Part of Chapter 2, might be edited in the future. It's my first time writing a fight scene, you could say. There's some vulgar language, so beware.

7: Scars

The date of the incident: March 2nd, 2020 - 3:46 p.m. (ET)

It was a dark and stormy afternoon. Gray clouds infested the sky above, from which rain fell and soaked everything that wasn't shielded or covered. Much to Lincoln's dismay, he had no choice but to walk home from school that day. Seriously? He had always hated walking home from school. It was the cat to his dog, the toothpaste to his orange juice. Earlier, the morning was relatively sunny and the temperature was quite warm for March. Then, he couldn't see the need to bring an umbrella or a heavy coat to school — it seemed like it was going to be a nice day.

"Stupid me!" Lincoln thought, cursing himself. The rain continued to fall, and the water droplets tapped and sprinkled his pocket bomber jacket, which stood out in a distinct orange color. "Why am I always forgetting to check the weather report?!"

He sauntered along the sidewalk of a solitary road. Many small-owned businesses had been established in the area, though not many people were outside due to the weather. The street ahead disappeared in a thick cloud of mist, limiting Lincoln's vision to a bare minimum. It was strangely quiet — the habitual sounds of the city were noticeably absent — and it was only the sound of the rain hitting the pavement that filled the air.

"Though I feel like garbage, the s-st-still nature is quite n.. n-nice." he stated, his voice breaking as he shivered from the cold. "If I h.. h-had an umbrella and a good coat, I'd be all set. But thanks to my i-i-ignorance, I'm soaked and fr-fr.. freezing cold!"

He hugged himself and kept his arms sandwiched together, trying to trap any of the heat that his body provided.

The white-haired boy continued his stroll, walking alongside the empty shops that packed the street, which included a few notable ones, such as the ice cream parlor near the intersection of Vinnie and Foxdell Road. Despite his bodily predicament, he found the rainy atmosphere relaxing. It was like a wonderful lullaby that could send anyone to sleep. The sound of falling rain had such a predictable pattern that it got processed as a soothing, non-threatening noise. Lincoln felt at ease — a feeling any young person would desire when walking alone. Travelling back home on foot didn't seem to be such a bad idea — after all, he just needed a better coat. That was, until a desperate voice sprang out from the distance.

"Dude! Just leave me alone!" someone yelled from afar in a tone laced with distress.

His peaceful stroll was seemingly going to wind up in the gutter — there must've been a fight, or some kind of assault, happening nearby. Lincoln, who wanted to make sure he wasn't hearing things, stopped in his tracks to listen for anything else.

"Yeah, I don't think so. Maybe you should hand me your glasses while you're down there." an intimidating voice, belonging to someone else, dared. "I'm going for a new look.."

That voice immediately rang a bell, and it didn't take Lincoln long to figure out who it was — Arnold Sawyer, who happened to be one of the most infamous bullies at school, or as Lincoln referred to, a prick. He would always give Lincoln a hard time — he called him immature names in the hallway, pushed him around like a broken down car, and stole his stuff whenever he got an open window. Worst of all, people actually had the nerve to laugh at his jokes — even though they were unoriginal and unfunny — not to mention they were vivid in Lincoln's mind.

"Shut up, Loud! You really live up to your last name. I feel kind of bad for you..."

"So... Loud? Have they diagnosed you with albinism yet?"

"You should spend your extra time working out instead of reading those... comics of yours. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if your right arm is ripped."

"If I had two lists: one recording every time you'll get friend-zoned, and a list of every person on earth, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference."

"I've seen more meat on a chicken wing than you."

...And each of these were followed by the repulsive laughter of his schoolmates.

Lincoln clenched his fists and angrily huffed through his nostrils. Those comments made him fume with rage — and they never failed to do so. Why did he, out of all people, have to be the target? Why did anyone have to be the target? He couldn't help but feel empathy for the distressed boy. Lincoln's friends had previously classified Arnold as a 'class A' bully, and deemed him a dangerous threat to anyone who didn't have a prestigious social status. His affairs outside of school grounds lay behind a curtain, and the horrors beyond it were hidden from the public's eye. But now, Lincoln was only yards away from someone who was being jumped by Arnold.

"Come on! I can't, glasses are expensive!" the victim pleaded, his voice puncturing the silent atmosphere like a wretched dagger.

I need to help this poor kid, Lincoln thought while silently moving in the noise's direction, I can't just let him go through that...

