The city lay under a shroud of grey mist, the air heavy with the damp chill of late autumn. The rain from the previous week had relented, but the streets remained slick, reflecting the dull glow of streetlights. For seven days, Max had been absent from school, his absence unnoticed by the apathetic masses. No one cared about Max—a scrawny, bespectacled loser whose existence was defined by the cruel soles of Kratos and Chaz’s Jordan 1s. His poor grades and lack of friends made him invisible to teachers and students alike, a ghost existing only as a target for the two predators who ruled the streets and corridors with unchallenged dominance.
In a typical classroom, with rows of standard desks and a whiteboard at the front, students chatted quietly, waiting for their teacher, who was running late. Kratos dominated the space, lounging in his seat with a lazy arrogance, both legs propped on the desk, his Jordan 1 High Chicagos with black laces asserting his authority. His red NY New Era cap sat low over his piercing eyes, the embroidered logo a bold declaration of his power. His black Supreme hoodie clung to his 6-foot frame, accentuating every ripple of muscle honed by dominating people. Blue baggy jeans hung loose over his thick thighs, but his sneakers were the true focal point. The Jordan 1 Chicagos were a vision of menace—vibrant red and white leather wrapping the toe, stark white midsole slicing through the city’s grime, and black leather panels gleaming like armor. The black Swoosh cut across the sides, sharp and commanding, while the red outsole, scuffed from countless stomps, pulsed with fetishistic cruelty, as if the shoes hungered to crush and dominate. Each tread, worn but deliberate, bore traces of dirt from their city walk—grit and dust from the damp sidewalks, a testament to their predatory stride. Kratos’s posture, with both Jordan 1s brazenly on the desk, their red and white toes pointed like twin weapons, was a silent challenge to the room—no one dared question him, not even the teachers, who avoided his gaze after seeing Max’s bruises and chose survival over confrontation.
Chaz sat beside him, his aura equally imposing. His white NY New Era cap gleamed, the logo crisp and defiant, a crown atop his muscled 5’10” frame. His white Jordan hoodie hugged his lean physique, the Jumpman logo a badge of conquest. Dark blue baggy jeans clung to his thick quads, but his Jordan 1 High Bred Toes stole the show—black and red leather encasing the toe and heel, red accents blazing like fresh wounds, and a white midsole glowing with malicious intent. The black Swoosh curved with sinister elegance, the red outsole scarred from past rampages, each scuff caked with city street dirt—grime from wet pavement and urban dust, a mark of their relentless prowl. The treads, deep and aggressive, radiated a fetishistic cruelty that seemed to relish grinding victims into submission. Chaz knew enough about Kratos’s world—glimpses of stern-faced subordinates at his low-key mansion, guarded by silent men, a secret he kept locked away. He reveled in their consequence-free cruelty, protected by Kratos’s untouchable aura.
Chaz slouched, tossing a pencil between his hands, his Bred Toes tapping restlessly. “Yo, Kratos, this shit’s borin’ as fuck,” he grumbled, his voice edged with hunger. “Ain’t the same without Max to kick around. Where’s that loser? Been a whole week.”
Kratos smirked, his Chicago’s red and white toes shifting slightly on the desk, catching the light like a predator’s glare. “Maybe we hit him too hard, bro. You think he’s pushin’ daisies? Should we check the graveyard, piss on his tombstone for kicks?” His laugh was a low rumble, the image of their sneakers desecrating Max’s grave sparking twisted glee.
Chaz’s eyes lit up, his muscled arms flexing. “Fuck, that’d be hilarious. But nah, he’s probably hidin’, too scared to show his nerdy face.” He grinned wickedly. “Yo, what if he’s in the hospital? Bet we fucked him up good in that tunnel.”
Kratos’s eyes narrowed, a spark of sadistic inspiration flaring. “Good call, bro. Let’s find out.” He pulled out his phone and dialed the city hospital. In their town, privacy was a myth. The operator confirmed Max was in Room 1013. Kratos hung up, grinning. “Got him. Room 1013. Let’s visit our boy after school.”
Two days after Max was admitted to the hospital, a police officer visited Room 1013, a perfunctory response to the hospital’s report of his battered state. Max lay propped up on the inclined bed, his head bandaged, his glasses crooked, his voice weak but desperate. The officer, a middle-aged man with a tired face and a notepad, stood by the bed, his expression already skeptical.
