𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙄𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙝

ᶜʰᵃᵖᵗᵉʳ ᴵⱽ: ᵃˡˡᵉʸ ʳᵃᵗˢ

"I don't want any trouble, lad."

The rain became violent, not another sound was heard except the uneasy footsteps that came closer to Callum's way. Callum, shivering in the dark like a feared animal.

"What was that?" came a strong, slow voice from the shadows.
"I don't want any trouble?" said Callum.

From under the moonlight's piercing blue hue, a gang of what Callum called 'alley rats' stood forth. Drenched in rain water, the alpha of the pack confronted Callum with one ugly grin. Their mouth was filled with golden, glimmering teeth, a poorly done dragon tattoo on his bare, right arm, and a pretty bad scar over the bridge of his fat nose. It was just as Callum expected.

"Looks like you came from a long way to get killed, lad," mocked the gangster, realizing Callum had a young Irish accent.

Callum wasn't amused a bit.

"What do you need?" he asked him.
The gangster chuckled a bit, his no-good friends behind him grinning.
"Why the attitude?" said the gangster. "What's your name, boy."
"If you're gonna kill me, then what's the point of telling you my name," spoke Callum with no fear.

The gangster frowned as he huffed under his breath. Then, he snapped his fingers. Callum was quickly grabbed by the rest of the fearless gang.

"You sure got a lot of spark," smiled the gangster.
"And I'm assuming it's your first time meeting someone's who Irish," said Callum.

The gangster frowned his wrinkled face, he wasn't going to put up with Callum's spark. However, he giggled under his breath with no bother in the world.

"Do you know what I do to shits like you?" grinned the gangster.

Callum took no guess. Instead, he glared angrily.

"Are you gonna talk?"

Callum looked to the side in disgust.

Punch!

With a fistful full of punch and muscle, Callum felt his intestines get a beating and a half by the gangster. Suddenly the air was knocked out of his body, Callum frozen with eyes stuck widened.

"If you ain't gonna answer me, then fucking die!" spitted the gangster.

Callum was thrown to the ground receiving the bottom of someone's sneaker in his face. He was powerless, he was defenseless. There was nothing he could do to stop them from, well, killing him. Callum was hopeless, and there were no other options.

Before there was a breakup sequence between the brutal beating, the gangster wiped his lip with the back of his hand. He growled.

"Listen up, boy. If you can't properly lie here, then you die here," he croaked.

"Welcome to Chicago, bitch."

Slam!

The gang turned their heads over their shoulders once they caught a sound of a car door shutting nearby. It was almost too startling since some of the gangsters had their hands on their handguns under their sport jackets, ready to pull triggers.

Callum glanced up through a bruised eye to see the car's headlights blinding the parking lot's every darkness.

With guns drawn, the alpha of the gang frowned in confusion.

"It's our guy," he spoke with a grin.

Pop!

A flash of gunfire from the black-furnished 1980s Ferrari Testarossa lit up screams and blood from the troubled men. One by one, every gangster was left dead under the violent rain pour, their blood vanishing as the white of their skin grew colder. It was just in a matter of a few seconds that every man of the gang had no more breath to take. Whoever shot them wasn't too fond.

Callum peered up from the ground in horror and confusion, his ears ringing, his eyesight dizzy.

"Who's there?" he asked the darkness.

From the hood of the black sportcar, an unrecognizable person stood in the headlights. They firmly gripped a loaded handgun that bore a fresh, warm muzzle which supposedly killed the rest of the Chicago gang.

..

"It's nice to see you, Callum."