Lincoln found himself nearing shops to the right of the street. Each of his steps were followed by splashes from the rainwater pooling on the ground, accompanying the static sound of the rain falling. Arnold's relentless bullying continued, giving him more insight as to what was happening.

"Hmm, who cares?!" Arnold said. "Give them here, or I'll bash your face in. You don't want another one, don't you?"

Lincoln felt butterflies in his stomach as he neared the source of the noise, the bully's threats jabbing at his primal instinct to run. The racing beat of his heart pulsated under his fingertips — it was clear that Arnold intimidated Lincoln — even though he treated him as just another asshole who was trying to get trouble. Nonetheless, the bully was a little bit taller than him, maybe by an inch, so about five foot, eleven inches tall. Due to Lincoln's frail figure, a fight between the two would be unmatched. Being an athlete, Arnold was much more physically durable and stronger — Lincoln wouldn't be surprised if the latter had already gotten into a few fights as well.

I'm not gonna try fighting him, Lincoln thought, planning his course of action, no way I'm going to do that. I just need to... distract Arnold, let the kid run, then I'll immediately run away.

Scuffling could be heard in an alleyway directly ahead of the white-haired boy, to his right — and Lincoln knew that he was just a few meters away from them. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the horrors which were waiting for him around the brick wall. He stomped towards the narrow street, and stood at its mouth. Lincoln felt like he was on the verge of passing out. He wanted to make an intimidating threat, but instead, a fear-stricken voice ended up coming from his lips.

"G-get off him, Arnold!" Lincoln ordered. Realization hit him like a brick wall. If they couldn't see fear, they could definitely hear it.

Ahead of him wasn't one bully, but four. On the wet pavement laid a boy who trembled in anguish. By the looks of it, he kept long curly black hair which partially hung over his face, and sported a heavy raincoat with a pair of grey wash jeans. His attire was soaked and covered in dirt. Lincoln couldn't tell if he was crying or just had rainwater streaming down his face — though there was a noticeable streak of red that ran down his nostril.

The ripe smell of garbage was stifled by the aroma of dead leaves and rainwater, and it intensified near a steel dumpster further down the alley. A few black garbage bags piled around it, hiding the profanities written on the dumpster's surface by juveniles looking for trouble. Apart from that, nothing else was in the alleyway. It only led to a dead end.

All four tormentors glared at Lincoln. The other bullies at the scene were part of Arnold's notorious 'squad.' To the right stood Xavier Ferguson, a juvenile with a slim figure and an astonishing height, towering over the rest of the group. He was wearing a blue hoodie with the inscription "Royal Woods" in bold yellow letters, along with a branded pair of black joggers. Next to him was Chandler McCann, Lincoln's arch-nemesis from elementary school. He wore a lime fall jacket — the hood shrouding his striking auburn hair — matched with a pair of grey jeans. Lincoln failed to identify the third bully, but he appeared to be a senior student dressed in all black apparel, like a hidden predator waiting for the perfect time to strike. Last of all, Arnold Sawyer stood amongst them, the man himself — the leader. From the moment Lincoln stepped into the welcoming doors of his high school, he became a huge adversary for him, causing all sorts of needless trouble for the lad. He was decked out in a large red hoodie and a pair of khakis, which Lincoln considered 'a poor choice of clothes.' The white-haired boy, now facing the problem he had underestimated, felt his heart jump out of his chest as they all gave him fierce death glares.

Arnold stepped forward, emitting a low, menacing laugh. "You know, out of all people.. I wouldn't expect you to try and stop us." Lincoln did his best to keep his ground, even after his primal instincts started urging him to get the hell out of there.

Upon spotting the distinct white hair, Chandler McCann started to laugh hysterically. "Seriously?! It really is Lincoln Lame! Good ol' Lincoln Lame!"

Wow, that name was nothing short of cringe-inducing.

Saying that name made him feel exhilarated. Whenever he asserted dominance — through any way, shape or form — it satisfied him in a way that made him feel whole. However, when he looked at the boy who was lying on the ground, he felt an ounce of regret, and his cocky grin lost its curve. The betrayal he felt must've been unimaginable — maybe replacing him with Lincoln wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Shut up Chandler, we aren't in sixth grade anymore. Plus, you aren't any tougher than I am."

The auburn-haired boy crossed his arms and looked to the side. "Whatever, I'll always be more popular than you," he shot, cracking his knuckles.

Arnold stepped forward and stomped his boot on the pavement, prompting Lincoln to flinch and give him some ground. He wanted to run away but he couldn't bring himself to. A quick glance at the victim, who shivered on the freezing ground, was enough to convince him to stay. Lincoln wanted to get him out of there.

