whip.
The gangster didn't wait to see why.
He fired.
BANG!
In South Side nights, a gunshot barely counts as noise. Motel guests ducked behind cover for three seconds, then carried on with their lives.
When the echo faded, William was no longer where he stood.
He was right in front of the shooter.
A knife in his hand.
The blade plunged into the man's throat. A swift backward step ripped it free. Blood sprayed like a fountain — but William was already out of the spray zone.
The second gangster screamed — paralyzed by horror.
William blinked, almost surprised himself.
His first instinct after being shot had triggered the self-healing, then pure killing reflex.
He looked down. A hole in his shirt. The bullet clattered onto the ground — forced out by accelerated regeneration.
The wound had already closed.
If not for the ripped fabric and the spent round on the dirt, it would seem as though he'd never been shot.
He turned to the remaining gangster.
"P-please don't kill me! I'll do anything!"
William slipped the knife away, pulled out the whip again, and lashed him once.
"Then keep digging."
The gangster — trembling, half-traumatized — dragged the corpse out of the pit, grabbed the shovel, and continued to dig.
---
Morning
By dawn, both gangsters were buried — literally. William filled the last of the dirt himself.
Then he handed Svetlana a duffel bag packed with guns and left the motel.
The first kill always hits different.
It didn't crush him, but it unsettled him enough that he didn't go see Fiona.
Instead, he went to Bianca's luxury apartment and let himself drown in warmth and skin for the rest of the night.
---
Meanwhile
Fiona didn't sleep.
Frank's words from last night tore her pride apart, and she spent hours curled up on the couch replaying them until she cried herself to exhaustion.
So when a violent barrage of knocking shook the front door early that morning…
she shot to her feet in a fury.
She swung the door open with the momentum of a punch — ready to scream.
But her rage vanished instantly.
Two thuggish-looking men stood outside. Hard faces. Predatory eyes. Nothing friendly about their presence.
Whatever anger Fiona planned to unleash died in her throat.