Chapter 6: The Beating

The young master was angry: “You think you’re hot shit, Grant? Just ‘cause the girls think you’re pretty? Lemme show you what that’s worth in this town.” The words spat out like venom in the break room, echoing against the cinderblock walls.

Well, I’ll make sure you know your place. Travis’s eyes narrowed, the kind of look that promised trouble.

If I don’t teach you a lesson, you won’t know who’s boss. There was a twisted pride in it, a need to prove himself to his crew.

Beat him! The command was quiet but clear. The others followed, because that’s what you did around Travis McClure—you followed, or you suffered.

So, the morning after Travis’s birthday, as everyone arrived at work, Travis brought six longtime cronies and blocked Ethan, who had just shown up and hadn’t even entered the factory gate. The parking lot was empty except for a few old pickups and the hum of the soda machine.

Sensing trouble, Ethan ran toward the factory, but the seven of them caught him, dragged him to an alley outside the wall, and started beating him. The gravel bit into his skin, the air thick with dust and sweat.

Wasn’t he handsome? They made sure to ruin the only thing he had. Jealousy, rage, and fear all mixed together in every punch.

They focused on his face. No one wanted to leave any doubt about the message.

Seven pairs of fists and feet rained down on Ethan’s face and head, only hitting his body if they couldn’t reach his head. It was a frenzy, brutal and unstoppable.

At first, Ethan was still clear-headed, desperately hugging his head on the ground, sacrificing his back to protect his vital parts and try to survive, but there were too many attackers. He tasted blood, the world spinning, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. For a moment, he looked up, eyes pleading—hoping someone would step in, that maybe this time a neighbor would call out, or a friend would help. But all he saw was sky, and the fists kept coming.

They turned him over, held him down, and hammered his face and head. The world spun, and every blow drove him further away from hope.

All were young men in their twenties, not knowing their own strength. The key thing was, everyone thought: It’s not just me hitting him, so why not hit harder? Nobody wanted to be the one who held back.

So Ethan was like a sandbag, kicked and rolled across the ground… The sound of boots on flesh, the crunch of bone, haunted the alley long after they left.

When Ethan was sent to the hospital, his face was unrecognizable, his eyeballs almost popped out. Even the nurses who’d seen everything looked away, unable to meet Natalie’s eyes.