The school canteen hummed with the usual lunchtime chaos—trays clanging, voices blending into a dull roar, and the harsh glow of fluorescent lights casting shadows on the linoleum floor. In a quiet corner, Max sat alone at a small table, his brown hair falling messily over his forehead. His glasses slipped down his nose as he twirled a forkful of spaghetti Bolognese, the rich, meaty sauce steaming faintly. Dressed in a plain grey t-shirt, black skinny jeans, and scuffed black Converse, Max kept his eyes fixed on his plate, hoping to blend into the background. He was all too familiar with his role as the “nerd loser,” the favorite target of Kratos and Chaz, and the canteen felt like a minefield where danger could strike at any moment.
Across the room, Kratos and Chaz swaggered in, their presence cutting through the noise like a blade. Kratos, the taller and more imposing of the two, moved with a cruel confidence that demanded attention. His black LA New Era cap sat low, shadowing his sharp features, while his grey Supreme hoodie, emblazoned with a bold black box logo, clung to his lean frame. Black cargo pants swished with each step, but it was his Air Jordan 4 Retro “Military Black” sneakers that stole the spotlight. The white leather uppers gleamed under the canteen lights, contrasted by jet-black eyelets and heel tabs, with a light grey Durabuck toe wrap adding a rugged edge. The visible Air-Sole unit in the heel hinted at comfort, but Kratos’ heavy, deliberate steps transformed the sneakers into instruments of dominance. The military-inspired design, with its stark lines and bold colorway, seemed to pulse with his menacing aura, as if the Jordans were an extension of his power, fetishized symbols of his ability to crush anyone beneath them.
Chaz, trailing just behind, matched Kratos’ swagger with his own brand of arrogance. His black NY New Era cap tilted slightly, and his black Supreme hoodie, also sporting the iconic box logo, hung loosely over his frame. Blue baggy jeans sagged just enough to showcase his Nike Air Force 1 Mid Supreme White sneakers. The pristine white leather shone almost blindingly, the premium material and embroidered strap screaming exclusivity. The mid-top design, with crisp white laces and subtle Supreme branding, gave Chaz an untouchable air. The sneakers’ chunky rubber outsole and iconic silhouette made every step feel like a declaration, as if they were built to trample over anyone who dared challenge him. Together, Kratos and Chaz moved like a storm, their sneakers radiating a cruel, fetishized dominance, each pair a weapon in their sadistic game.
The duo scanned the canteen for the day’s menu, their eyes casually sweeping the room until they landed on Max, sitting alone with his spaghetti Bolognese like a sitting duck. Kratos’ lips curled into a smirk as he leaned toward Chaz. “Yo, forget the menu. We got something way more fun to do.”
Chaz’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with malice. “Oh, hell yeah. Let’s fuck with the nerd.”
Without a word, Kratos sauntered over to Max’s table, Chaz close on his heels. Max froze, his fork hovering mid-air, as Kratos stepped up onto the table with a deliberate thud. The Air Jordan 4s loomed over Max’s plate, their black and white colorway stark against the cheap plastic tabletop. Before Max could react, Kratos’ foot shot forward, slamming Max’s face into the pile of spaghetti Bolognese. Warm sauce splattered across his glasses, matting his hair and dripping down his cheeks. The meaty, tomato-heavy mess smeared across his face, the scent overwhelming as it clogged his senses.
“Hey, Max!” Kratos said, his voice dripping with mock cheer. “How’s it hangin’, bro? Enjoying your lunch?”
Chaz burst out laughing, whipping out his phone and snapping a picture of Kratos’ Jordan crushing Max’s face into the plate. “Yo, this is fuckin’ dope, bro! Look at this loser!” The flash went off, capturing the humiliating scene in vivid detail. Around them, other students turned to watch, some snickering, others whispering, but none daring to intervene. The canteen became a stage, and Max was the unwilling star.
Chaz opened Instagram, his fingers flying as he uploaded the photo with a caption: “Kratos owning this nerd’s lunch 😂 #BullyGame #MaxGetsWrecked #AlphaVibes.”
Max’s heart pounded, a toxic mix of shame and fear surging through him. The sauce stung his eyes, and the weight of Kratos’ foot pressed his cheek deeper into the plate, making it hard to breathe. He felt utterly exposed, the laughter from the crowd slicing through him like knives. He wanted to vanish, to melt into the floor and escape the crushing humiliation, but he was trapped.
Kratos finally lifted his foot, stepping back with a grin. With a casual kick, he sent Max’s plate crashing to the floor. Spaghetti Bolognese and a slice of bread scattered across the tiles, sauce smearing in a messy arc. Kratos remained on the table, his Jordans planted firmly, looking down at Max like a king surveying his conquest. “Oops,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Looks like you dropped your lunch, nerd.”
