It had been exactly one week since that humiliating beatdown in the school basketball gym. Max, the perpetual number-one victim of Kratos and Chaz, had been left sprawled on the hardwood floor, knocked out cold beneath the merciless tread of their sneakers. The bruises had faded, the swelling gone down, but the memory lingered like a fresh wound. Max couldn’t shake it—the way their laughter echoed as his vision blurred, the sting of defeat that went deeper than skin. He stared at himself in the mirror that morning: skinny frame, nerdy glasses perched on a face that screamed “easy target,” his usual white unbranded T-shirt hanging loose over black skinny pants, and those reliable black Converse sneakers that had carried him through too many escapes. No more, he thought. He couldn’t stay weak forever. Bullies like Kratos and Chaz would always sniff out vulnerability. It was time to get stronger, to build himself into something unbreakable. With a mix of determination and nerves twisting in his gut, Max headed to the boxing gym just a few blocks from school, the one he’d heard whispers about in the hallways.
As Max pushed open the heavy glass door, a wave of humid air hit him, thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and effort. The gym buzzed with raw energy—grunts and thuds echoing off the concrete walls lined with faded posters of legendary boxers. Punching bags swayed like pendulums under assault, heavy chains rattling with each impact. Muscled men dominated the space: some slamming fists into sand-filled bags that absorbed the blows with dull thumps, others circling each other in the ring, trading jabs and hooks with precision that spoke of years of training. A few pairs sparred on mats, their kicks slicing the air, bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent lights. Max’s heart raced; fear crept in like a shadow. Did he belong here? He looked so out of place—a scrawny kid in casual clothes amid these titans of strength. His Converse squeaked softly on the rubberized floor, a pathetic sound compared to the thunderous impacts around him. What if this was a mistake? What if they laughed him out? He wandered aimlessly, eyes darting from the weight benches to the speed bags, unsure where to start or whom to ask about classes.
That’s when Leo approached, a confident stride cutting through the chaos. Leo, the gym’s owner, sported a trim beard that framed a knowing smirk. He wore a black Nike cap backward, a fitted black Nike T-shirt hugging his toned chest, faded jeans, and those imposing Air Force 1 High in Wheat Flax—rugged tan nubuck uppers with a gum rubber sole that gripped the floor like it owned it. Leo also ran a small cafe attached to the gym, slinging protein shakes and coffee to fuel the grind. “Hey there, bro,” Leo said, his voice warm but appraising as he extended a hand. “Welcome to the spot. What brings you in? Looking to sign up for classes?”
Max swallowed hard, adjusting his glasses. “I… I want to get stronger. To protect myself from bullies. People who try to hurt me.”
Leo bit back a chuckle, his eyes scanning Max’s frail build. “That’s admirable, but listen—this ain’t easy. Boxing’s gonna demand everything from you. Sweat, pain, dedication. Looking at you… it’s gonna take a hell of a lot of work to turn that into something tough.” He clapped Max on the shoulder, a bit too firmly, and began showing him around: the heavy bags for power shots, the speed bags for rhythm, the ring where real sparring happened. Max nodded along, trying to absorb it all, feeling a spark of hope amid the intimidation.
But then the door swung open again, and in walked Kratos and Chaz, their muscular frames filling the entrance like predators entering their den. Kratos, the bigger of the two with even more chiseled bulk, sported a red New Era cap, a black Supreme hoodie that strained against his broad shoulders, blue jeans, and those legendary Jordan 1 High Chicago sneakers. Oh, those Jordans—brutal instruments of dominance wrapped in premium leather: the white base leather gleaming under the lights, overlaid with varsity red panels on the toe, eyestays, and heel that screamed aggression, black Swoosh slicing through like a blade, and the black collar adding a shadowy menace. The red rubber outsole, with its iconic traction pattern of concentric pivot circles in the forefoot dotted by star-like grips and deep grooves for unyielding hold, was made for stomping out weakness. On Kratos’ feet, they transformed into sadistic tools—each step a promise of crushing force, the soles patterned to leave imprinted marks of humiliation on any victim foolish enough to cross his path, grinding flesh under their fetishized weight, dominating with every brutal thud.
