Besh, besh, besh!
The sharp, wet smacks of knuckles against flesh cut through the heavy rain. Peter's fist crashed into the guard's face again and again, each blow landing with brutal precision. His left hand gripped the guard's collar tightly, lifting him off the ground like a ragdoll, while his right hand delivered punch after punch. The guard's face twisted under the assault, his skin splitting, his bones cracking under the force.
The guard struggled weakly, his hands flailing as he tried to break free. But Peter's grip was unshakable—his rage made him stronger than any man. The rain poured down, mixing with the blood streaming from the guard's broken nose and split lips. Ten minutes passed like an eternity, the only sounds being the relentless punches and the drumming of the storm.
Finally, Peter released him. The guard crumpled to the ground, his body limp, his face barely recognizable. He groaned, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I… I'm… sorry… for your friend's death…"
Blood bubbled from his lips as he spoke. Those words ignited a fresh wave of fury in Peter. Without hesitation, he drove his foot into the guard's stomach. A guttural scream tore from the guard's throat as he curled into himself, clutching his abdomen in agony. More blood spilled from his mouth, staining the rain-soaked ground.
Peter leaned down, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
"Don't apologize when it's already too late, you stupid bastard. I want to kill you right now… but for some reason, my body won't let me. Consider yourself lucky."
The guard whimpered, his body trembling. "I… I'm… really… sorry…"
When he lifted his head, Peter was gone. No footsteps. No shadow. Just the empty street and the unrelenting rain.
Charlie's Hospital – Second Floor, Room 3A
Charlie's Hospital stood tall near the YKC junction in Woji, a massive three-story building with a well-kept compound and polished interiors. It was the kind of place that promised healing—clean, modern, and quiet.
Room 3A was no exception. The walls were a sterile white, the bed equipped with the latest medical upgrades. On that bed lay Josiah, his body covered in bandages, his skin marked with deep wounds from his encounter with Luke. By his bedside sat James, his eyes red and swollen from crying. He watched Josiah's slow, labored breathing, his heart heavy with guilt and grief. As he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, a low groan broke the silence.
Josiah was stirring.
James jumped to his feet, rushing to his friend's side. He slid his hands under Josiah's back, supporting him as he tried to sit up.
"Easy… easy now," James murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Slowly…"
Josiah winced, sweat beading on his forehead as pain shot through his body. But with James's help and a soft pillow propped behind him, he finally managed to sit upright. His breaths were shallow, his face pale, but he was awake.
"I've been awake for a while now, James," Josiah said. "I've been watching you ever since you walked into this room. And since you came in… you've been crying. Why?"
James forced a smile, but it was weak—almost like he was trying to hide something painful behind it. He wiped his face quickly before answering.
"I'm just crying because… all of you were so close to death," James said, his voice shaky. "But now that you're awake, I'm fine. Really, I'm okay."
Josiah didn't believe him. He could feel the tension in the air, the heaviness in James's words. With a groan, Josiah lifted his right hand—his muscles aching—and placed it on James's shoulder. His grip was weak, but his voice was firm.
"James," Josiah whispered, his tone serious. "Who died?"
James froze. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, and his breath hitched. He quickly pushed Josiah's hand away and stood up, his body stiff with nervous energy.
"What are you talking about, Josiah?" James said, forcing a laugh. "No one died. Everything's fine."
Josiah's expression darkened. His red eye seemed to glow with anger as he sat up straighter, ignoring the pain in his body.
"I'm not a fool, James," Josiah growled. "I know I'm weaker than you in rank and strength, but I'm smart enough to know when something's wrong. So tell me… who died from my team?"
James clenched his fists, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He had hoped Josiah wouldn't notice, but there was no hiding the truth now. He took a deep breath before speaking.
"It's… Prince," James admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Your new recruit. He had minor injuries on the outside, but… inside, his lungs were bleeding. By the time they realized… it was too late. He died before they could operate."
The moment the words left James's mouth, Josiah's world shattered. His breath caught in his throat, and his entire body trembled. Tears welled up in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks in hot, silent streams. His hands curled into fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. He wanted to scream—to roar in pain and anger—but his injuries stole his voice. All that came out was a broken groan.
