It is evening...
The weather is calm and pleasant, a soft breeze moving through the streets as the sky slowly changes its color...
The noise of buses, trucks, vehicles—sounds coming from everywhere...
Children playing everywhere... laughter echoing as footballs roll, cricket balls strike bats, and carefree voices fill the air....
But in a corner of this lively and bustling city...
Somewhere in a corner... a small field surrounded by walls...
A young boy of early 25...
Leaning on a wall, dragging smoke from his cigarette so nonchalantly...
Beside him... another boy sitting in a position or manner like he is going to poop...
In front of them... some like 3–4 boys...
Beating another boy like a dog...
His situation really even more pathetic than a fucking dying dog...
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Bam… Thwak… Push… Kick…
They were hitting him really hard, beating him to a pulp. Dust rose from the ground with every blow, mixing with his broken breaths.
Suddenly, an arrogant and strong voice came, "Enough. Now stop." The boys looked toward the source of the voice. It was the boy leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. They asked in a questioning manner, "Boss?"
The boy, who was clearly their boss, walked slowly toward them. His walk was gentle, almost royal. Then, suddenly—slap! He slapped the boy who had said, "Boss?" "Who gave you permission to question me?"
He then sat nonchalantly, one leg slightly down and the other slightly raised. His eyes moved toward the boy lying on the ground, acting as if he had passed out. He touched the boy's chin and tried to pull his face up, but the boy stubbornly continued pretending to be unconscious.
Then a loud sound echoed—slap! It was a really hard slap. The boss said coldly, "Enough playing Dead. Wake up… or I'm going to kill you."
The boy on the ground started sweating, then slowly opened his eyes. The "boss" took a deep sip from his cigarette and released the smoke directly onto the boy's face. The boy started coughing; clearly, he was not used to it.
Then he said, "Always remember my face and my terror. Never forget my name—George. George D. Sunny. Remember it carefully, so that before eyeing my girls, you remember my terror."
The boy, trembling, said in a shaky voice, "O… o… o-okay."
George then stood up and kicked the boy in the stomach. "Let's go, boys," he said.
The boy was left behind in pain. He was clearly not in any condition to stand on his own.
Straight ahead, George walked carelessly, hands behind his head. "Ok, boys, that's enough for today. I'm pretty bored… so I'm going home." His minions tried to say something but stopped—they knew better than to question him. It was clear, though, that they didn't like it.
George returned home. His house was a massive, luxurious duplex. Opening the door, he called out, "I'm home," but there was only deathly silence. Leaving his shoes and socks by the door, he took an apple from the table and sat on the sofa to watch TV. He wasn't in the mood to freshen up, as he wasn't particularly hygienic. While watching, his eyes fell on a photo hanging above the television. It was a picture of a couple and a little child—probably George and his family.
Seeing the photo made George nostalgic. He muttered to himself, "Mom… Dad… why did you leave me?" He felt a little sad, turned off the TV, and lay back on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, eating his apple. He closed his eyes.
In Haoway, a happy couple was enjoying the time of their lives. With them was their one and only cute son. They laughed, ate, danced, explored, and took photos. But who knew their happiness was temporary?
As they were returning to their personal bungalow, which was quite far from the main area and rarely visited by anyone, they were enjoing a hapoy rude...but suddenly.. Smash..a drunk truck driver suddenly ran them over.
Ahhh… Ahhh…
George woke up abruptly. He had fallen asleep, and it had been the nightmare again. Shaken, he stood up and went to take a shower. While enjoying it, half-naked, a sound of something breaking came from somewhere, but he ignored it and continued his long shower. Afterward, he grabbed his phone and ordered some food online.
When the food arrived, he ate and enjoyed it. Feeling sleepy afterward, he didn't care that it wasn't very late at night. He simply fell asleep on the sofa.
Late at night, George was sleeping. Suddenly, a loud sound of something breaking woke him. Then, a hand shot out, grabbing his nose—probably trying to suffocate him. He started struggling as the air was cut off.
But George was a professional martial artist, a national champion who had won many medals. He abruptly shook the hand off and succeeded.
To his surprise, dozens of boys—probably more than fifty—were surrounding him. They looked at him with a mix of hunger and calculation, part predator, part hunter. No one made a move.
Without warning, George ran and jumped out of the window behind him. He sprinted, but even more boys appeared, chasing him relentlessly. He tried his best to run and fight. After covering a certain distance, George finally stopped. The boys behind also halted and started taunting him.
"What, already tired?"
"Scared?"
"Wanna pee?"
"Alle le le…"
But to their shock, George was not scared. Instead, he seemed excited. He started laughing maniacally, as if he had gone completely mad.
The boys in front of him froze. They felt a chill run down their spines, as if they were staring death itself in the face. In that moment, it was like they were looking at the god of death—Hades—standing right before them.
They started running toward George, holding all kinds of weapons—bats, rods, anything they could grab. But George didn't back down. He fought back with unmatched skill and precision. Every strike he landed was enough to knock someone out. He moved efficiently, conserving energy, while the thugs thought their numbers would give them the upper hand.
But they were wrong.
As time passed, instead of tiring, George's attacks became even fiercer. He was losing himself to madness. For the thugs' shock, George was actually crying—but at the same time, he fought like a god of death.
George felt a rush he hadn't experienced in a long time. This pain, this looming threat to life… it excited him. When he was young, he only had himself to depend on. Many had tried to bully him, but they had failed. George had defended himself. Over time, without even realizing it, he had risen to lead his own gang. And now, after a long time, someone was truly trying to beat him. He was savoring the feeling.
Boy after boy came at him like a swarm of ants. Still, he cut through them effortlessly. Piles of bodies were already on the ground. George's excitement and madness only grew. The sound of breaking bones and screaming fueled him. Even as some of his own bones were fractured, he continued, enjoying every second.
But suddenly—
Bam!
A bullet pierced his chest. George's eyes widened. When he turned toward the shooter, it was his one and only friend, someone like a brother to him. He didn't understand why. He tried to speak, tried to ask, "Wh—"
Before he could say another word, the horde of boys descended, beating him like a dog.
Blood flowed from him like a river. They struck him so brutally that every bone in his body ached. Pain and shock gripped him, and yet, through it all, he could see his friend standing there.
After a tense moment of silence, George's eyes glinted with madness again. They were beating him like a dying dog, but he laughed—a cold, maniacal laugh. Then he stopped and spoke, voice dripping with venom:
("Isn't there a saying… what goes around comes around?")