The laughter faded, replaced by the quiet murmurs of students whispering to one another, unsure if they had just witnessed something incredible—or something dangerous.
Sean stood motionless, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his brow. His fists were lowered now, arms slightly shaking from exertion… or frustration.
Damon, still calm, let his eyes settle on Sean one last time. He could see it—Sean wasn't just tired. He was done. Emotionally spent. His pride had taken too many hits.
Damon didn't smirk. He didn't taunt. That wasn't his style.
He just turned his back.
And slowly, he bent to pick up his backpack, fingers brushing against the strap where it lay at his feet.
That's when the crack echoed.
A sharp, violent thwack that didn't belong in a schoolyard.
Something heavy.
Something wrong.
Damon didn't see it coming—not fully.
He only caught the blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, right as the wooden plank slammed against his spine.
The pain was instant and violent. Blinding.
The force of the blow snapped the plank clean in half, and Damon dropped to the pavement with a hollow grunt, the breath blasted from his lungs in a single, agonized wheeze.
He didn't cry out.
But his body twisted on instinct, curling inward, his knees scraping the concrete as his hand reached out blindly.
He was coughing now—sharp, rasping coughs—like his lungs were folding in on themselves. Each breath was a struggle, a fight to draw in air that wouldn't come.
The crowd gasped.
But no one moved.
Some flinched. Others raised their phones higher.
Sean towered over him, holding what was left of the broken plank. His eyes were wild now—not with victory, but something darker. Shame. Humiliation. Rage that had boiled over.
"This is what you get," Sean muttered under his breath, the words shaking. "You don't humiliate me in front of everyone."
Then the first kick landed.
Damon's body jerked as Sean's foot drove into his ribs.
Another came—this time from one of Sean's friends, a shorter boy with sharp eyes and a sneer too big for his face.
Then another.
And another.
Feet thudded into Damon's sides, his back, his legs. The strikes were cruel, deliberate. The kind of kicks meant to send a message, not just pain.
Damon curled tighter.
He tried to breathe.
But his lungs refused.
Blood hit the pavement.
A wet cough followed.
And then more blood.
Red, vivid, and horrifying.
The crowd fell into a stunned silence.
Even the ones still recording had lowered their phones slightly, unsure now if this was still entertainment—or something much worse.
Someone whispered, "Jesus… they're gonna kill him…"
No one stopped it.
No one moved.
Damon's fingers twitched near his backpack.
Another kick crashed into his shoulder, and his body shuddered violently.
His face was pale, his breaths shallow. Blood clung to his lips.
Everyone saw it, they all knew Damon was screwed.
And he was being dealt with.
Right there, in front of everyone.
Sean's foot came down again, aimed at Damon's chest.
It was a full-force kick, one driven by all the anger, humiliation, and fury he had been building since the fight started. But this time, it didn't connect.
Before Sean could feel the satisfaction of the strike, Damon's hand shot up, grabbing his ankle with an almost unnatural speed. He twisted, pulling Sean off balance and to the ground.
Sean's eyes widened in surprise, his breath hitching as his foot was jerked out from under him. His body tumbled hard, the weight of it slamming him onto the cold, unforgiving concrete.
The crowd gasped.
Before Sean could even begin to push himself up, another figure lunged, eager to capitalize on Damon's moment of apparent weakness.
It was one of Sean's friends—a burly guy, with arms like tree trunks and a face full of disdain. He aimed a heavy kick at Damon's side, a move that would have knocked most people sideways.
But Damon saw it coming.
With barely a shift in his stance, Damon pivoted, letting the kick sail past him. Then, in the blink of an eye, he stepped in, his leg driving up to meet the other boy's knee.
A sickening crack echoed through the courtyard.
The crowd went silent, collectively holding their breath.
The boy's body jolted backward, his hands flying to his knee as the pain hit him full force. A loud, piercing cry of agony erupted from his throat—one that sent chills down the spine of everyone who heard it.
The boy stared down at his knee in horror. It was bent at an impossible angle, twisted and mangled in ways a knee should never be.
He couldn't move it. He couldn't even scream properly anymore. The pain was too much.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he clutched his knee, crumpling to the ground.
Damon didn't stop.
He didn't flinch. His eyes locked on the next opponent.
A third figure—a thinner, quicker boy—rushed forward, throwing a wild punch aimed at Damon's jaw.
But Damon was faster.
With a snap of his wrist, Damon caught the boy's arm just above the elbow. He twisted it violently, hearing the unmistakable sound of bone breaking.
The boy's eyes bulged in shock, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his elbow snapped, the bone splintering with a sickening pop.
The crowd's collective breath caught in their throats. Some turned away, unable to watch any longer. Others stood frozen, their phones forgotten in their hands, unable to tear their gaze from the brutal display unfolding before them.
Damon stepped back, watching the boy crumble to the ground, his arm hanging limply at his side, his face contorted in excruciating pain.
The courtyard was quiet now.
The only sounds were the gasping breaths of the injured boys and the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. The students around them stood in stunned disbelief, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. Some were too shocked to even speak, their voices swallowed by the sheer horror of what they were witnessing.
Damon's breathing was steady, his heart calm.
There was no anger in his eyes now—only cold, measured resolve. He stood tall, each movement precise, controlled. He was no longer the boy who had been beaten and humiliated. He was someone else entirely now. Someone who had snapped.
He was a force.
And Sean knew it.
Sean scrambled to his feet, his face pale, his eyes wide with terror. He was panting now, his breath coming in sharp, quick gasps. The fight was draining from him. His bravado had evaporated in the wake of Damon's brutality.
He was afraid.
Terrified, in fact.
Damon hadn't just beaten them—he'd broken them.
And now, the tables had turned.
Sean was no longer the predator.
He was the prey.