The Approaching Footsteps
As Josiah sat there, lost in grief, a sound echoed through the hallway outside. At first, it was faint—like a distant echo—but with every second, it grew louder. The rhythmic clack… clack… clack of footsteps sounded like nails being hammered into a wall, sharp and deliberate.
James immediately tensed, his body shifting into a defensive stance. His eyes darted toward the door, his muscles ready for a fight. But Josiah didn't react. He was still drowning in sorrow, his mind trapped in the memory of Prince's death.
The footsteps stopped right outside the door. A shadow stretched across the floor, tall and imposing.
James's voice was loud and commanding as he called out, "Who's there?! Show yourself, or else—"
Before he could finish his threat, the figure stepped into view.
It was Peter.
His clothes were soaked—partly from the rain, partly from blood. His fists were stained red, dripping onto the floor. His expression was cold, unreadable.
James's eyes widened in shock. He immediately lowered his head in respect, his voice trembling as he spoke.
"Elder… I-I'm sorry," James stammered. "I didn't know it was you. Please… forgive my rudeness."
Peter didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on Josiah, who still hadn't looked up. The room was silent except for the sound of Josiah's quiet sobs and the steady drip… drip… drip of blood from Peter's hands.
Peter gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. He turned to Josiah, his best friend, who sat on the hospital bed with his head hung low. The room was quiet except for the steady beeping of the heart monitor.
"It's not your fault, brother," Peter said firmly. "Don't let your thoughts drown you. Clear your mind, rest, and in a few days, the doctors will let you go."
Josiah didn't look up. His hands trembled slightly as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"He was just a new recruit… the only child of his parents." Josiah's voice cracked. "They gave him to me alive, and now I have to return him to them… dead. How do I look them in the eyes? What do I even say?"
Peter's face remained cold, his gaze locked onto Josiah. Nearby, James leaned against the wall, silent, watching the exchange.
"They knew what they were doing when they handed their son to you," Peter replied, his tone sharp. "They knew the risks. They knew the rules. Don't destroy yourself over his death. It hurts me just as much as it hurts you."
A heavy pause filled the room before Peter added, "But you know how it is—only the strong survive. The weak… don't."
Josiah's head snapped up. His eyes were bloodshot—red from crying, red from pain. He stared at Peter with disbelief.
"How can you be so heartless?" Josiah hissed. "He was my man. Your man. And he's dead."
Peter exhaled, his voice calm but firm. "Don't overthink it. Besides, he wasn't one of us. He wasn't from our school. He was an outsider. It doesn't really matter."
Josiah's face twisted in anger. His hands clenched into fists.
"Fuck you, brother," he muttered. Then, louder, "Fuck you, brother!"
The moment he shouted, a sharp pain exploded in his skull. He gasped, grabbing his head with both hands as a wave of agony tore through him.
"Arghhhh!"
James rushed forward, grabbing the remote by Josiah's bed and pressing the emergency button. Within seconds, doctors and nurses flooded the room. One of them quickly injected Josiah with a sedative, and slowly, his body relaxed. His breathing steadied, and the pain faded.
Peter hadn't moved. He stood near the door, watching silently as Josiah drifted into a calmer state.
Once the doctors left, Peter spoke again, his hands tucked into his pockets.
"Josiah," he said, his voice softer now, "you're my brother in almost everything. We may not share blood, but I'll always call you my brother. Rest. Heal. Everything will be alright." He paused. "And don't worry about the hospital bills. I've taken care of them all."
Without waiting for a response, Peter turned to James.
"James," he called.
James, who had been standing near the wall, straightened up. "Boss."
"Watch over our members," Peter ordered. "Keep me updated at all times. It's already midnight—a new day. I have to be in school tomorrow, so handle things here. I'll visit when I can."
James nodded. "Okay, boss."
With that, Peter walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
James turned back to Josiah, who lay still, staring at the ceiling.
"Don't be angry with him," James said quietly. "You know he's hurting just as much as we are."
Josiah closed his eyes and let out a slow breath.
"Yeah… I know," he murmured. "Good night, James."
James gave a small nod. "Good night."
The room fell into silence once more.
To be continued…