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[ First POV: Cassius ]
All the three battered delinquents could do was simply stared at me. The air in the alley hung thick.
"... Rich?" the tall kid with the lip ring parroted. His voice a pathetic, airy squeak. He glanced at Bowl Cut. Bowl Cut kept his teary eyes glued to a crack in the asphalt.
Still not wanting to risk a glance to the demon infront of him.
"Yeah, rich," I clarified, adopting the weary, patient tone of a middle-management supervisor, who, had to explain a spreadsheet to a toddler. "Does he wear designer clothes? Does he smell like offshore tax evasion and daddy's neglect? Focus, boys. This is market research."
They swallowed hard. My casual demeanor apparently failed to ease their nerves. I genuinely wasn't trying to be terrifying, but years of painting walls with enemy combatants tends to give a guy a resting murder face.
The sheer weight of the stare locked onto them seemed to bypass their rational thoughts, tapping directly into their primal survival instincts.
"Y-yes," Lip Ring stammered, nodding so fast he differently risked whiplash. "He wears… uh, Louis Vuitton, Nike, Custom stuff. And he drives a motorcycle. An expensive one."
"A motorcycle, you say..." I let the words roll over my tongue. A warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming behind my ribs.
"Really~?" My voice jumped into pure, shameless joy. I would have clapped my hands together, but they were currently occupied with my newfound grocery fund. "Well, I think my piggy bank has just been born~!"
'Even if I get my sugar mommy. I'm milking these fuckers till graves appear~' I added within the secrets of my mind.
The thugs exchanged another panicked look. They must have expected a beating. Even though one of the sad bastards did get one.
Maybe even a lecture on morality. But, heh~! I'm just as worse as them.
But mostly, they had not anticipated a mugging disguised as venture capitalism.
I pointed a finger at the brick wall adjacent to the dumpster. "Alright. Line up. Shoulder to shoulder."
They scrambled. It was, in all honesty, kind of impressive how fast human beings could move when motivated by the immediate threat of blunt force trauma.
If you ever wonder why villains always seemed like were on some peak crack, is simply because this shit was always so intoxicating.
Lip Ring practically shoved Bowl Cut into the brick, plastering himself against the wall like he was expecting a military inspection.
"Phones out," I instructed, waving my free hand in a lazy circle. "Unlocked. Open your contacts list. If any of you try to hit a record button, or somehow, call the cops, I'm going to physically feed you your own big toes. Are we on the same page~?"
A chorus of frantic, high-pitched affirmations filled the alleyway.
"Good, pups~!"
I then pulled out my own phone, tapping open my Notes app and started scrolling.
I scrolled past, 'Groceries', past, 'Ah-Rin's Birthday Ideas', right down to a locked folder simply titled: Slaves.
"....."
Don't worry. There are no dark skin guys inside. I promise.
FaceID recognized me, and the note popped open.
Currently, it held three names, a trio of absolute morons from the neighboring district who had tried to jump me last month.
Almost curb stomped one, too. Ahh~, good times.
Though, they were currently contributing a steady twenty percent of their weekly allowance to the 'Cassius Doesn't Want To Be Employed' funds.
It was passive income at its finest. Coming in every Friday at 5:05 PM.
Which is today.
"Names, numbers, and relations," I said, stepping up to Lip Ring and snatching his phone right out of his trembling hand. "Mothers, fathers, older brothers, older sisters. I want the whole family tree. Let's see what kind of leverage we're working with here."
"E-excuse me?" I heard someone call.
I looked at the three bullies lined up against the wall, confused because they were confused aswell. I was about to ask who spoke without permission, so I can boot there head, but I looked at their eyes and seen they weren't looking at me.
They were looking behind me.
I paused, slowly turning around, the realization slipping through slowly.
Rigght~. The victim.
I honestly forgot he was still here. He was a scrawny kid with glasses currently hanging precariously off one ear, clutching a bruised rib and looking up at me with these wide, tear-filled, sickening eyes.
He looked exactly like a how a nerd truly did.
Weak.
"Thank you," the kid breathed out. He actually tried to push himself up to give me a clumsy, trembling bow. "I thought they were going to put me in the hospital. Thank you so much, hyung."
I, for one, could only stare at him.
'D-did he just... thank me...?'
My upper lip curled back on its own accord. A profound, physical wave of disgust washed over me, so sudden and intense, I actually had to take a half-step back.
"Ew," I said. The word just slipping out. "Don't call me hyung. Why are you even still here? And why are you looking at me like I'm wearing a cape?"