“Officer, it was Kratos and Chaz,” Max rasped, wincing as he shifted, his ribs aching. “They jumped me in the tunnel under the highway. Beat me with a bat, kicked me with their sneakers—those Jordan 1s. They’ve been doing this for years. You gotta stop them.”
The officer’s face hardened at Kratos’s name, his pen pausing over the notepad, a flicker of unease in his eyes suggesting he knew something Max didn’t. “Kratos, huh? That’s a serious accusation, kid. You got any proof? Witnesses? Cameras in that tunnel?”
Max’s heart sank, his voice trembling. “No cameras… no one else was there. But it was them, I swear. They’ve been bullying me forever. Everyone knows it.”
The officer sighed, scratching his neck, his discomfort palpable. “Look, kid, I get you’re hurt, but without evidence—witnesses, video, something—it’s your word against theirs. You sure you didn’t just fall from the highway above into the tunnel? That drop’s pretty steep.”
Max’s eyes welled up, his voice breaking with confusion. “I didn’t fall from the highway! They did this! Why are you trying to close this so fast? I’m telling you, it was Kratos and Chaz. Why won’t you believe me?”
The officer’s jaw tightened, his tone sharp, a trace of fear beneath it. “Watch it, kid. I’m just doing my job. You stick to facts. Got anyone who can back your story?”
Max shook his head, defeated, his mind racing with questions. “No… but please, you have to believe me. Why does it feel like you’re protecting them?”
The officer snapped his notepad shut, his eyes avoiding Max’s. “We’ll look into it, but don’t hold your breath without evidence. Get some rest.” He turned and left, his boots echoing in the sterile corridor, leaving Max’s pleas to dissolve into the hospital air. The officer didn’t open a case, dismissing it as Max “falling” from the highway above into the tunnel, a lazy lie to close the file, driven by whatever knowledge made the officer flinch at Kratos’s name. Max lay back, his mind churning with curiosity. Why had the officer’s face changed at Kratos’s name? What did he know that made him so quick to dismiss the truth? The questions gnawed at him, but his weakened state offered no answers, only a growing sense of unease.
After school, Kratos and Chaz strode through damp streets, their Jordans thudding with purpose, collecting fresh city dirt on their soles. The city hospital, a squat grey building, reeked of bleach and despair. They navigated sterile corridors to Room 1013, Max’s name scrawled on a whiteboard by the door. They pushed inside, their presence a storm in the small room.
Max lay frail on the bed, swathed in a light green hospital shirt and dark green pants, bandages wrapping his head, stained pink from old blood. His glasses perched crookedly, his brown hair matted, his eyes widening in terror at their Jordan 1s—Kratos’s Chicagos, red and white like a butcher’s blade, and Chaz’s Bred Toes, black and red like a vulture’s gaze. He tried to sit up, trembling, but pain pinned him down.
Kratos’s laugh cut through, sharp and cruel. “Well, fuck me, he’s still breathin’. Yo, Max, you thought you could ghost us, bitch?” He leaned in, his red NY cap casting a shadow over Max’s pale face. “You’re ours, always will be.”
Chaz grinned, his Bred Toes tapping the floor. “Yeah, nerd, you can’t hide. Bet you missed our kicks, huh? Thought you could skip out on us forever?” He nudged Kratos, their laughter filling the room like a predator’s growl. “What’s it gonna be, Max? You gonna cry already, or you gonna take it like a good little bitch?”
Max whimpered, his voice barely audible. “Please… just leave me alone…”
Kratos sneered, stepping closer. “Leave you alone? Nah, dog, you don’t get off that easy. You’re our favorite toy.” He glanced at Chaz, his grin widening. “Ready to have some fun, bro?”
Kratos and Chaz stepped onto the bed, deliberately grinding their Jordan 1s into the pristine white bedsheet. Kratos’s Chicagos, with their red and white leather and scuffed red outsoles, smeared city street dirt—grit and urban dust from damp sidewalks—across the fabric, the aggressive treads etching jagged, chaotic patterns. Chaz’s Bred Toes, black and red with scarred red outsoles, added their own marks, leaving streaks of pavement grime and dust, the deep treads pressing gritty imprints into the sheet, as if claiming the bed as their territory. The bedsheet, now a canvas of their dominance, bore the violation of their predatory stride.
