The air smells like sweat and leather—my leather. My bl*ck Nikes, the ones I’ve walked miles in, the ones that’ve carried me through puddles, gutter oil, the weight of the world. Now? They’re about to carry him.

He kneels, palms pressed flat against the cold floor like he’s begging for something—mercy, maybe. Pathetic. His fingers tremble, but I don’t. I never do.

I step onto his hands like they’re just another cr*ck in the sidewalk. The first press is slow, deliberate—let him feel the tread, the way the rubber grinds into his bones. He gasps, but I don’t stop. I never stop. I shift my weight, bounce once, twice—just enough to hear the pop of something giving way beneath me. His breath comes in ragged bursts, but I don’t care. The only sound that matters is the squeak of my soles against his skin.

Then I turn.

Now his hands are palm-up, vulnerable, offering. I laugh. Like that changes anything. I stomp, heel first, driving the arch of my shoe into his fingers until they bend backward, until the tendons scream. He whimpers, but I’m already moving, pacing, dancing—each step a new kind of hell for him. The Nikes leave their mark: red, swelling, broken.

But I’m not done.

I grab the wooden plank from the corner—the one I’ve been saving. I lay it across his hands like a bridge, and then I jump. Once. Twice. The wood groans. His wrists snap. The sound is wet, final. He’s sobbing now, but I barely hear it over the thud of my sneakers landing again. And again. And—

Again.

They say you can’t hurt someone with sneakers.

They’re wrong.

Because it’s not the shoe. It’s the weight behind it. The intent. The power of knowing that every step I take is a step on him. That my casual cr*elty is his entire world.

I step off, adjust my jeans, smooth my hair.

"Clean this up," I say, like he’s not a trembling, ruined thing on the floor. Like he’s not beneath me in every way that matters.

And as I walk away, my Nikes leave one last imprint—

Not on the floor.

On his soul.

Remastered Nike Hand Trampling.

(4K)

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