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.

Aiden didn't scream. He just dropped. The camera kept rolling for three minutes—the silence of the basement only broken by the mechanical whir of the empty pitching machine. Just as the video was about to time out, Aiden’s hand appeared at the bottom of the frame, reaching for the tripod.

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.

"ItsGonnaHurt.com," he whispered, a crimson stain spreading across his teeth. "Upload that."

Aiden wasn’t a "stuntman" in the professional sense. He was twenty-two, worked a dead-end job at a pier, and possessed a terrifying lack of a self-preservation instinct. He leaned into the lens, his thick Boston accent cutting through the silence of the room.