Attack On Ebilade 1

The alley was dimly lit, the faint glow from a flickering streetlight casting long shadows on the graffiti-covered walls. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, sweat, and something more sinister. Charles leaned against the cold brick wall, tapping his foot nervously, while Gregory, perched on an overturned crate, looked completely at ease, his grin ever-present as he twirled a cigarette between his fingers.

One of the boys, smaller and visibly jittery, shifted uncomfortably. His face was pale, and the cigarette he held trembled slightly in his fingers. "Do we really have to do this?" he asked, his voice betraying the fear gnawing at him. "I mean, a lot could go wrong."

Gregory's eyes snapped toward him, narrowing with disdain. He exhaled a slow puff of smoke, letting it curl lazily into the night air before sneering. "Don't be a pussy and fuck off. The last thing I need is a lecture on 'morality' from someone who's just itching for an excuse to finally hit someone." His voice was cold, dripping with contempt. The small boy's face flushed, but he stayed quiet, knowing better than to push Gregory any further.

Charles looked on, eyes darting between them, the tension building thick like the smoke in the air. He didn't like this, none of it. But the pull of pride, of keeping face in front of Gregory and the others, held him in place. He didn't dare show weakness, especially not now.

The smaller boy swallowed hard and, after a beat, mumbled, "I'm just saying… what if someone sees us or, worse, the police catch us in the act?" His voice was barely above a whisper, fear evident in every word.

The other boys turned to him, exchanging annoyed glances. Gregory's sneer deepened into a frown, his eyes narrowing like a predator zeroing in on prey. His voice, when it came, was low and dangerous. "Bro, do you even know what country you're in? The police don't set foot in places like this. They're too busy shaking down drivers and hustling the rich kids. This alley? It's our territory."

The boy who had spoken flinched under Gregory's glare. He could feel the other boys' eyes on him, their silent judgment hanging in the air. He was breathing faster now, the rising tension making his heart pound against his chest. He knew Gregory was right; this part of town was a no-go for the cops. But that didn't stop the knot of dread twisting in his gut.

"Besides," another one of the boys chimed in, his voice laced with irritation, "the real problem isn't the cops. It's whether the guy even takes this path."

Gregory's sharp laugh echoed through the alley, sending a shiver down the smaller boy's spine. His grin widened, and his eyes glinted with something dark and cruel. "And I don't like your whining, so shut it before I decide to use your face for a warm-up." The threat was delivered with a casualness that made it all the more terrifying.

The smaller boy's face went pale as he froze in place, his throat tightening. He quickly averted his gaze, nodding mutely, not daring to argue further. His body language screamed submission—shoulders hunched, arms tightly wrapped around himself, as if he could make himself smaller, less noticeable to Gregory's wrath.

Charles glanced at the boy, feeling a pang of pity but quickly dismissing it. He wasn't in a position to be showing sympathy. Gregory had that effect on everyone. The air was thick with tension, each boy on edge, not just because of the plan but because of Gregory's unpredictable nature. No one wanted to be his next target.

Gregory, satisfied with the silence that followed his threat, leaned back on the crate, flicking ash from his cigarette with a smug smile. He was in control, and everyone knew it. The alley was his domain, and they were just players in his twisted game.

"Good," Gregory said, his voice smooth but laced with venom. "Now let's just focus on the fun part. When he comes through, we'll make sure he remembers who runs this part of town."

The boys exchanged uneasy glances, some fidgeting with their cigarettes, others standing awkwardly, the weight of what they were planning sinking in. But no one dared to speak up again. Not after what Gregory had said.

Charles's eyes narrowed as he spotted Ebilade approaching, his pace steady and unaware of the danger waiting for him. "Hey, he's coming," Charles hissed, glancing at the others. "Everyone, remember the plan."

But Gregory, always the wild card, let out a low, manic chuckle. He pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, the blade glinting menacingly in the faint light as he ran his tongue along the edge, eyes gleaming with madness. "What plan?" he sneered, his voice filled with glee. "I just need to gut him open and roughen him up a little."

The smaller boy, standing a few paces back, froze as soon as he saw the weapon. His face drained of color, and his hands instinctively rose in protest. "Wait, what? I didn't know we were using weapons." His voice cracked, and he took a nervous step backward, his body tense with fear.

Gregory turned slowly, his grin fading into a scowl as he stared the smaller boy down, his eyes dark and full of menace. "That's why I hate pussies like you," he spat, taking a step toward him, the knife still in his hand. "Fuck off if you don't have the balls for this. Go cry somewhere else."

The smaller boy visibly flinched under Gregory's gaze, his mouth opening as if to argue but no words came out. His heart raced, his body betraying his fear as he shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to stay or flee.

Charles shot a look at Gregory, irritation flashing in his eyes. "Man, come on," he muttered, his voice tense but steady. "We're not here to kill anyone, alright? This isn't what we agreed on." He glanced at the others for support, hoping to de-escalate the situation before it spiraled out of control.

One of the other boys, standing with his arms crossed, nodded in agreement. "Yeah, seriously, we're not some cultists or gangsters," he said, his tone firm but cautious, not wanting to provoke Gregory any further. "We're just trying to make a living, man—yahoo boys, not thugs. We came here to teach someone a lesson, not get caught up in something worse."

Gregory's face twisted in frustration, his grip tightening on the knife. He turned his gaze back to the approaching figure of Ebilade, his jaw clenched. For a moment, it seemed like he might argue or lash out, but then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He lowered the knife but kept it out, his grin returning, albeit less psychotic this time.

"Fine," Gregory said, his voice low and mocking. "No gutting, no blood. We'll just give him a friendly reminder of who he's dealing with." His eyes flicked to Charles, the glint of mischief still present. "But don't think I'm just gonna walk away without leaving a mark."

Charles exhaled, relieved that Gregory wasn't going to take it too far, at least for now. He nodded and turned his attention back to Ebilade, who was getting closer by the second, completely unaware of the tension in the shadows.

The smaller boy stood quietly to the side, his face still pale, hands shoved into his pockets to stop them from trembling. He glanced nervously at the others, but no one said anything. The air was thick with a mix of fear and anticipation as they all waited, their gazes fixed on Ebilade's approaching figure.

Charles clenched his fists, trying to push down the unease building inside him. He had to do this, to prove something to himself, to Grace, to Gregory. Even if it felt like things were getting out of hand, there was no turning back now.