The kid blinked, completely derailing for a second. "W-what?" He pointed a shaky, bruised finger at the wad of cash currently clamped in my left hand. "Th-that's my money... They took it from me. That's why I called you h-hyung."
"Can I... can I have it back now? Please?"
The silence in the alley was louuuud. Even Bowl Cut stopped sniffling to watch this spectacular display of suicidal delusion.
"Your money," I repeated flatly.
"Yes. It's... it's my cram school tuition..."
I looked at the crumpled bills. Then I looked back at the kid. Then back to bills and repeated the same motion five more times.
"Are you autistic?" I asked, my tone perfectly flat. "Is that why they were beating you up? Because you lack basic situational awareness and survival instincts?"
"Kind of... b-but... you saved me!"
"Fuck off I didn't!" I barked, throwing my hands up in sheer exasperation. "I don't give a singular, flying fuck about you, your cram school, your ribs, or even your personal financial crisis! Do you think I'm Batman? Does this look like fuckin' Gotham to you?"
The kid recoiled, stunned at my sudden raised voice, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
"I was only walking to the market," I explained, speaking slowly as if addressing a particularly slow golden retriever. "I realized I was exactly forty thousand won short for premium chocolate and the specific brand of pickled radishes my grandmother likes,"
"Then, I heard a very convenient transaction happening in this alley. I didn't step in for justice. I stepped in for groceries!"
"W-w-w-w-WHAT!!"
The sheer betrayal in the kid's eyes was cinematic, his stuttering and yell adding that dramatic effect
It truly did belong in a tragedy.
"This," I waved the cash aggressively in his face, "is my grocery fund. I claimed it via right of conquest. You lost it. That's a 'you' problem. Now, take your bruised ribs and get your walk on out of here, before I decide to charge you an observation fee for watching me work."
I shoved the money into my pocket, and stuck my tongue out at him, raising and lowering both my eyes slightly, just to completely shatter whatever pathetic hero complex he had projected onto me. "Bleeeh. Now fuck off~!"
He scrambled backward like I had just grown horns, tripping over a discarded soda can before scrambling to his feet and sprinting out of the alley, his terrified sobbing echoing off the concrete walls.
"Kids these days," I sighed, shaking my head as I turned back to my three newly acquired assets. "Zero respect for the entrepreneurial spirit. Anyway. Back to business."
I tapped the screen of Lip Ring's phone.
"....."
"Who the fuck is 'Mommy Dearest'? Is that actually your mother, or is that a weird kink thing?"
"You know what, don't answer that. I don't care." I rapidly typed the number into my own phone.
"P-please," the third guy, a stocky kid wearing a fake Gucci belt who has been quiet all this time, whimpered. "Don't call my mom. She'll kill me, man."
"She won't," I corrected cheerfully, moving down the line to snatch his phone next. "Because I'm not going to call her. Unless you miss a payment. Or if you tell anyone. Or the cops. Or your little 'rich' boss. Then? Then I won't just call her..."
I stopped typing.
I let the cheerful customer-service facade drop entirely.
The air in the alley plummeted by ten degrees. My motherfuckin' aura doing that, by the way.
I leaned in close to Gucci Belt, dropping my voice to a dead, hollow whisper that belonged to my reputation.
"If you fuck around," I told him, my gaze locking onto his, making sure he could see nothing but dead, empty static in my eyes.
"If you do anything stupid... I will break into your house while you sleep. I will tie you to a dining chair. And I will systematically butcher every single person in your contact list while you watch, and I'll make sure you stay awake for the whole show."
"Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth, right now?"
Gucci Belt held his breathe as I spoke. I don't think his heart was even beating. He just stared at me, a dark, wet stain rapidly spreading across the front of his uniform trousers.
"Nod if you understand," I whispered.
He nodded. Vigorously. All three of them did.
"Good." I clapped my hands together, the bright, sunny vibe snapping right back into place like a rubber band. "So! Here is a Cayman-routed, highly encrypted, definitely legal bank account number."
I pulled a crumpled post-it note from my blazer pocket and slapped it directly onto Lip Ring's forehead.
"Transfers only. Every Friday by 5:05 PM sharp. Have a lovely evening, boys~!"
I spun on my heel, whistling a tuneless little melody, fully prepared to leave the alley and acquire my family's stuff. I made it exactly three steps toward the main street.
Before, I stopped.
Wait....
