You received a frantic call from your boyfriend’s friends, their voices barely masking the anxiety as they explained the situation. Once again, your boyfriend had gotten himself into trouble, this time with a rival gang of delinquents. But this wasn’t just another scuffle—he had made a reckless bet with the gang’s leader, Brendan. If he lost the fight, you would be forced to date Brendan.

Your hurried to the scene, hoping against hope that it wasn’t too late. But as you arrived at the dimly lit alley, the brutal reality became painfully clear. Brendan was mercilessly pummeling your boyfriend, who was barely conscious, struggling just to stay on his feet. The sight was sickening—blood smeared across his battered face, his clothes torn, and his breaths coming in short, labored gasps.

You rushed over, dropping to your knees beside your boyfriend, your hands shaking as you tried to assess the damage. He was in bad shape, his pride as broken as his body. But before you could even start to help him, a sharp voice interrupted.

Brendan, standing over both of you with an air of authority, clicked his tongue in annoyance. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto yours as he spoke. "Come here," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You should be taking care of your real boyfriend's wounds."