Chaz, right beside him, matched the vibe: black New Era cap, black Jordan hoodie, black cargo pants, and the Air Jordan 4 Breds that exuded pure sadism. Black nubuck uppers, soft yet unforgiving, with cement grey accents on the plastic wing eyelets and midsole speckles, fire red Jumpman logos and lining popping like fresh blood. The outsole—a multi-colored beast of black, grey, and red rubber—featured the classic herringbone tread pattern, zigzagging grooves that bit into surfaces with predatory grip, perfect for launching devastating kicks that tore through resistance. Perched on Chaz’s feet, these Jordans were fetishized weapons of torment: soles designed to punish, leaving patterned bruises like a sadist’s signature, dominating every inch they claimed, relishing the crunch of vulnerability beneath their unyielding traction.
Chaz spotted Max first, his eyes lighting up with malicious glee. He nudged Kratos, pointing subtly. “Look who it is—our fag from school, chatting up Leo like he belongs here.” They both burst into laughter, the sound cutting through the gym’s noise. In this small town, paths crossed inevitably—school, streets, stores—but seeing Max here, in their territory? It was too perfect, like fate delivering fresh prey. Kratos and Chaz were regulars, honing their boxing skills to keep their edge sharp for bullying and beyond.
They sauntered over, approaching from behind so Max didn’t notice until it was too late. Chaz’s muscular arm snaked around Max’s neck in a tight lock, yanking him back. Max gasped, glasses slipping, a surge of terror flooding his veins—his heart pounding like a trapped animal, the familiar dread from last week crashing back, making his knees weak. “P-please, no… not again,” he whimpered instinctively, but Chaz just tightened his grip, ignoring the plea as if it were nothing.
Leo’s eyes widened in surprise, but only for a second.
“Yo, Leo,” Kratos drawled, smirking. “This is the victim we told you about. The one we flattened last week.”
Leo’s face shifted instantly—from welcoming gym owner to complicit predator. Kratos had pulled him into this dominant world months ago, sharing tales of conquests, the thrill of breaking the weak. Leo knew the game: victims didn’t just wander in; they were gifts to be exploited. No letting this one slip away. “No shit? This twig? Man, you weren’t kidding—he looks like he’d snap in a breeze. What’s the plan, boys? We turning him into gym equipment today?”
Chaz grinned, his arm still locked around Max’s neck. “Hell yeah, Leo. He thinks he can bulk up here? Nah, we’re gonna show him what real strength looks like. Remember that story we told you about the basketball court and others? Time for another round, but better.”
Kratos nodded, cracking his knuckles. “Exactly. Leo, you in? We could use that busted bag spot—hoist him up, make him swing. It’ll be like old times, but with a live dummy.”
Leo chuckled darkly, rubbing his beard. “I’m in. Been a slow day anyway. Let’s make it entertaining for the crew.”
Kratos’ eyes gleamed with wicked inspiration. “Strip, loser. Take off every damn thing—or we tear it off for you.”
Max’s face paled, humiliation burning through him like acid, his mind screaming in panic—exposed here, in front of strangers? He felt small, worthless, his resolve crumbling into sheer fear. “Please, guys… I-I didn’t mean to come here. Just let me go, I beg you. Please!” His voice cracked, tears welling up, but Kratos and Chaz just laughed harder, their eyes cold, no one in the gym batting an eye—Leo’s smirk only deepened, the pleas falling on deaf ears like whispers in a storm.
“Hear that whining?” Chaz mocked, glancing at Leo. “He’s got no spine.”
Leo shook his head, amused. “Pathetic. Strip faster, fag, or we’ll help—and trust me, my AF1s ain’t gentle.”
Trembling, he peeled off his white T-shirt, revealing pale, skinny torso; kicked off his black Converse, socks following; slid down his black skinny pants and underwear. Naked now, exposed and vulnerable amid the gym’s stares, Max curled inward, arms crossing his chest, sobbing softly. “Stop… please. I’ll leave and never come back. Don’t do this!” But the laughter from onlookers drowned him out, their indifference a cruel knife twist.
