The machine didn't answer; it just cycled the next round. Thwack. This one caught him in the ribs. Aiden went down to one knee, the wind knocked out of him in a violent rush. He looked at the lens, his face turning a shade of grey-white, sweat beading on his forehead. He forced himself back up, his legs shaking.
The basement air in South Boston smelled like old copper and damp concrete, but to Aiden, it smelled like an opportunity. He adjusted the ring light—a cheap thing that flickered if he breathed too hard—and checked the frame on his DSLR. ItsGonnaHurt.com - Aiden From Boston.mp4
The final puck was the "money shot." In the video file that would eventually be titled Aiden From Boston.mp4 , this is the part where the comments always exploded. The machine misfired slightly, the puck rising higher than the others. It clipped the bottom of Aiden’s jaw and slammed into his collarbone. The sound was like a dry branch snapping. The machine didn't answer; it just cycled the next round
"Alright, we’re live," he muttered, though the video wasn’t a stream. It was a recording destined for a URL that was already becoming a legend in the darker corners of the internet: ItsGonnaHurt.com . Aiden went down to one knee, the wind
Aiden reached out and clicked the remote. The machine hummed to life, a high-pitched whine that vibrated in his teeth. He braced his feet, hands clamped onto his knees. Thwack.
The first puck blurred through the air, catching him square in the shoulder. The force spun him half-around, his skin instantly blooming into a deep, angry purple. He gasped, a jagged laugh escaping his throat. "One!" he shouted at the camera. "Is that all you got?"
"I'm... I'm still here," he wheezed, pointing a defiant finger at the machine.