"Listen Arnie, just let him go." Lincoln gibed, gesturing to the kid on the floor amidst the gang of bullies.

Arnold felt his blood boil.

Arnie.

He hated that nickname. Whenever someone addressed him using that name, memories revolving around him and his older brother flooded his thoughts. They had an inseparable bond — sharing the best moments — and his brother would always tease him with the nickname 'Arnie.' That was, until his brother tried to murder him, when he was only eleven years old.

There he was at the park, lying injured in the mud, as seventeen-year-old Adrian Sawyer held a large rock painted with his brother's blood above his head, ready to end him forever. As his alcohol-laced breath formed a mist cloud between tired puffs, and as the fresh winter snow fell slowly and calmly, he mischievously said, "It's time to sleep, Arnie," before he was tackled by nearby adults.

Nobody else needed to call him Arnie, and he wouldn't let them get away with it, either.

Arnold looked back and muttered something to his friends. "Who the hell does this kid think he is? Arnie?!" Then, he turned to his victim, who was still lying on the floor like roadkill. "You know what, get the hell out of here and keep your glasses."

The boy looked up at them, his eyes glistening with tears, shocked. "...W-what?"

Xavier pushed past his friend and bellowed, "Go! Move your ass!"

The boy complied hastily, grabbing a grey backpack which sat a few feet away from him. Lincoln was barely able to get a good look at his face before he ran off, but what he did catch was a look of extreme fear, one that was even distinguishable through the soaked lenses of his glasses. The encounter with the bullies had clearly shaken him up.

Before fleeing the scene, the victim quavered, "Thanks... Lincoln."

Now that he was left to fend for himself, Lincoln drew his attention back to the bullies, who looked like rabid animals ready to attack. He felt his heart beating in his throat. There was nothing but silence, and the sound of the rain tapping the ground was lost behind the tension. He knew that if he wanted to escape without getting caught, he needed to book it.

Now.

The four bullies noticed Lincoln's attempt to escape as he frantically turned to run. They didn't give up their last victim for nothing, so Xavier, using his long arms to his advantage, ran after him, reaching out and grabbing him by the backpack. The straps tugged on Lincoln's shoulders, bringing him straight to the ground, and he took a hard fall on his back. Xavier seized the nerdy teen's jacket, dragging him deeper into the alleyway. Almost immediately, the freezing asphalt pierced Lincoln's skin through a wave of physical shock, even through the warm confines of his jacket. He used his best efforts to escape, but to no avail.

"Hah! Look at him, he looks like a squirming fish!" Chandler ridiculed, shining light on Lincoln's helpless attempts to escape Xavier.

Xavier loosened his grip on Lincoln's coat, and he sat upwards. Panic surged through him as he watched two of the bullies block off the alleyway's exit. He looked the other way frantically, but it only led to a dead end. At this point, there wasn't a chance that he was going to escape scot-free. Arnold approached Lincoln, and dipped his head in a sinister grin.

"I thought I made it clear to you 'little sausage link' that I'm a force to be reckoned with...but clearly I was wrong. And that's okay, people learn differently," Arnold claimed while he cracked his knuckles, gearing himself up for a beatdown. "I will make sure you'll never forget this moment."

His eyes narrowed on Lincoln.

Like a scared little kid, Lincoln pushed himself away from Arnold using his feet, dragging his butt along the rough asphalt. He jumped up, desperately looking one way to another, just to see nothing but people or walls that barricaded his escape. Arnold took advantage of the now-distracted Lincoln and snatched the dull blue backpack which hung loosely from his shoulders. When he tried to fight back for its possession, multiple arms wrapped around his body — Xavier and the senior student were holding Lincoln against his will — restricting his ability to move freely, while Arnold unzipped his backpack.

"Stop!" Lincoln demanded, trying to force himself out of the bullies' grip, but to no avail. They were undoubtedly much stronger than the Loud boy, and pretty much rendered him motionless. He gritted his teeth in silent fury, and the sight made Arnold chortle in celebration, knowing that he had successfully gotten on his nerves. Their eyes met for a brief second, and glares of hatred penetrated them both.

"Let's see what we have here," Arnold said, breaking their locked eyes to focus on Lincoln's backpack. He shuffled through its contents, and pulled out a few to wave them in his victim's face. "A few notebooks… Oh, cool! Science material. That could be useful."

"Don't even think about stealing my stuff," Lincoln spat.

In response, Arnold looked up, a daring look casted on his face.

