"Ahh… why does my head hurt? And… why am I not dead?"
Damien groaned, struggling to piece together what had just happened.
---
Before his death...
It was just another Saturday night.
Damien had wrapped up work and was heading home like usual. The streets were quiet, the air chilly with a hint of unease. As he crossed an intersection, a group of boys appeared—them. The same gang that had been tailing him for a week now. This time, they weren't empty-handed. Bats, metal pipes, and iron rods glinted under the streetlights.
Damien's heart skipped. Instinct kicked in.
He didn't run straight home—he knew better. They'd find him there. Instead, he spun around, quickening his pace in the opposite direction, trying not to draw attention. But the clatter of footsteps and the clang of metal told him it was too late.
They'd seen him.
"Get him!" someone shouted.
Damien took off, sprinting through alleyways and across dimly lit streets. His breath came in ragged bursts. Every corner turned was a desperate attempt to lose them. Every shadow loomed like danger. His legs burned, lungs screamed—but he couldn't stop.
Eventually, he ducked into a narrow alley and collapsed against a wall, chest heaving.
"Haa... ha... I think I lost them," he muttered to himself, wiping sweat from his brow. "Damn, never thought I'd run into them again tonight..."
A slow, mocking clap echoed through the alley.
"So this is where you're hiding, little rat."
Damien froze.
From the shadows, Jake emerged—the gang's leader. His face was twisted with that familiar smirk, a steel bat resting on his shoulder like it belonged there.
---