The morning buzz filled the school hallway, a chaotic hum of students weaving through the locker room to stash their gear or grab books before class. Kratos and Chaz loomed like predators in the crowd, their presence heavy, commanding. Kratos, a tower of muscle at 195 pounds, rocked a red New Era NY cap tilted just so, his black Supreme hoodie emblazoned with the iconic white box logo cutting a sharp silhouette. His blue jeans hung loose, but the real statement was on his feet: Jordan 1 Chicagos, their red, white, and black leather screaming defiance, the white laces pristine yet brutal in their clean lines, each step a promise of dominance. The sneakers’ bold colorway, with its glossy leather and aggressive design, seemed to fetishize power, their very existence a taunt to anyone who dared cross him.
Chaz, a lean but solid 185 pounds, matched the vibe, his black New Era NY cap pulled low, casting a shadow over his cold stare. His black Jordan hoodie with a grey hood draped over his frame, paired with black jeans that flowed into his Jordan 1 High 85 Black Whites. The sneakers’ monochromatic palette—crisp white leather with jet-black overlays—felt cruel in its stark simplicity, the high-top design exuding a fetishistic edge, like a weapon polished for intimidation. The shoes’ clean lines and retro swagger made every step a calculated act of menace.
The hallway was their hunting ground, but it had been dull lately. A month ago, they’d left Max broken, their baseball bats and relentless kicks sending him to the hospital. Even there, they hadn’t let up—sneaking into his room, stomping him on his bed, dragging him to the floor for more. Max’s recovery had stretched longer because of it. But today, he was back, shuffling through the hallway, his poor eyesight barely aided by the thick, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Max’s frail frame was swallowed by a white long-sleeve T-shirt, its fabric slightly wrinkled, clinging to his scrawny shoulders. His blue jeans were faded, unremarkable, and his black Converse sneakers—worn and scuffed, their canvas edges fraying—marked him as weak, submissive, a walking target. The Converse, with their soft, pliable soles and understated design, seemed to apologize for his existence, a stark contrast to the brutal authority of Kratos and Chaz’s Jordans.
Max didn’t see them until it was too late. Kratos’s hand shot out, slamming him against the lockers with a metallic clang. His grip clamped around Max’s throat, cutting off air, his voice low and mocking. “Welcome back, Max. Happy to see us?”
Max’s glasses skewed, his face reddening as he gasped uselessly, his submissive nature folding under the pressure. Chaz leaned in, smirking. “What’s that? Don’t wanna talk to us?”
Kratos’s lips curled. “Guess we gotta teach him another lesson.”
A brutal punch from Kratos crashed into Max’s face, blood spurting from his nose, his glasses nearly flying off. Max’s legs buckled, pain radiating through his skull, his frail body trembling. Before he could recover, Chaz’s Jordan 1 High 85 slammed into his side, dropping him to the cold floor. Max lay face-up, dazed, his scuffed Converse twitching weakly as students around them snickered, some pulling out phones to record the “loser” getting what he deserved.
Kratos stepped forward, his Jordan 1 Chicago gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He planted his right foot on Max’s chest, the sole’s brutal tread digging into the thin white T-shirt, his left foot pressing down on Max’s stomach. The weight of his 195 pounds crushed the air from Max’s lungs. Kratos shifted, sliding his sole onto Max’s cheek, squishing it against the floor, the sneaker’s glossy leather a cruel caress against his glasses. “You missed this, didn’t you, Max?” he taunted, grinding harder. “Bet you dreamed about my Jordans while you were laid up.”
Chaz joined in, his Jordan 1 High 85 stomping down on Max’s crotch, the black-and-white sneaker a merciless force against Max’s faded jeans, his 185 pounds adding to the torment. “You’re too quiet, Max,” Chaz sneered. “Say something. Tell us how much you love this.”
Max whimpered, his voice barely a whisper under Kratos’s sole, his glasses fogging with panicked breaths. “Please… stop…”
“Stop?” Kratos laughed, pressing his foot harder, the sneaker’s tread leaving red marks on Max’s cheek. “We’re just getting started.”
The hallway’s chatter faded as Mr. Jack, the Math teacher, strolled up. He stopped, unfazed by the sight of Max pinned under Kratos and Chaz’s soles, his glasses askew and his white T-shirt smudged with floor grime. “Morning, Kratos, Chaz,” he said casually. “Kratos, top of the class again—100 on the last test. Chaz, 95. Not bad at all.”
Kratos grinned, his foot still crushing Max’s face. “Thanks, Mr. Jack.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to Max, who squirmed weakly, his black Converse scuffing the floor. “Max, you need to see me about that test you missed. Keep skipping my class, and you won’t graduate.”
Max’s voice rasped from under Kratos’s Jordan, his glasses pressing painfully into his face. “Teacher… I was in the hospital… these guys hurt me…”
Jack snorted. “Cut the bullshit, Max. How could Kratos and Chaz hurt you?”
“They’re… standing on me… right now…” Max gasped, Kratos’s sole grinding harder for emphasis.
Jack waved it off. “Kratos, help Max get better at Math. He needs it.”
Kratos nodded, adding more weight to Max’s head, the sneaker’s brutal tread biting into his skin. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“Chaz, you too,” Jack added. “Help your friend. You’re Max’s last hope.” He turned to Max. “When you’re done playing with Kratos and Chaz, don’t forget that test. Pass it this time—I’m tired of retesting you.” With that, Jack walked off, leaving Max to their mercy.
Kratos leaned down, his Jordan sinking deeper into Max’s cheek, smudging his glasses. “Hear that, Max? We’re your last hope.” He smirked, stomping once for good measure.
Chaz laughed, his foot pressing harder on Max’s crotch, Max’s jeans wrinkling under the pressure of his 185 pounds. “Better thank us, loser.”
The bell rang, sharp and shrill. Kratos delivered one final kick to Max’s head, the Jordan 1 Chicago’s toe connecting with a sickening thud, knocking Max’s glasses askew. He slung an arm around Chaz’s shoulder, both laughing as they sauntered toward class, leaving Max crumpled on the floor, bloodied and broken, his white T-shirt stained, his black Converse still, the hallway’s crowd dispersing like nothing had happened.
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