Close Call With Death

Ebilade felt the weight of Gregory's eyes on him, the malice in his grin growing sharper with every second. The alley was silent except for the distant hum of the city, a world away from this violent encounter. Gregory's knife glinted under the dim streetlight, a cruel promise of the suffering to come.

Ebilade's hands clenched into fists at his sides, trembling slightly, but not out of fear anymore. This was pure adrenaline. He wasn't going to die begging for mercy; he wasn't going to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing him break. His feet shifted into a fighting stance, the tension in his muscles building as he braced himself for what was to come. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to flee the scene, but he had no choice now. This was it—either fight or die.

Gregory tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking over Ebilade as though assessing a fragile toy that he was about to break. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring the moment.

Ebilade's heart pounded in his chest, the sound of his pulse loud in his ears. He inhaled sharply and took a step forward, closing the distance between them. For a split second, the two men locked eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the fight that was about to unfold.

And then Gregory moved.

He lunged at Ebilade with the speed of a viper, the knife flashing in the dim light as he swiped it in a wide arc. Ebilade barely had time to react. He ducked to the side, feeling the blade slice through the air just inches from his face. He moved backward, eyes wide, as Gregory pressed forward with relentless, vicious strikes.

Gregory's grin never wavered, and with each failed swing, his expression twisted into something more feral, more menacing. His movements were calculated, a predator playing with his prey. "Come on," Gregory taunted, his voice low and dripping with amusement. "Don't tell me you're already scared. You said you wanted me to remember you, didn't you?"

Ebilade gritted his teeth, his eyes scanning for an opening. He couldn't match Gregory's speed or strength, but he had to be smart. He had to keep moving, keep dodging, until he found the right moment to strike.

Another swing. This time, Ebilade managed to duck low, slipping beneath Gregory's guard. In a desperate move, he launched his fist into Gregory's ribs. The impact was solid, a satisfying thud that made Gregory grunt in pain. Ebilade's heart leaped in triumph for a brief moment—he'd landed a blow.

But Gregory barely flinched. His grin grew wider, more unhinged, as he staggered back slightly, one hand clutching his ribs. "That's more like it," he said, his voice a low growl. "But you're going to have to hit harder than that."

Before Ebilade could react, Gregory surged forward, moving faster than before. His fist collided with Ebilade's stomach, the force knocking the wind out of him. Ebilade gasped, doubling over as pain shot through his torso. Gregory didn't give him a moment to recover. His knee came up, slamming into Ebilade's jaw with a sickening crack that sent Ebilade sprawling to the ground.

The pavement was cold and unforgiving beneath Ebilade as he struggled to get his bearings. His head was spinning, pain radiating through his skull. He tried to push himself up, but Gregory was already on him, relentless.

Gregory kicked Ebilade in the side, the sharp pain making Ebilade curl in on himself instinctively. He could taste blood in his mouth, the metallic tang coating his tongue as he gasped for air. But Gregory wasn't done. He grabbed Ebilade by the collar of his shirt, yanking him up with surprising strength.

Their faces were inches apart now, and Ebilade could see the manic gleam in Gregory's eyes, the raw cruelty that burned there. "You're not putting up much of a fight, are you?" Gregory sneered, his voice soft but dripping with malice. "I thought you wanted to go down fighting."

With that, Gregory slammed his fist into Ebilade's face. Once. Twice. The impact sent shockwaves through Ebilade's body, and blood spattered the pavement as his nose broke under the force. Ebilade's vision blurred, but through the haze of pain, he tried to fight back. His hand shot up, grabbing Gregory's wrist as the knife flashed toward him again.

For a brief moment, they struggled, Ebilade's grip tight on Gregory's wrist, stopping the knife inches from his chest. But Gregory was stronger, and it didn't take long for him to wrench his arm free, slamming the knife's hilt into the side of Ebilade's head.

The world spun violently, and Ebilade's body went limp, crumpling to the ground once more. His breaths were shallow, his chest heaving as he tried to force his battered body to move. But Gregory was merciless. He kicked Ebilade in the ribs again, sending him rolling across the pavement like a ragdoll.

Ebilade's body screamed in pain, every nerve on fire as he coughed up blood, his vision swimming. He could barely see Gregory now, his form a blurry silhouette as he approached. Every instinct told him to run, to crawl away, but his body refused to obey.

Gregory crouched down beside Ebilade, the knife gleaming in his hand. He pressed the cold blade against Ebilade's cheek, his grin stretching even wider as he leaned in close. "You're still breathing," Gregory murmured, his voice low and almost affectionate, like a predator savoring its kill. "You're tougher than I thought."

Ebilade's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to think of a way out, any way to survive. His fingers twitched, and he forced his hand to move, to grab onto something—anything—that could help him.

But Gregory saw it coming. He grabbed Ebilade's wrist, twisting it with brutal force until Ebilade cried out in pain. The sound only seemed to delight Gregory further. "Not so fast," he whispered, his breath hot against Ebilade's ear.

And then Gregory slammed his fist into Ebilade's face again. And again. Each blow was harder than the last, turning Ebilade's face into a swollen, bloody mess. His vision darkened with every hit, consciousness slipping away as his body went limp under the relentless assault.

Gregory finally stopped, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he stared down at Ebilade's broken body. Blood coated his knuckles, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed pleased—satisfied, even. He stood up, wiping the blood from his knife onto his sleeve before sheathing it.

Ebilade lay motionless on the ground, barely breathing. His face was unrecognizable, swollen and bloodied, his body battered and broken. Every inch of him screamed in pain, but he was barely aware of it anymore. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision, and his thoughts became hazy, distant.

Gregory took a step back, his eyes lingering on Ebilade's broken form. "I told you," he said softly, his voice almost tender. "It's nothing personal."

With that, Gregory turned and walked away, leaving Ebilade bleeding and broken on the cold pavement. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the alley as he disappeared into the night, leaving behind nothing but silence and the faint, ragged breaths of the boy he had beaten within an inch of his life.

Ebilade lay there, his body trembling as the pain overwhelmed him. He could hear the distant voices of the other boys, their footsteps approaching, but their presence felt far away. Everything felt far away now.

The world was slipping away, and Ebilade knew that this could be the end. But somewhere, deep inside him, a spark of defiance remained. He had survived this long, and as long as he was still breathing, there was a chance—a slim chance—that he could survive this too.

His breath hitched in his throat, and with the last of his strength, he forced his battered body to move. One hand reached out, fingers clawing at the ground, pulling himself forward inch by inch. Every movement was agony, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

Not yet.

Not until he was sure he would survive.