"Ay, shut yo ugly ass up," the senior student said while restricting Lincoln.

"It's fine, Nate, let that stupid windbag carry on," Arnold said. "If he wants to keep talking, let him be. He'll see what happens next."

Well, Arnold's words successfully made Lincoln shut his mouth. After being met with nothing but disappointing findings, Arnold decided to turn the humiliation up a notch. He approached the Loud boy, who stared at him with eyes flaming in anger. The bully turned the bag over Lincoln's head and emptied all of its contents. Lincoln tried to brace himself by tensing every muscle in his upper area, but each object painfully thumped his head. Then, Arnold ran further down the alleyway, giving him and Lincoln some ground. Standing upright and confidently, he got ready to have the time of his life.

"Alright boys, let him go. Let's see what he's got, and most importantly, let's have fun," Arnold said, those last words — fun — sending chills down Lincoln's spine. "Alright grandpa, are you ready to fight?"

Fight? Well shit!

His heart sank deeper than it ever has before. Lincoln wasn't equipped nor prepared to fight a bully like Arnold. Not only would he face one, but four of these bullies?! There wasn't a chance of escaping their wrath — their act of vengeance had enveloped the target, and now he was forced to endure a cycle of regret, anger and terror. His thoughts were like a washer on a spin cycle — unable to be collected as they tumbled around his chamber of thoughts, frantically looking to be recognized and processed. At this point, a complete beatdown was inevitable. However — in spite of everything — he was clearly able to show one emotion, and that was fear. Standing frozen in the alley, his knees trembling, Lincoln stood still like a deer caught in headlights.

"What are you waiting for?" Arnold said, flashing his hands at him in a provocative manner. "I'm giving you a chance to strike first. Don't be a bitch."

The bullies blocking the exit gave Lincoln a little nudge with their shoulder, and he stumbled a few feet forward. "Do it, cumstain hair. You don't wanna see what happens if you don't," Xavier turned his head back swiftly and muttered something in Nathaniel's (Nate) ear to keep Lincoln from hearing, "I say we break the dick's arm if he doesn't."

"Fine..." Lincoln drawled, bringing his shoulders back.

His attention — now focused on Arnold, who was swallowed deep into the alleyway — was fueled by the blazing fire of hatred, mixed in with the cold winds of fear; the more of it Arnold harvested, the faster the fire would spread.

Lincoln, being forced to fight, made a dash for his opponent, even with the knowledge that he would easily get subdued. Unfortunately, he was right. Just as Lincoln neared him, Arnold stepped aside and stuck his leg out, and, due to the scarce time he had to react, Lincoln ended up tripping over Arnold's leg. The ground came to meet his eyes, and in a last ditch effort, he tried to break his fall using his palms. The tiny rocks engraved into the ground prodded every area that was unprotected, making him wince in pain. Arnold laughed mischievously.

"Seriously? I didn't even throw a punch and you're already down on the ground," Arnold taunted, leaning against the brick wall.

Before getting back up, Lincoln spat, "We aren't done just yet."

He got back on his feet, looking daggers at Arnold. His goons were laughing hysterically at Lincoln's defeat, and Arnold soon chimed in. Once their repulsive laughter subsided, they began to close in on him.

"Come on, Arnold, it's time we stop messing around. Let's show this asshole we really mean business."

As soon as these words made their mark, Lincoln was caught off guard when Chandler rammed him into the brick wall.

He wasn't necessarily big, but dang, if you're not prepared, you'll get knocked off your feet.

He pushed him up against the wall, using his arm to keep Lincoln's face planted against the brick, each rough edge pressing into Lincoln's right cheek.

"Get him back on the ground!" Xavier said before Lincoln felt multiple arms pull him downwards, and he soon found himself back on the wet asphalt, sprawled on his stomach.

He braced himself as multiple shoes came into contact with his stomach, daring his lunch to expel itself. He tried to get in the best position to shield himself, but he wasn't very experienced in the realm of combat. In fact, the only place he had ever gotten into a fight was at home, excluding the time he and his friends fought for a girl's affection — shit, he prefers to forget that one. However, it was never as bad as this — whenever Lincoln found himself in a tussle with his siblings, it was usually everybody for themselves — not ten against one. Unfortunately, now that Lincoln was being wailed on by four hefty guys, the word "fight" seemed to have a completely different meaning — one that would forever churn the memories of this predicament.

"Alright enough, enough!" Arnold said, putting his arms out to stop his friends from throwing anymore kicks. They staggered back a little, giving the now-bruised Lincoln some room to breathe. "..get him back on his feet so we can do something even better."

