Stomp.
Stomp.
Stomp.
The sounds of feet colliding with flesh echoed through the alley, reverberating off the cold, plastered walls.
The Iron Vipers stood around, some looking stunned, others unable to meet the scene with their eyes, turning their heads away. But the sound continued.
Stomp.
Stomp.
Stomp.
And there Mikey was, motionless—coiled up on the ground, his arms wrapped around his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself.
Mikey's body was covered in grime, bruises forming along his skin, yet the beating didn't stop. Son just kept going, relentless. His boots hammered down, one after another, his stomps landing without any particular rhythm, hitting Mikey's chest, his head—wherever he pleased.
The brutal force drove Mikey's face to the side, but he barely reacted, barely flinched. He only grunted with each impact, his body curling tighter in an attempt to absorb the pain.