Kratos climbed higher, planting his Jordan 1 Chicagos on Max’s crotch, the red and white leather toe pressing with deliberate pressure, flattening Max’s dick under the sole. “Feel that, bitch? That’s what you get for thinkin’ you can run,” he growled, grinding harder, the treads biting into the thin hospital pants, radiating fetishistic malice. Max gasped, his face contorting in agony, pinned by Kratos’s 6-foot frame. Kratos shifted, stomping his Chicago’s sole onto Max’s chest, the red outsole grinding down, leaving fresh smudges of city grime on Max’s hospital shirt. “You like that, huh? Bet you love feelin’ my kicks,” he taunted, each stomp sending a jolt through Max’s fractured ribs, his gasps turning to choked whimpers. Kratos moved again, his other Chicago slamming onto Max’s stomach, the red and white leather pulsing with cruel intent, the gritty treads pressing more urban dust into the fabric. “Keep squirming, dog. Makes it more fun,” he laughed, stomping harder, each impact a deliberate act of dominance. Max’s body shuddered, his breath hitching as pain radiated through him.
Chaz climbed on, sitting over Max’s shoulders on the inclined hospital bed, his muscled legs pinning Max’s arms, his Jordan 1 Bred Toes planted firmly on the bedsheet next to Max’s hips. The red outsoles ground in more city dirt—smeared pavement grime and urban dust, the deep treads etching further chaotic patterns into the already-soiled fabric. The black and red leather toe, scarred from past conquests, loomed near Max’s waist, the red accents blazing with cruel intent. Chaz’s thighs flexed as he toyed with Max’s bandaged head, smacking it with open palms. “Yo, this head’s like a fuckin’ piñata,” he laughed, each hit sending a dull thud through the room. “Look at this shit, Kratos. Bandages all fucked up already.” He prodded the pink-stained gauze with his fingers, then gripped Max’s matted hair, jerking his head side to side, the bandages shifting painfully. “You hear that, Max? You’re our punchin’ bag,” he sneered, smacking harder, Max’s whimpers growing weaker. “Keep cryin’, nerd. Nobody’s comin’ for you.”
Kratos stepped off Max’s stomach, only to plant one Chicago on Max’s face, the red and white leather toe pressing down on his cheek, the aggressive treads scraping against his skin, leaving faint red marks. The red outsole, caked with city grime, smeared dirt across Max’s bandages, the gritty residue mingling with the pink stains of old blood. “You look good under my sole, bitch,” Kratos growled, grinding harder, the pressure splitting open a wound, blood seeping through the bandages, staining the red and white leather pink. Max’s muffled cry was barely audible, his glasses slipping further as Kratos taunted, “What’s that? You wanna thank me for this? Say it, dog.”
The door opened, and a young doctor—male, about 30, with a clipboard—froze, his eyes widening at the scene. Max’s weak “Help me” was barely a whisper, ignored as the doctor’s gaze darted nervously. Kratos, still trampling Max’s face, his Chicago’s sole grinding blood and dirt into the bandages, barked, “Get in here, doc. Close the door.” The doctor hesitated, his hands trembling, but complied, shutting the door behind him.
“Brief me on this loser’s condition,” Kratos ordered, his frame towering, his Chicago still pressed on Max’s face, blood now trickling steadily from the bandages, soaking into the bedsheet and mingling with the city dirt. The doctor stammered—concussion, fractured ribs, internal bruising, dislocated jaw—all from a “fall.” His voice shook, his eyes fixed on Kratos’s sneaker, the red outsole now smeared with fresh blood and urban grime, the treads leaving a chaotic imprint on Max’s face and the bedsheet. Chaz, still perched over Max’s shoulders, grinned, slapping Max’s head again. “How’d you save this bitch, doc? Thought we fucked him up good,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “What’s the matter, doc? You look like you’re gonna piss yourself.”
The doctor, sweating, detailed surgeries, his voice faltering as he watched Kratos grind his sole deeper, the blood seeping faster, staining the bedsheet further. “P-please, you shouldn’t…” he started, but Kratos’s glare silenced him. The doctor’s fear was palpable—he wanted to help Max, to stop the assault, but something held him back, a terror Max couldn’t comprehend, rooted in reasons unknown to him. “You ain’t seein’ this, doc,” Kratos said, his voice a low growl. “Get out.” The doctor fled, his clipboard nearly slipping from his hands, fear outweighing duty.