“So, you wanna practice boxing, huh?” Kratos sneered. “Better learn to be a good punching bag first.” With a savage kick from those Jordan 1s—the red sole slamming into Max’s gut like a hammer—Max crumpled to the floor, wind knocked out, agony exploding in his core, leaving him gasping, feeling like his insides were on fire. “No more… please, I can’t… mercy!” he begged hoarsely, but Kratos dragged him by the hair anyway, the pain in his scalp nothing compared to the terror of what was coming.
Kratos dragged him by the hair to a spot where a busted punching bag had hung, sand leaked out from a prior overzealous session. They’d planned to remove it anyway. Chaz and Kratos chained Max’s ankles, the cold metal biting into skin, Max thrashing weakly, his voice rising in desperation: “Please, untie me! I’ll do anything—begging you, stop! Have some pity!” No response, just smirks as Kratos shouted at Leo: “Hoist him up.” Leo obliged, cranking the chain until Max dangled upside down, blood rushing to his head, body swaying like the new human bag, dizziness mixing with raw fear, his world inverted into a nightmare. “Help me… someone, please!” he cried, but the gym echoed with jeers instead.
“Look at him dangle,” Leo said, stepping closer with a grin. “Like a piñata waiting to burst. You boys start—I wanna see those combos you’ve been bragging about.”
Kratos flexed, slipping on his gloves. “Watch this, Leo. We’ll make him swing farther than that old bag ever did.”
Chaz laughed. “Bet I can make him spin like a top. Loser’s gonna regret stepping foot in here.”
Laughter rippled through the gym—muscled patrons pausing their workouts to jeer. “Fresh meat!” someone shouted. “Kick him hard, boys!” The atmosphere turned electric with sadistic enjoyment; Max was the entertainment, the victim everyone could unite against, his pleas only fueling their amusement.
Kratos and Chaz slipped on black boxing gloves, knuckles cracking. Leo stepped back, arms crossed, watching with a grin. Kratos started: a vicious kick to Max’s right cheek, the Jordan 1’s red sole imprinting a star-patterned welt, flesh blooming red. Max screamed, pain searing like a brand, “Stop! Please, it hurts, Kratos!” but Kratos ignored it completely. Chaz followed, his Jordan 4’s herringbone tread gouging Max’s left cheek, drawing first blood from a split lip, the sting making Max sob louder: “Chaz, no… I beg you, let me down!”
“Nice form, Chaz,” Leo called out. “Hit him lower next—make him feel it in his gut.”
Kratos unleashed a combo: gloved punches hammering Max’s chest like pistons—crack, crack—ribs protesting under the force, bruising deep into muscle tissue; kicks to the abs with those dominant Jordans, soles grinding in, causing internal hemorrhaging as organs shifted painfully; a final kick to the balls, the traction pattern smashing tender flesh, swelling instant and excruciating, veins bursting in agony that made Max scream, his body convulsing, tears mixing with sweat. “Please… oh god, mercy! I can’t take it—stop, I’m dying!” Max wailed between hits, his voice breaking, but the trio just chuckled, the crowd cheering louder, no shred of compassion in sight.
“Damn, Kratos, you nailed that nut shot,” Chaz said, high-fiving him. “He’s squirming like a worm.”
Leo nodded approvingly. “Keep it up—show the gym how it’s done.”
Chaz’s turn: punches to the head, gloves thudding against skull, concussing brain matter with each impact, vision blurring from swelling eyes; kicks to the back, herringbone soles raking spine, vertebrae straining, muscles tearing in fiery lines; ass targeted next, brutal stomps leaving patterned bruises, skin splitting open, blood trickling down as tissue macerated under the sadistic force. “Please, anyone! Help!” Max begged, his words slurring from the blows, desperation clawing at his throat, but everyone watched on, entertained, his suffering just part of the show.
