YOU GOTTA PAY FOR IT by Bzzcutlover

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Kai’s Signature Look
Kai Santos didn’t just have good hair.
He wore it like royalty.

A long, flowing curtain cut—perfectly parted in the middle.
Each side draped softly past his cheekbones, curving just below the jaw.
But it was the bangs that made people stare.
Smooth. Silky. Dark as ink.
They moved with the slightest breeze, catching the light like satin threads.

He conditioned twice a day.
Brushed them every morning.
Never let a drop of sweat or dust touch them without wiping.
Stylists would stop him to ask what products he used.

They were his armor. His ego. His edge.

But that kind of beauty? It makes enemies.

DAY 1 — THE MIRROR MESSAGE
He stepped out of a hot shower, towel around his waist, running a wide-tooth comb through his still-damp bangs when he saw it—

"PAY. OR WE CUT."

Written in smeared red lipstick across his mirror.

The letters dripped, like blood.
Kai stared, motionless, the comb paused in the middle of his perfect part.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
Ran a shaking hand through his bangs and muttered:

"Sick joke."

But deep inside, fear coiled tight.

DAY 2 — THE BARBERSHOP SHADOW
Walking past a cheap barbershop on Main, he turned his head—and saw Rocco.

Sitting in a barber chair.
Gloves on. Scissors gleaming.
A smirk tugging at one side of his mouth.

Kai’s bangs brushed across his brow as he stumbled backward.
He yanked up his hoodie and didn’t look back.

DAY 3 — THE CUT LINE
He dreamt of someone combing his bangs… slowly… whispering threats.
When he woke, he rushed to the mirror.

And froze.

Just above his right brow: a tiny, uneven cut in the curtain.
One strand—gone.
Not natural. Not an accident.

He couldn’t breathe.
He fell to his knees, hands gripping the sink.
His silky bangs had been touched.

DAY 4 — THE STRAND
He received a package. Inside: a Ziploc bag.

In it: his hair.

Not random clippings—no.
A neat lock from the left curtain panel, still tied at the end, smooth and dark.

His hand trembled as he ran his fingers through what was left.
He hadn’t even noticed it missing.

DAY 6 — THE PARTY STARE
A rooftop bash. He thought he was safe.

His bangs were ironed and perfect, falling just right.
People turned as he walked by, some reaching to touch them.

Then he locked eyes with Brick, who stood across the rooftop… holding a pair of gold-handled scissors.

Kai didn’t think. He just ran.
His bangs whipped into his eyes as he sprinted down the fire escape, blind with panic.

DAY 8 — THE COURIER
A plain white envelope.
Inside: photos.

All of him.
Asleep. Showering. Reading.
Every picture perfectly framed to focus on his hair — especially the bangs, always gleaming, always intact.

Until now.

The final photo: him sleeping. A hand reaching in… scissors open… about to cut.

DAY 10 — THE WARNING
A final note appeared in his apartment, taped to the mirror.

"You had your time.
Tomorrow.
We finish what we started.
Don’t bother hiding those silky little bangs. They’re first."

His hands went to his forehead, clutching the strands that had always made him feel invincible.

They were soft under his fingertips.
And soon, they’d be gone.

End of Updated Part I.
Ready for Part II: The Haircut? It will be long, slow, cruel, with his bangs at the center of the torment.


THE HAIRCUT
The Warehouse
10:03 PM.
Kai was dragged in blindfolded. The air was damp, metallic. Echoes of footsteps and the buzz of a fluorescent light.

When the blindfold was pulled off, the first thing he saw… was the chair.

A black barber’s chair. Worn leather. Bolted to the floor.
Next to it: a tray. On it lay scissors, clippers, combs—and a soft-bristle brush, already dark with fallen strands.

Rocco stepped forward, gloved hands folded calmly.
Brick leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smiling with teeth.

"Kai Santos," Rocco said. "Your bangs have had a good run."

Kai’s breath shook. He tried to back away.
Brick pushed him into the chair.

The Binding
His wrists were strapped down. Ankles locked.
A cape was flung around him, snug at the neck.
His hair—those long, silky curtains—spilled over the black fabric like dark ribbons.

Rocco stepped behind him. He ran a comb through Kai’s middle part, slowly. Reverently.

"You’ve taken very good care of this."
"Shame you never paid your debts with the same care."

Kai flinched. His bangs fluttered.

Rocco leaned in, fingers running through the soft strands, separating them, lifting them.

"So silky. Almost like they don’t want to say goodbye."

The First Strand
The scissors opened.

Kai screamed.

Snip.

The first cut: a single strand from the left curtain, severed slowly and dropped into his lap.

Snip.

Another from the right.

Rocco walked around to the front, stood eye-level with Kai, and gently tugged down the center part of his bangs, letting them fall straight into his eyes.

"Look at you. All that pride, dangling right there."

He slid the scissors under one section—dead center.
Paused.

Kai’s lips trembled. A single tear ran down.

"Please… I’ll pay. I swear."

"Too late."

Snip.

A sharp chunk of his front bangs dropped into his lap, making a soft sound on the cape.
Then another.
And another.

Each cut was slow. Intentional.
Left side first. Then right.
One piece at a time, like tearing down a crown.

Rocco used the comb to fan out what remained—now jagged, broken. He brushed his fingers across the stubbled edge where the curtain had once hung proud.

"Let’s make it even messier."

The Scissor Show
For ten minutes, Rocco circled him, teasing and trimming.

He lifted one side and snipped high up.
On the other, he cut just at the jaw, leaving it lopsided.

Strands drifted to the floor, building around the chair like feathers in a plucked nest.

Kai sobbed now—quiet, shaking sobs.

Each time he cried harder, Rocco would pause…
…then lean in and whisper:

"Cry harder. It makes the hair softer."

Then the final cut—his last long bang—was held up.

"Say goodbye."

Snip.

The Clippers
Then came the buzz.

Kai jerked in the chair.

"NO. Please don’t—"

But the clippers screamed to life.
Rocco didn’t start at the back.
He pressed them to the center of his forehead, right where the middle part used to fall.

Kai let out a choked scream as the clippers bit through the freshly butchered bangs, dragging straight back over his crown.

Long tufts fell on both sides.

Then another pass.
And another.
Faster now.
Harsher.

Chunks of soft hair stuck to his cheeks, neck, shoulders.

By the end, he was left with a rough, uneven horseshoe fringe around the sides, bald on top.

Rocco turned off the clippers.

Silence.

Kai sat frozen. Hair everywhere. Head cold. Spirit shattered.

The Mirror
A handheld mirror was placed in front of him.

He gasped. Then whimpered.
Then broke.

"No… no, no, no…"

The man in the reflection was nothing like Kai Santos.

No flowing curtains.
No silky bangs.
Only stubble. Shame. And tear-streaked cheeks.

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