The man he stabbed rolled on the ground, clutching his eye and begging for help.
"Please... please... take me to a hospital," he pleaded, tears mixing with the blood streaming down his face.
Zayn stood over him with a merciless expression. They had pushed him to act this way, so they couldn't blame him for being heartless.
Looking at the metal rod, he saw it tremble—not from fear, but from the adrenaline coursing through his body.
"You should have thought about that before trying to kill me," he sneered and delivered a brutal kick to the side.
The force sent the man sprawling, his cries turning into a gurgling moan.
No one dared to get close to him now. The metal rod in his hand, slick with blood, reminded everyone of what he was capable of.
They all thought he was just some naive rich kid.
But they couldn't have been more wrong. He was far from innocent.
He carried a dark secret, one hidden beneath layers of therapy and medication.
When his parents got murdered, grief sank him into a deep depression.
Solace didn't come in tears or words from friends but in violence.
The streets became his playground, and addicts were his targets, the embodiment of the substance that had taken his parents away from him.
Over the years, he had records of beating people down, venting his rage on their broken bodies. He wasn't proud of it, but it was how he coped.
To survive 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.
Zayn helped many victims of robbery and bullying, and he never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it.
That was why his uncle stepped in. Seeing his potential for good, he pulled him from the streets and placed him in therapy.
Slowly, with professional help and medication, he began to heal both mentally and physically. His records were also erased with the help of money.
The darkness receded, though it never fully disappeared.
It remained dormant, kept at bay by pills he took to calm his nerves and control his anger.
For years, his life was normal. He was just another kid, living life, playing football, and building a future.
Ironically, it was also his uncle who had brought that side of him back.
The sudden kidnapping, brutal beatings, and suffocating stress of being dragged to an unknown location cracked the walls he 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 on those who deserved it.
He became a beast, far more dangerous than these so-called thugs and criminals.
"This should teach you all a lesson!" Zayn snarled, slamming the metal rod over and over onto the man's head.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Each sickening thud echoed through the metal container, sending shivers down the spines of everyone watching.
They never seen anything like this. He wasn't just another victim or captive. He was something else entirely.
When he finished, the man's face was unrecognizable.
His nose was smashed, teeth scattered like shattered porcelain, eyes swollen—one barely open, the other a broken mess of blood and flesh.
There was no doubt in their mind—he would die if left alone.
Zayn stood over him, breathing heavily. He did all of this because he knew that with blood spilled, this whole place became a battleground.
Either he killed them, or he would be killed. He wasn't dumb enough to trust others.
Just as he was about to walk toward the three men, they suddenly dropped to their knees.
"Please, spare us!" one begged, his voice shaking. "We'll serve you! We won't bother you anymore!"
The others quickly followed; hands raised in surrender.
They saw what he was capable of and knew they were at his mercy.
Zayn 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 lunged, trying to tackle him. Once again, they betrayed him with cheap tactics.
"I expected that, you moron," Zayn sneered as he jumped back and drove his knee into the attacker's chin.
Without wasting a moment, he swung the rod down, and target the head.
The other two made a move, but Zayn was far more physically fit.
Exhaustion, unhealthy lifestyles, and fear slowed them down, turning them into a punching bag for someone athletic.
There's a misconception about street thugs—people assume they're instantly good at fighting just because they act tough.
But in a real fight, someone with actual training would mop the floor with them nine out of ten times.
After a few exchanges, they crumpled to the ground, just as expected.
Zayn didn't stop. He kept battering their heads, each blow harder than the last.
He knew these men would 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.
'I'm doing this to live!' he told himself, gripping the rod tighter and delivering blow after blow, blood spilling and spraying all over his face.
Right now, he looked more like a serial killer than a captive trapped in a shipping container with a bunch of strangers.