“No,” the boy says, weaker now. “I don’t even—”
Jackson’s hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of the boy’s shirt and yanking him to his feet. A few of the guys shift as the circle draws tighter around them.
No one steps in.
My fingers clench on the railing.
Jackson leans in, close enough that whatever he says next doesn’t carry up to me, but I don’t need to hear the words to know it’s bad. It’s written all over the younger boy’s face. The way his color drains. The way his mouth opens, then closes again.
Jackson hits him.
A short, clean punch to the face. The boy cries out, folding at the waist, hands flying to his nose, but they don’t stop the blood spilling through his fingers onto the rug below.
The same maroon pattern as the one under my feet.
“Please,” he mumbles.
Another punch thuds into his side, the dulloofof it forcing the air from his lungs. He lists sideways, barely catching himself before he goes down.
I turn to the others, expecting someone to step forward and stop it.
This isn’t a fight. There’s no back and forth. No fairness.
But no one moves. They watch with hunger in their eyes, like they wish it were their fists throwing the punches. I don’t understand how they can just stand there and watch.
Then I see it. This isn’t anger or curiosity. It’s conformity. They crave the violence because it’s expected, because participating, even as a spectator, keeps them part of the pack. Keeps them safe. Step out of line, and you risk being the next body slammed to the ground.
“You think I wouldn’t notice?” Jackson says.
The boy shakes his head quickly, panic breaking through. “I didn’t take anything. I didn’t—”
“I didn’t say you took it.”
The words are a trap snapping shut.
The boy freezes.
Even from up here, I feel the sudden stillness, the way the room seems to inhale, every movement paused. The other men stay motionless, all eyes glued to the spectacle.
Jackson leans in, eyes narrowed, inspecting him like a specimen. “Do you even know what you’re lying about?”
The boy’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
My grip on the railing slips, my palm damp against the wood.
The boy is holding his breath, and I am too. His eyes shine, wet, blinking hard against tears. I see it. How close he is to breaking.
Jackson grabs the boy by the front of his shirt, dragging him closer as his other arm draws back, his fist balled, readyto strike.
The boy cowers before him, already flinching, and there’s an emotion on his face, resigned, already giving in, that hits harder than the violence.
Because I recognize it. I’ve felt it too, that same helpless, choking certainty that pain is coming, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it. I’ve never been hit, but the feeling is the same. The sense that what happens next has been decided, and all that’s left is to endure.
“Stop!”
The word tears out of me before I can catch it. I slap my hands over my mouth, but it’s too late. The room below goes silent. Then, slowly, one by one, they all look up.
At me.