With the doctor gone, Kratos and Chaz’s cruelty escalated. Kratos stepped off Max’s face, only to stomp his chest again, the Chicago’s sole cracking another rib, the red outsole leaving a fresh smear of city dirt and blood on Max’s hospital shirt. “Get up, bitch. We ain’t done,” Kratos snapped, grabbing Max’s arm and yanking him. Chaz slid off Max’s shoulders, and together they kicked Max from the bed, their Jordans—Kratos’s Chicagos and Chaz’s Bred Toes—slamming into his ribs, stomach, and head. Max hit the cold hospital floor with a thud, his glasses skittering across the tiles, one lens cracking. “Look at this loser, sprawled out like trash,” Chaz laughed, his Bred Toes stomping Max’s stomach, the red outsoles leaving jagged imprints of urban dust and pavement grit on Max’s hospital pants. Kratos jumped from the bed, his 6-foot frame landing with both Chicagos on Max’s chest, the red and white leather toes driving the air from his lungs, the treads grinding more city grime into his shirt. “You feel that, dog? That’s power,” Kratos taunted, his voice a snarl.
They took turns, their Jordans a blur of red, white, and black, kicking and stomping every part of Max’s body—his chest, his abs, his balls, his thighs, each impact a fetishistic ritual of dominance. Kratos aimed a brutal stomp at Max’s face, the Chicago’s sole smashing into his cheek, splitting the skin, blood pooling on the floor, mixing with the dirt from their sneakers. “Scream louder, bitch. Nobody’s comin’,” Kratos said, his red NY cap tilting as he grinned. Chaz’s Bred Toe found Max’s groin, the red outsole grinding down, eliciting a scream that echoed in the small room. “That’s right, nerd, sing for us,” Chaz mocked, kicking Max’s ribs again, the red and black leather flashing with each strike. The floor, now streaked with blood and city grime, bore the marks of their relentless assault, a mirror to the ruined bedsheet above.
Before leaving, Kratos grabbed Max’s hair, dragging his bloodied face toward his Chicago’s sole. “Lick it, slave,” he ordered, holding the red and white leather toe in front of Max’s mouth. “Show us how much you love our kicks.” Max, trembling and broken on the floor, obeyed, his tongue scraping against the red outsole, the acrid taste of city street dirt—grit, dust, and urban grime—burning his throat. The aggressive treads, caked with pavement residue and flecks of his own blood, scraped his lips raw, each groove a reminder of Kratos’s dominance. “That’s it, dog, clean it good,” Kratos sneered, pressing the sole harder against Max’s tongue, the gritty texture overwhelming.
Chaz shoved his Bred Toe forward, the black and red leather gleaming with malicious intent. “My turn, bitch,” he said, his voice thick with sadistic glee. “Get that tongue workin’.” Max’s tongue met Chaz’s red outsole, the taste just as harsh—chemical rubber mixed with wet pavement grime, the scarred treads tearing at his lips, leaving them raw and bleeding. “Look at him, Kratos, slurpin’ like a fuckin’ dog,” Chaz laughed, nudging Max’s cheek with the toe, smearing more dirt across his face. Max gagged, the gritty residue clinging to his taste buds, but he couldn’t stop, not with their eyes boring into him, their Jordans looming like weapons.
Finally satisfied, Kratos leaned down, his red NY cap casting a shadow over Max’s battered form. “You’re our slave, dog. Don’t forget it.” He stomped Max’s face one last time, the Chicago’s sole smashing into his already-bleeding cheek, the red outsole grinding blood and dirt into the floor, leaving a fresh gash. Chaz delivered a final stomp to Max’s groin, his Bred Toe’s red outsole crushing down on Max’s dick and balls, eliciting a strangled cry as pain shot through him. “Stay down, nerd,” Chaz spat, his saliva landing on Max’s face, his Bred Toe nudging the broken glasses, leaving one last smudge of city dirt on the floor.
They sauntered out, their Jordans thudding, leaving Max’s crumpled body on the bloodied, dirt-streaked floor, the bedsheet above a tapestry of their dominance—smeared pavement grime, urban dust, and blood. At the nurse’s station, Kratos leaned against the counter, his Chicago’s red toe tapping. “Yo, nurse, Max in 1013? Think he fell outta bed. Check on him.” His grin was a blade, and the nurse nodded nervously, her eyes avoiding his. They walked into the misty evening, their laughter fading, their sneakers leaving faint traces of city dirt and blood, a final mark of their reign.
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