In the dim, narrow alleyway, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed—a sickening rhythm of thuds and grunts punctuated by sharp, breathless gasps. *Thud.* *Thwack.* *Ugh.* The symphony of violence reverberated off the grimy walls, an unsettling harmony of cruelty.

Three boys, each around sixteen years old, towered over their victim—a boy of similar age who lay crumpled on the cold, unforgiving ground. His body curled into itself, arms wrapped around his head in a futile attempt to shield himself from the relentless onslaught. Two of the boys took turns kicking him in the stomach, their boots sinking into his flesh with a viciousness that forced guttural grunts from his lips.

At the back, the third boy watched with a twisted smirk. He was fat, well-fed, and flaunted his status with stylish clothes, a flashy gold necklace, and sunglasses that perched arrogantly on his nose despite the darkness of the night. His name was Bruce, and he relished the power he held over William.

"Not so tough now, William, huh?" Bruce sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as he spat on the boy who was writhing in pain beneath them. The others continued their brutal work, the sound of their kicks mingling with William's pained groans.

As the beating went on, a cold realization settled in William's mind—they really intended to kill him this time. "I shouldn't have called him fat in front of those girls..." The thought flitted through his mind, regret mingling with the sharp sting of fear. "I'm really going to die this time..."

Bruce's hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out a small knife. The blade caught the faint glimmer of a distant streetlight as he bent down, his face level with William's. With one hand, he yanked William's blond hair, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. The blade's cold metal pressed against William's cheek, a cruel reminder of how fragile his life had become.

"No one will care if you die, William," Bruce whispered, his voice laced with malice.

In a final act of defiance, William spat in Bruce's face. The spittle clung to Bruce's cheek, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. Then, in a burst of rage, Bruce's hand jerked forward, plunging the knife into William's stomach. Blood sprayed across the three boys, staining their clothes and faces with the evidence of their crime.

The knife clattered to the ground as Bruce's hand went limp, horror dawning in his eyes. He hadn't meant to go this far—he'd only wanted to scare him, to teach him a lesson. But now...now the boy was dying.

The other boys recoiled in terror, their faces paling as the reality of what they'd done set in. One of them stammered, "Why did you kill him?"

But Bruce was beyond words. Overcome with fear, he turned and bolted down the alley, his footsteps fading into the night. The others soon followed, their flight driven by a panic they could not contain.

William lay there, alone, with blood pooling around him. The pain was unbearable, radiating from his stomach in waves that blurred his vision. But beneath the pain was something deeper—a burning hatred that consumed him. Hatred for the boys who had done this to him, for a world that only cared about the rich and strong, and for the parents who had abandoned him at an orphanage, leaving him to fend for himself.

"If I survive this..." The thought flickered in his mind, half-formed, as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. "I'll rip that fat bastard's hand off and shove it up his ass..."

But the pain was too much, and he felt himself slipping away. His last thought, bitter and laced with irony, was of the date. Happy birthday to me...

As life drained from his body, the alleyway was consumed by an unnatural silence. The darkness thickened, becoming a tangible presence that light could no longer penetrate. Then, in the stillness, a single sound broke through—*Ding.*