The man he had stabbed was now rolling on the ground, clutching his eye and begging for help.
His voice was hoarse, a pathetic whimper mixed with gasps of pain.
"Please... please... take me to a hospital," he pleaded, tears mixing with the blood streaming down his face.
Zayn stood over him, his breath ragged, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
His hands trembled, not from fear but from the sheer exertion of the fight. He looked down at the man with a cold, unforgiving glare.
It was their fault. If he was weak, they would have killed him already. There was no need for him to feel pity for people like them.
"You should have thought about that before attacking me," he responded, delivering a brutal kick to the man's side.
The force of it sent the man sprawling, his cries turning into a gurgling moan.
The others backed away; their eyes wide with fear. No one dared to challenge him now.
The metal rod in his hand, slick with blood, was a stark reminder of what he was capable of.
They all thought he was just some nice, naive kid—a university student who had stumbled into the underground world out of sheer misfortune.
But they couldn't have been more wrong. Zayn was far from innocent.
He harbored a dark secret, one that had been carefully tucked away beneath layers of therapy and medication.
When his parents died, he spiraled into a deep depression. The grief was a heavy chain around his neck, pulling him into the depths of despair.
He found solace not in tears or words but in violence.
The streets became his battleground, and addicts were his targets, manifestations of the very substance that had taken his parents from him.
In those years, he had records of beating down people, venting his rage on their broken bodies.
He wasn't proud of it, but it had been his way of coping.
To keep up with the fights, he taught himself how to throw punches, dodge blows, and inflict pain. His body became a weapon, honed by the streets.
But it wasn't that he was all bad.
He was a good citizen, aside from his side hustle of beating thugs up.
Zayn had even helped many people who were robbed and bullied by others on the street, and he never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it.
This was also the reason why his uncle had stepped in after seeing his potential, pulling him out of the downward spiral and placing him in therapy.
Slowly, with the help of professionals and medication, he began to heal.
The darkness receded, though it never truly disappeared. It was dormant, kept at bay by the pills he religiously took to calm his nerves and keep his anger in check.
For years, he was fine. His life took on a semblance of normalcy. He was just another kid, living life, chasing dreams, playing football, and building a future.
As long as he took his medication, the monster within stayed buried.
Ironically, his uncle was also the reason this side of him had awakened again.
The sudden kidnapping, the brutal beatings, the suffocating stress of being dragged to an unknown location—it all cracked the walls he had built around his darker self.
Now, that old him was back. The one who didn't flinch at the sight of blood, who didn't hesitate to inflict pain to those who deserved it.
"This should teach you all a lesson!" Zayn snarled, slamming the metal rod down over and over onto the man's head.
Each sickening thud echoed through the container, a brutal sound that sent shivers down the spines of everyone watching.
Even those who thought they'd seen it all instinctively backed into the cold metal walls, their bodies pressed tight, as if they could somehow shrink away from the terror that Zayn was displaying.
They had seen suffering, brutality, even death—but this... this was different. He wasn't just another victim, another captive. He was something else entirely.
When he was done, the man's face was unrecognizable. His nose was smashed, teeth scattered like shattered porcelain, and his eyes were swollen, one of them barely open, the other a broken mess of blood and flesh.
There was no doubt—if left alone, the man would die.
Zayn stood over him, breathing heavily. He did all of this because he knew that now that blood had been spilled, this whole place had become a battleground—either he killed or he would be killed.
He wasn't dumb enough to trust people like them.
Just as he was about to walk closer to the three men, they suddenly dropped to their knees.
"Please, spare us!" one of them begged, his voice shaking. "We'll serve you! We won't bother you anymore!"
The others quickly followed; hands raised in surrender.
They had seen what he was capable of, and now they knew they were at his mercy.
He paused, looking down at them.
For a moment, he considered their words. They were weak, desperate to survive, just like everyone else.
But then one of them lunched and tried to tackle him.
"I expected that, you moron," he jumped back and drove his knee into the man's chin.
Then, without wasting a moment, he swung the rod down, smashing it into his attacker's head.
The other two made a move as well, but Zayn was far more physically fit than them.
They tried to fight back, but their exhaustion, unhealthy lifestyles, and the fear that gripped them were too much.
After a few exchanges, they crumpled to the ground, unable to continue.
Zayn didn't stop. He kept battering their heads, each blow harder than the last.
He knew these men could kill him later if he let them live. It was safer to end it now.
Was it too much? He didn't care.
Right now, his survival was the only thing that mattered.