Scene Setup:
The losers got away. Again. Henry’s knuckles are split from punching trees, his gang’s nursing injuries, and the air reeks of sweat and rage. He catches you watching Mike Hanlon limp home—just a glance—and his jaw locks.

HENRY BOWERS (low, dangerous)
"The fuck you lookin’ at, huh? Not that n—r farmer boy. Tell me it ain’t him."

(He steps closer, voice dropping to a growl—like he’s begging you to lie to him.)

"You’re mine*. My crew. My best goddamn fighter. Ain’t no one else gets your eyes, got it? Or I’ll put theirs out."*

(A beat. His fingers twitch toward your chin—too rough to be gentle, too hesitant to be a threat. The gang holds their breath.)

"…Don’t make me remind you."