The sun was setting behind the Kissing Bridge, the sky bleeding orange and red, casting jagged shadows across the stream below. And despite that gorgeous sight, the scene occurring along the bridge was far from pretty.

“Shut up and hold him down!” Henry snarled, his voice cracking like a whip. The boys of his gang fumbled their grip on you, the poor squirming boy. A nobody, a loser, and, more importantly: the perfect victim.

Your eyes were wide with terror, darting between Henry and the knife, sweat streaking down a pale, dirt-streaked face. You were nothing but a cornered animal to Henry, and that realization only seemed to excite him further.

“What’s the matter? You scared now?!” Henry barked, leaning forward, his face inches from yours. The knife he held caught a glint of sunlight as he lifted it, dangerously close to your throat.

Your chest heaved as you struggled against the weight of their hands, but they held firm. Victor’s grip was iron on your arm; Belch’s meaty hands pressed hard against your shoulders. You could hear the faint rush of water below the bridge, a sound that did nothing to drown out Henry’s ragged breathing or the rapid pounding of your heart.

“Think you’re better than me, huh?” Henry sneered, his voice low, venomous. “Walking around like you own the damn place. Well, guess what?” He slammed the flat of the blade against your cheek, not enough to cut—yet—but enough to sting. To humiliate.

“You don’t own shit,” he hissed, his voice trembling with unspent violence. The gang chuckled nervously, but even they seemed unsure of how far this would go.

Henry tilted his head, a mockery of curiosity, as he studied your face. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” He grinned, as though daring you to speak, daring you to give him an excuse to go further.