Before Max could respond, Kratos delivered a sharp kick to Max’s face, sending him sprawling to the floor. Pain exploded across Max’s cheek, his glasses nearly flying off. Kratos jumped down from the table, landing squarely on Max’s back with a heavy thud. At 195 pounds, Kratos’ full weight crushed Max into the floor, the Air Jordan’s rubber outsole digging into his spine. Max gasped, the air forced from his lungs, pain radiating through his entire body as he struggled to breathe under the oppressive force.
“Yo, Chaz,” Kratos called, grinding his heel slightly. “Let’s make a real mess.”
Chaz laughed, stepping forward and stomping his Air Force 1s into the spilled spaghetti. The white leather soles smeared through the sauce, chunks of meat and pasta sticking to the rubber. Kratos joined in, his Jordans crushing the bread into a pulpy mess, sauce splattering up the sides of his sneakers. They worked in tandem, their movements almost choreographed, turning the food into a grotesque paste on the floor. The squelching of pasta and crunching of bread filled the air, punctuated by their laughter.
“Man, this is better than lunch,” Chaz said, grinding his heel into a particularly large chunk of meat. “Look at this shit stick!”
Kratos smirked, lifting his foot to inspect the mess clinging to his sole. “Yo, Max, you’re gonna clean this up for us. Right now.”
Max, still sprawled on the floor, hesitated, his stomach churning with disgust and fear. “P-please, just leave me alone,” he stammered, his voice barely audible.
Kratos’ expression darkened. He stomped down on Max’s hand, making him cry out. “What was that? You talkin’ back?” he growled. “Lick the soles clean, nerd. Now.”
Chaz joined in, planting his Air Force 1 on Max’s shoulder. “Yeah, don’t make us ask again, loser.”
Max’s hands shook as he pushed himself up slightly, his face inches from Kratos’ sauce-covered Jordan. The smell of Bolognese mixed with the faint rubbery scent of the sneaker made him gag, but he knew he had no choice. Swallowing his pride, he stuck out his tongue and began licking the sole, the bitter taste of sauce and dirt coating his mouth. The crowd’s laughter grew louder, some students pulling out their phones to record the scene.
“Damn, look at him go!” Chaz said, snapping another picture. “This kid’s a fuckin’ rug.”
Max moved to Chaz’s Air Force 1 next, the white leather now streaked with red sauce and bits of pasta. Each lick felt like a betrayal of himself, but the weight of their threats kept him going. He worked until both pairs of sneakers gleamed again, the soles free of any trace of food.
“Good boy,” Kratos said, patting Max’s head like a dog. “Now the floor. Lick it clean.”
Max’s heart sank. The tiles were filthy, covered not just with his lunch but with the grime of countless footsteps. “Please, Kratos, I can’t—”
Chaz cut him off with a sharp kick to Max’s side, making him wince. “You heard him. Get to it.”
Tears welled in Max’s eyes, but he lowered his face to the floor, his tongue brushing against the cold, sticky tiles. The taste was vile—sauce mixed with dust and something unidentifiable. He forced himself to keep going, the crowd’s jeers ringing in his ears.
When the floor was as clean as he could manage, Kratos and Chaz weren’t done. They stepped onto Max’s back again, using his grey t-shirt as a rag to wipe the remaining sauce from their soles. The fabric stained red and brown, the Supreme logos on their hoodies looming above him like banners of victory.
“Man, this kid’s better than a doormat,” Kratos said, laughing as he ground his Jordan into Max’s back.
Chaz nodded, giving Max one final kick to the ribs. “Yeah, let’s bounce. This was too good.”
They stepped off, leaving Max crumpled on the floor, his t-shirt ruined, his face smeared with sauce, and his dignity shattered. As they walked away, Chaz pulled out his phone, checking the Instagram post. “Yo, Kratos, this shit’s blowing up already. Listen to these comments: ‘LMAO, Max is done for!’ ‘Kratos and Chaz own this kid!’ Oh, and someone posted a video of him licking the soles. It’s got, like, 200 likes already.”
Kratos smirked, adjusting his cap. “Send me that vid. We’re gonna need more of this.”
Chaz scrolled through the feed, reading another comment aloud. “‘Yo, those Jordans are fire, and Max is straight-up their bitch.’ Ha! They ain’t wrong.”
As they disappeared into the crowd, Max lay on the floor, his body aching and his mind reeling. The laughter of the other students echoed in his ears, each chuckle a reminder of his place in the school’s cruel hierarchy. He felt broken, used, and utterly alone, knowing this was just another chapter in Kratos and Chaz’s relentless game.
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