“Back looks good and red now,” Kratos commented. “Leo, you wanna jump in soon? We can turn this into a contest—who swings him the farthest.”
Chaz wiped sweat from his brow. “Yeah, Leo—your turn to shine. Bet those AF1s leave a mean mark.”
They alternated jump kicks now, leaping high for maximum impact—Kratos’ Jordans crashing into thighs, cracking bone edges; Chaz’s into arms, dislocating a shoulder with a pop. Leo joined, his Air Force 1s adding to the frenzy, wheat flax soles thumping ribs, competing to swing Max farthest. Kratos’ kicks sent him arcing wildly, body a pendulum of pain; Chaz’s made him spin; Leo’s elicited cheers as Max swung like a ragdoll. Through it all, Max’s pleas grew frantic: “Stop swinging me… mercy, Leo! I didn’t do anything—please!” But the jumps continued, his voice ignored like background noise.
“Ha! My last one sent him flying—top that, Chaz,” Leo boasted, catching his breath.
Chaz leaped again. “Watch this—spin city!”
One final hard kick from Kratos to the temple—red sole connecting with a crunch—and Max blacked out, limp. Chaz grabbed water, dousing his face; blood and liquid mingled, pooling on the floor in crimson streaks. Max stirred weakly, murmuring “Please… no more…” only for Chaz’s kick to knock him under again, the plea swallowed by unconsciousness.
Satisfied, Kratos and Chaz peeled off gloves. “We’re done—got real boxing to practice.” They left Max dangling, a toy for the gym, his faint whimpers unheard.
“Fun while it lasted,” Kratos said to Leo as they walked away. “Thanks for the assist, man.”
Leo smirked. “Anytime. Now let’s see what the others do with him.”
Leo announced: “Everyone, enjoy the new bag!” He delivered a parting kick to Max’s chest—flax sole caving sternum slightly—then sauntered off, Max gasping “Please… Leo…” to no avail.
Two more patrons stepped up: First, a burly guy named Jax, in tank top and shorts, his worn boxing shoes pounding Max’s legs with hooks that left thigh muscles lacerated, bones hairline-fractured, swinging him for laughs. “Swing and a miss—nah, direct hit!” Jax taunted, his friends howling as Max’s cries weakened, begging “Stop… please, I beg for my life!” but Jax just kicked harder, the crowd laughing off the desperation.
Next, a tattooed brute called Rico, gloves on, targeted the face: jabs splitting eyebrows, blood spraying; uppercuts to jaw, teeth loosening in sockets. Rico’s kicks to the groin amplified the earlier damage, balls purpled and throbbing, making Max retch in unconscious flickers. “This bag’s got some give—love it!” Rico grinned, the crowd egging him on until he tired, Max’s sobbed “Don’t kill me… please!”—met with zero sympathy, just more jeers.
Hours dragged on, the gym a relentless arena of torment as Max hung, a broken punching bag, beaten without pause by anyone who felt like it—fists and feet raining down, each blow met with his weakening pleas for mercy that no one heeded. The crowd’s laughter grew faint as night fell, the gym emptying, lights dimming to a cold glow. Leo finally lowered Max, unchaining the battered, bloodied body—bruised beyond recognition, barely conscious, every inch screaming in agony. Dragging him by the ankles to the back door, Leo stomped Max’s face into the filth-strewn alley, grinding his Wheat Flax Air Force 1s into Max’s cheek, smearing blood and garbage together. “Worthless trash, stay down where you belong, face-fuck,” Leo spat, flinging Max amid the garbage bags, the door slamming shut with a final echo of cruelty. Max lay there, naked and shattered, chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths, feeling utterly defeated, hopeless, the pain a deafening roar, his unanswered begs echoing in his mind. With Herculean effort, he crawled inch by inch toward home, the cold asphalt tearing at his wounds, a trail of blood and grime marking his desperate retreat, wondering if anyone would ever care. The bullies’ game had claimed another merciless round.
Follow Master Kratos
Instagram: MasterKratos28
BlueSky: MasterKratos28
X: MasterKratos28