Arnold seized Lincoln's coat and jolted him up violently before turning away in disgust — spit had been dripping from their victim's lips in short intervals, and ran down the front of his pocket bomber. Revolted, Arnold shoved him towards Nathaniel, the bully coated with black apparel. He caught Lincoln and turned him around, their eyes now locked. His expression seemed void of malice.

"Don't worry buddy, I'm not gonna hurt you, little cumstain-haired freak," Nathaniel vowed. Lincoln watched as his facial expression went dark — a sinister smile drew itself across his face, and his eyebrows lowered — before he delivered a powerful right hook. "...I take it back."

The bully's fist had struck Lincoln right across the face, sending Lincoln backwards, his head jerked upwards and cocked to the side. He stumbled back a few steps, eventually finding himself against the opposite wall of the alleyway. It took him a few seconds to make sense of what had happened — Lincoln had started to feel a warm sensation trickle down his nose, and he wiped his upper lip instinctively — then it clicked. He looked on in disbelief after seeing the familiar color of crimson smeared on the skin of his fingers. Not too long later, blood had started to seep from both his nostrils, dripping onto the ground, where it got washed out by the persistent flow of rainwater.

"The hell is the matter with you?!" Lincoln chastised, wiping the stream of blood away from his mouth a second time.

Xavier set his eyes on his bully friend, "Damn, I think you broke his nose... and I'm proud."

Proud.

That word made Lincoln crinkle his nose in disgust.

Pride... pride from harming others. What a piece of garbage.

Right when the worst seemed to be over, Chandler charged at Lincoln in an attempt to tackle him. Fortunately, he was no bigger than him, and much less intimidating than the other three. As a matter of fact, Lincoln tended to find him more annoying than menacing.

Just another idiot begging to be big league shit, even though he probably wouldn't make it past the first few minutes of a sports game. He exploited me and my sister, nitpicked everything about me, found every single way to make my life miserable... and the list goes on.

The now-pissed off Lincoln immersed himself in the moment — eyes narrowed and fists curled, his pent-up rage a timebomb needing to be diffused. As soon as Chandler got close enough, Lincoln's right arm bent back like he was checking a wristwatch. With a balled fist, he slung it forward, and ended up landing a good one on his arch-nemesis' jaw. The auburn-haired boy staggered, nearly losing his balance from the blow, surprised. However, that surprise quickly turned to anger. He massaged and rubbed the affected area, the pain arriving slowly but surely. The timebomb had been stopped — but a gaping hole still remained — the satisfaction was only momentary. Lincoln could feel their desire to rip him apart; to tear into his soft flesh like wild animals. All with no empathy whatsoever.

Arnold shook his head and lightly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Huh, you just can't stop screwing up," he said, looking up and revealing the daggers in his eyes, "It's fine, keep digging your own grave," His grin then widened with animosity, and his eyes portrayed a sinister outlook into the future.

Taking him by surprise, Xavier and Nate took hold of Lincoln's arms once again, successfully constraining him, despite the boy's vicious attempts to fight them off. Chandler also joined in, putting Lincoln in a headlock to limit his head movement. Arnold approached the now-restrained Lincoln, satisfied with the terrified look on his face.

Hey! Look at me! My face is right here, ready to be made into any shape you want! Wanna know what I ate today? Give me a few hard punches in the breadbasket and you'll find out! If you hate me so much, how about you take away my ability to have kids! Kick my testicles so hard that my scrotum inflates like a balloon and my piss goes red! I have a suggestion, how about you dye my white hair red! I don't wanna look like a seventy-year-old man anymore!

Lincoln's lip pursed, the stifling constraint bowling him over in walls of rough emotions — he didn't know whether to feel scared, angry, or confident. Arnold's devious smirk spoke volumes about the punishment he had in mind, and Lincoln used his best efforts to escape their captivity, but to no avail — Lincoln was forced to stay still, and wait to find out what Arnold had in mind, staring fearfully with his head tilted up — Arnold stood in front of him like an immovable wall. He didn't move a muscle, and, surrounded by unsettling silence, let his facial expression do the talking. Lincoln watched in horror as Arnold made his first movements, cocking his right arm back and slightly bringing his left shoulder outwards. Lincoln anticipated a huge blow any second. With a clenched face and suppressed breath, Lincoln silently braced for impact. Then, with a tremendous amount of force, Arnold threw a punch Lincoln's way.