A nagging sensation pulled at the back of my brain. I patted my pants pockets. Phone? Yes. Extorted cash? Yes. Grocery list committed to memory? Yes.
'Then... what was I miss---'
Ohhh. Right.
The physical trauma.
I had given them the verbal threat, the psychological trauma, and the financial ruin, but I had completely neglected the somatic anchor.
You can't just verbally threaten teenagers; their prefrontal cortexes aren't developed enough to retain long-term dread without a physical reminder.
True thing, by the way.
They'd wake up tomorrow, the fear would fade, and they'd convince themselves I was just merely bluffing.
Maybe even a dream.
I pivoted back around.
They hadn't moved. They were still pinned shoulder-to-shoulder against the brick wall, exactly where I had arranged them earlier.
The post-it note was still stuck dead-center on Lip Ring's sweaty forehead.
I strolled back over, stopping just out of arm's reach.
I stood in front of them. The silence stretching. I let it hang there, heavy and oppressive. I wanted them to marinate in it.
It was so that we could hear a distant siren wailed. And even a stray cat knocking over empty glass bottles two alleys over, sounding like it was having a fight.
Finally, the pressure cooked the third kid, the one with the fake Gucci belt, who was currently standing in a puddle of his own making.
"W-why?" he croaked. His knees shaking so violently they practically played a snare drum beat against his oversized slacks. "Why... did you come back, sir?"
"You'll see," I answered cheerfully.
I kept my hands buried deep in my blazer pockets. The evening air held a sharp chill, and taking them out felt like entirely too much effort.
So instead, I shifted my center of gravity, planting my left foot firmly on the cracked asphalt.
My right leg snapped up. Sailing into a perfect round house.
It wasn't some flashy, cinematic martial arts technique, those were used whenever I felt likt it.
This was like a bullet. A perfectly calculated arc of burst energy designed to maximize blunt force trauma across a horizontal plane.
CRACK~CRACK~CRACK~!!!
The impacts were like a rapid-fire staple gun echoing off the brickwork.
My shin met Gucci Belt's jaw, carried completely through the resistance to slam into Bowl Cut's jaw, and finished on Lip Ring's cheekbone.
All three heads snapped to the side in horrifying unison.
They crumpled. No dramatic groans, no staggering. Just the heavy, meaty thuds of three teenagers hitting the pavement at the exact same time, folding over each other like a collapsed house of cards.
I stood there, my right foot returning to the ground, and stared down at the tangled pile of limbs.
Honestly? That was impressive. Even by my standards. At the very body of them, but there nonetheless.
A triple knockout with a single, pocketed swipe. I should really set up a tripod next time. Capture cool shit like this for my boredom.
"Okay," I muttered, stepping casually over Bowl Cut's twitching ankle and adjusting my tie. "Groceries...."
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Thirteen minutes later, I emerged victorious from the fluorescent glare of the local market.
The plastic bag swinging against my thigh held the spoils of war: two blocks of premium firm tofu, a bundle of green onions that lacked the usual depressed droop, a suspiciously heavy jar of violently red pickled radishes, and two bars of overpriced, imported Swiss chocolate.
I pulled one of the chocolate bars out, inspecting the gold foil under the streetlights.
My brother and sister are so going to worship me tonight.
I strolled down the main street, humming a tune I couldn't quite remember the name of. The city was shifting into its nocturnal rhythm. Neon signs flickered to life, casting long, vibrant pools of red and blue across the concrete. I kept my eyes focused forward, calculating the optimal walking pace to keep the tofu cold without breaking a sweat.
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[ Thrid POV ]
Which meant Cassius completely missed the sleek, black sedan parked idling by the curb, sitting just outside the convenience store's harsh fluorescent halo.
The engine purred.
A low, aggressively expensive vibration that camouflaged itself perfectly against the ambient, chaotic noise of the evening traffic.
Behind the violently tinted passenger glass, a dense shadow shifted, silently tracking the high schooler's retreating back as he strolled down the pavement.
Had Cassius actually noticed the luxury vehicle, his first instinct wouldn't have been caution.
Nope. Far from it.
He probably would have just walked right up to the window, tapped on the glass, and politely demanded a donation to the Cassius Grocery Foundation.
Via violence.
But he didn't.
The two bars of imported Swiss chocolate currently swinging against his thigh required immediate, temperature-controlled transport before they could melt.
And frankly, a guy had to have his priorities in order.
Extorting mysterious stalkers in high-end European cars was a solid activity, sure. But disappointing his siblings over ruined chocolate?
That was just jail time.
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END.