3. A Night of Terror

The night air was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones, making your skin prickle, your breath come out in white clouds. Ethan shivered as he walked through the empty school grounds, his arms wrapped around himself for warmth.

He had stayed late in the library, trying to avoid the others, trying to avoid them. But he knew it was useless.

They always found him.

His stomach churned with unease as he hurried toward his dormitory. The lights in the main building were dim, the hallways silent. Most students were already in their rooms, safe, warm, untouched.

But he would never be safe.

A sudden noise—footsteps behind him.

Ethan froze. His pulse pounded in his ears. He turned, his breath catching.

No one.

Just the dark, empty corridor stretching behind him.

Maybe he was imagining it. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, filling his head with ghosts of past nightmares.

He forced himself to move. Faster this time. Almost running.

Then—

A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him backward.

Ethan gasped, his back slamming into something hard.

Before he could scream, a rough hand clamped over his mouth.

"Going somewhere, freak?"

Damian's voice. Low, amused.

Panic exploded in Ethan's chest. He struggled, but more hands grabbed him, shoving him forward. His legs kicked uselessly as they dragged him through the hall, out the back door, into the cold.

The abandoned dormitory loomed ahead. The old building was shut down years ago—too dangerous, they said. The floors were rotting, the windows shattered. No cameras. No teachers.

No witnesses.

Ethan's breath came in short, ragged gasps as they dragged him inside. The smell of dust and mold filled the air.

Then—boom.

The door slammed shut.

Trapped.

They threw him to the ground. His knees scraped against the wooden floor, pain flaring up his legs.

Laughter echoed around him.

"You really thought you could run, huh?" Logan sneered, cracking his knuckles.

Ethan pushed himself up, his arms trembling. "Please," he whispered. "Just let me go."

Damian crouched in front of him, his grin sharp, cruel. "Let you go?" He tilted his head, pretending to think. "But we haven't even started."

Ethan's stomach twisted. "I—I won't tell anyone. I swear."

Damian chuckled. "Oh, we know you won't."

And then the first punch landed.

A fist slammed into Ethan's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He choked, collapsing onto his side, pain blooming across his body.

Then another hit.

And another.

Boots crashed against his stomach, his back, his legs. Each kick sent fresh waves of agony through him.

He tried to scream, but his voice was lost in the storm of laughter.

"Look at him," Marcus jeered. "Crying like a little girl."

Tears burned Ethan's eyes. His vision blurred. His fingers clawed at the ground, searching for something—anything—to hold onto.

But there was nothing.

Just pain.

Just them.

A boot stomped onto his hand.

Crack.

Ethan screamed. The sound was raw, broken, filled with pure suffering.

More laughter. More hands grabbing at him. Pulling his hair. Slamming his head against the floor.

The world spun. His ears rang. His body—his body wasn't his anymore. It was just a thing. A thing they were breaking, piece by piece.

"Pathetic," Damian muttered. "You're not even fighting back."

Ethan gasped, his chest heaving. He wanted to fight. He wanted to. But what could he do? He was weak. Helpless. A toy for them to play with.

Damian crouched beside him, gripping his jaw. "You know, Ethan," he whispered, his breath hot against his ear. "Sometimes, I think you like this."

Ethan whimpered.

Damian smirked. "I mean, why else would you keep coming back for more?"

A hand curled into his hair. A sharp pull. His head yanked back.

"Tell me," Damian murmured. "Do you enjoy being our punching bag?"

Ethan squeezed his eyes shut. "No," he croaked. "Please."

"Please?" Damian mocked. "Please what? Stop?"

He leaned in closer. "Why should we stop?"

Ethan's breath hitched. He didn't know. He didn't have an answer.

Damian let out a dramatic sigh. "Guess we're not done yet."

The beating continued.

More fists. More kicks.

His ribs screamed. His skull throbbed. His fingers twitched uselessly.

At some point, the pain became distant. Faint. Like it was happening to someone else.

His mind drifted.

His mother's voice, soft, gentle. Be strong, my love.

The warmth of her hands. The safety of her hug.

He wanted to go home.

But there was no home for him anymore.

Another blow. Another snap of pain.

His vision dimmed.

He barely felt it when they finally stopped.

Barely heard their laughter as they stood over him, admiring their work.

"Damn," Logan muttered. "Think we overdid it?"

"Nah," Damian chuckled. "He's still breathing."

Ethan was barely aware of the hands rifling through his pockets, taking whatever little money he had.

"Let's go," Damian said, stretching like this was nothing more than an evening workout. "Leave the trash here."

Footsteps. Fading laughter.

Then—silence.

Ethan lay there, barely conscious. Barely alive.

The cold bit into his skin, seeping into his shattered bones. His breaths were shallow, weak.

A single thought flickered in his fading mind.

This is how I die.

Alone.

Forgotten.

Unwanted.

Tears slid down his face, mixing with the blood pooling beneath him.

And then—

Darkness.