The sudden collision between the fist and Lincoln's stomach knocked the wind out of him, small ripples of fat cascading across his nearly-taut belly. His legs gave way to the pressure, but the boys prevented him from hitting the floor.

"Keep him upright. I'm still not done!" Arnold demanded, before delivering another punch, this time colliding with Lincoln's left cheek. His battered skin had started to feel raw, and grew a red pigment. Another punch in the same spot would likely break his cheekbone.

He needed to fight back, in any way, shape or form.

Now.

The aches from Arnold's punches were softened by his pumping adrenaline, so he did his best to fight off his attacker by throwing a few kicks at him; his legs were the only members that weren't restricted. He managed to land a decent kick to Arnold's groin — right between his legs, Lincoln's shin arched upwards, before it violently smashed Arnold's balls against the bottom of his pelvis. He responded by dropping to his knees, guarding his manhood with both hands. He bowed his head and hissed in pain — the soreness a blazing fire that seized his crotch.

"Aargh, you damn son of a bitch!"

With Arnold in a vulnerable position, Lincoln tried to land another kick, this time to Arnold's face, but the three boys holding him threw him to the ground. Lincoln landed on the wet asphalt with a loud thump, the impact making his entire head rattle. Then, without warning, the three bullies started to batter him with their feet and shins. Each hit shook his body to the core.

"You've... taken... a... liking... to kicking... I see?" Xavier panted, speaking through short breaths and grunts. He, Chandler and Nathaniel continuously striked Lincoln with hard blows, without any regard for his well-being. "Well, I hope you... enjoy... it when you're... on the receiving end."

Lincoln's mind entered panic mode. He was overwhelmed by their kicks, to the extent that he couldn't move without being knocked back down. The thought of suffering hospitalizing injuries made him cringe; at this rate, he could wind up with a few broken ribs. The worry got the better of him, and he released a loud cry of distress, which somewhat startled them all. The piercing sound made a few of them cover their ears, and they paused their beatdown — however, the alert wasn't exclusive to them — and a nearby shop owner responded to the unrest, notified by Lincoln's wrenching call.

"Hey!" someone in the distance yelled, magnetizing the bullies' attention with their venomous tone. "What the fuck is going on?! You punks... or whoever's out there... get the hell out of here!" Chandler, Xavier, and Nathaniel focused on the opening of the alleyway, dumfounded, as the person seemingly got closer. "Now!"

They took the hint and made a run for it. Though they were planning on continuing their victim's beatdown, they refused to accept the risk of getting caught. One altercation with an adult and they'd find themselves in police custody. Xavier, Nathaniel and Chandler fled the scene, telling Arnold to run as they went, leaving their victim on the ground, trembling with angst. Arnold didn't leave immediately; instead, he gave Lincoln one final threat — to top the sundae, and give some sort of closure.

Standing above Lincoln like a titan, Arnold began to speak, "Listen here you little shit, treat this as your final warning; if you ever meddle with my affairs again, I won't hesitate to make your life a living hell!" He backed out of the alleyway cautiously and slowly — he struggled with his legs, crippled by his burning crotch, as tears fell from his eyes, "What you'd deal with wouldn't even compare to this!" He turned to leave, not before stopping in his tracks at the mouth of the alleyway.

"Leave before I call the police!" the same voice commanded.

Before leaving his victim to ponder, Arnold's head shot back, and he scowled at him one last time before fleeing the scene. Knowing that someone was on their case, he disappeared in the thick cloud of mist, leaving nothing but a scarred boy, hidden within the musty depths of an alleyway. It was clear that even the toughest had their respective fears, and in Arnold's case, it was getting caught.

What a coward...

Lincoln, now left with some room to breathe, took a bit of time to reflect on the fight, and the moments that led up to it. Though his heart was pounding aggressively, the pain — which used to be muffled by his pumping adrenaline — had started to kick in.

He vividly remembered seeing their previous victim, who was subject to suffering and torment — but for what reason? As far as he knew, the scene had looked nothing different from helpless prey caught in a circle of predators. Insensitive beings. It all seemed obvious; he needed help.

But his pained state had dogged him to question his actions — was it actually worth fighting for? He was currently in a similar position as that boy once was; lying on the broken-down pavement as rain sprinkled his bruised face, washing the blood on his lips away and making his injuries sting. However, the long-lasting impression of that boy's frightened face would continue to fight his doubts. Yet one question refused to leave his chamber of thoughts. One which begged to be answered.

Why did I need to suffer... for doing the right thing?

That was his last thought before he returned to the present, officially ending his visit to the abiding memories of the incident.