The goal wasn't to dodge. The goal, according to the site’s twisted points system, was to take the hit and stay standing.

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.

"I'm... I'm still here," he wheezed, pointing a defiant finger at the machine.

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?"

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

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.