The room had shrunk into a cage of shadows and violence. The boy could not breathe for the tightness in his chest, each strike against his father echoing through him like a lash against his own skin.
The thugs pressed forward, filling the space with the stench of sweat and smoke. The one with the club swung again, this time across his father's back, and he went down to one knee. His mother cried out, darting forward, only to be shoved back by the man with the knife. She fell hard, clutching her arm, tears welling as she pleaded.
"Please, mercy! We have nothing! We have children—look, only children!"
The men ignored her, their laughter harsh and cold.
The boy's siblings whimpered into his side, clutching at his tunic, trembling as though the sound of their own fear might bring the men's wrath down upon them next. He whispered, "Stay quiet, stay still," though his own voice was raw with dread.
The man with the gun barked, "I'll count to three. If you don't bring something out, you'll bleed for your lies."
His father staggered to his feet, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His hands were open, empty. "I swear to you," he said hoarsely, "we have nothing. Look around. Look! We are poor. We have nothing!"
"One," the man growled.
The boy's body was alive with tension, heart hammering, heat flooding through him until he thought he might burst. He looked at his father's bent form, at his mother on her knees, at his siblings wide-eyed and silent. Helplessness was a poison in his veins, burning, suffocating.
"Two."
The club swung again, slamming into his father's shoulder. He collapsed to the ground. His mother rushed to shield him, wrapping her arms around him, sobbing, pleading with the men.
The boy's vision blurred with tears. I should do something. I can't just sit here. I can't.
"Three."
The gun cocked with a loud, metallic click. The man pressed it against the back of his father's head. The others stood grinning, eyes alight with cruelty.
And the boy's world narrowed into a single point.
No more. No more watching. No more hiding.
Before he knew what he was doing, he pushed his siblings off him and rose to his feet. His body moved before his mind caught up. His hands clenched into fists. His mouth opened and a scream tore out, raw and primal, filling the room like a wild animal's cry.
The thugs turned, startled by the sudden sound.
And the boy ran.
He hurled himself forward, legs driving with all the force in him, his scream rising higher, shaking the air. He slammed into the man with the gun, knocking him off balance, sending the weapon skittering from his grip. The thug crashed to the floor with a curse, his hood falling back to reveal a scarred, twisted face.
The boy's chest was fire. His arms flailed, fists striking, nails clawing, teeth bared. Desperation gave him strength.
The other two men were stunned for a moment, caught in disbelief. Then one snarled, raising his club, but the boy grabbed a heavy stone from the dirt floor and hurled it with all his might. It struck the man in the face with a sickening crack. He screamed, clutching his eye, and collapsed.
The boy whirled, breath ragged, and met the last man's gaze. For an instant, there was silence—the briefest heartbeat of triumph, of wild, reckless hope.
Then came the gunshot.
A thunderclap in the close room. A flare of fire.
The boy jerked as heat and pain tore through his chest. His scream died in his throat, replaced by a wet gasp. His legs buckled, and he fell. The world spun, voices dimming around him. His mother's cry, his father's hoarse shout, the terrified wailing of his siblings—sounds slipping further and further away.
The ceiling above him blurred, light swimming in darkness. His chest was hot and wet. Breathing became shallow, sharp. His hands twitched weakly against the dirt.
The two uninjured men scrambled for the door, dragging their unconscious companion, fear driving them out into the night. They left as quickly as they had come, shadows vanishing into shadows.
The boy's family closed in around him—his mother clutching his face, tears streaming down her cheeks, his father's broken body crouched beside him, his siblings crying uncontrollably. Their hands touched him, their voices shook the air, but he could no longer answer.
He tried to speak, but only a weak cough came. His lips trembled, his body quivered, and then the strength began to drain away.
The boy's last sight was his family's faces—blurred by tears, illuminated by the faint light of the lamp.
Then came silence.
Then came the dark.