"Young Master Grayson, Young Master Grayson, please listen—"Jenkins's face paled, but by then, Grayson had already ended the call.
After hanging up, Grayson lifted his gaze to the sky, tears blurring his vision. Today—would he survive? Or would he perish?
"What did that kid just say on the phone? I couldn't make sense of it.""Neither could I—something about family backup, C-level support. What the hell does that even mean?""Right? Is he serious? Does he actually think he's some hotshot heir from a secretive dynasty?""Feels like he's just messing around.""Messing around? Fourth Miss doesn't joke. When the Red Snake gang shows up…oh, this is going to be good.""I guarantee—it's going to get bloody.""But, to be fair," another voice chimed in, "you've got to respect him—he's fiercely loyal to his girlfriend.""True. He flat-out beat up Kayla for her, and now he's still here, refusing to run, guarding his girlfriend. I respect that."
A few girls in the crowd nodded silently. None voiced it, but inside, many of them felt moved by Grayson's devotion. Which girl wouldn't want a man who'd risk everything to protect her?
Yet everyone eagerly awaited the arrival of the Red Snake gang—Cleveland's top syndicate, rumored to be untouchable.
Suddenly, someone shouted, "They're here!"
At that moment, every head snapped toward the school gate. Hundreds of people pivoted in unison, creating a breathtaking spectacle.
A motorcade eased in through the entrance. Leading the procession was a black Rolls-Royce Phantom—its hallmark square grille exuding wealth and distinction. Just looking at that car inspired a sense of reverence. Its glossy, piano-black paint reflected the sky in waves, giving off a Godfather–style elegance.
"Damn, a Rolls-Royce Phantom? That thing's worth at least half a million!" someone whispered."I heard Kayla's uncle dotes on her. Seems he's come personally. Damn—he's the head of the Red Snake gang. The entire top tier must be here!""No doubt. Every vehicle behind it is high-end—this kid is so screwed."
Behind the Phantom rolled twelve more luxury SUVs: a Porsche Cayenne, a Range Rover, a Maybach, and so on—each custom-stretched or widened. Their presence alone forced the onlookers to step back in awe and fear.
One after another, doors popped open. Dozens of men in black suits disembarked, their lean, imposing figures radiating menace. As soon as they set foot on the pavement, a frigid chill ran through the crowd. Some of the more timid onlookers even started trembling. Damn—this was terrifying.
Nobody wanted Kayla's wrath, but facing a dozen or more black-clad enforcers? Submission was the only option.
From the Rolls-Royce emerged a middle-aged man with a pair of haunting, mismatched snake-like eyes—one gold, one green. A jagged scar slashed across his nose. His left cheek bore a tattoo of a golden serpent dripping blood. When he spoke, he nervously licked a gold tooth embedded with a rival's fang. The back of his shaved head was branded with the gang code "818." When he stared at you, it felt like a rattlesnake locking onto its prey. His black suit only emphasized the cold ruthlessness in his gaze.
Those who knew recognized him instantly: Viktor Navarro, nicknamed "Viper," the undisputed boss of the Red Snake gang.
"Uncle!" Kayla collapsed into his arms, tears of both pain and relief in her eyes. "Uncle, look at my face—my hands, my nails…" She frantically showed him her wounds.
"Sweetheart, don't worry," Viktor soothed, stroking her hair. "With me here, you'll get justice—pure and simple." Then he barked toward his men: "Where's the doctor? Get him over here—now!"
A moment later, a doctor sprinted out of a black Porsche, first-aid kit in hand, followed by two nurses. They tended to Kayla's injuries swiftly but gently. Someone even fetched a plush chair for her to sit on.
The gathered students whispered among themselves:"Damn, even the doctor came—now that's power.""And a chair too. They've thought of everything for her comfort.""Having that kind of money and influence is a trip.""I bet that kid is rethinking his life choices right now.""Too late for regrets, buddy.""Shh… look—something's about to happen."
Suddenly, the chatter died away—like a rowdy study hall flipping silent in an instant. Even the rustling of fallen leaves seemed audible in that stillness.
"Is that them?" Viktor's voice cut through the hush as he pointed at Grayson, still seated by the roadside with Jasmine in his arms.
In one fluid motion, Viktor turned. His black-suited enforcers fanned out into a semicircle, encircling Grayson and Jasmine. The students who had been standing behind them scattered in a panic—no one dared get close.
Crack!
Viktor tossed something at Grayson's feet. It skidded across the concrete—a phone.
The onlookers stared, bewildered. What was this for?
"Call," Viktor said with a mocking wave of his hand, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Give your parents a goodbye call. Starting now, you belong neither to them, nor to this school, nor to this country. You belong to me."
He let his words settle. "Here's what you're in for. First, we'll take you away. Then you'll be delivered to my horticulturists—my artists, if you will. They'll decide what to turn you into. You'll become living art and shipped off to exhibitions in Southeast Asia or Africa. Don't worry, you won't die—you'll still breathe, and people will come to gawk at you. Maybe—just maybe—your parents will see you one day. Although, I doubt they'll recognize you."
A wave of bone-deep terror swept through the spectators. Some faces drained of color, as though their souls had fled. A few gasped for breath, overtaken by nausea and dread.
"It's over for him."
"Holy shit, that's brutal. The kid's screwed."
"Where's his backup? Still not showing up?"
"You truly thought he could summon reinforcements?"
In the midst of all that whispered doom, Kayla rose to her feet with a savage grin. Her eyes glinted with excitement and malice. Slowly, she reversed her hand to reveal a gleaming dagger.
"I'm going to carve that little bitch's face in front of your eyes," she spat, pointing at Jasmine. Jealousy twisted her expression until it looked inhuman. "Let's see if you've still got guts. Come on—stop me if you can!"
Kayla lunged, driving the dagger toward Jasmine's cheek.
Slash!
A streak of blood flashed.
Grayson let out a strangled grunt as a jagged cut appeared along his arm.
Simultaneously, one of Viktor's black-suited men lunged forward, steel flashing as he slashed at Grayson's back. Another agonized cry tore from Grayson's lips as a chunk of flesh was carved away—movement punished by mutilation.
"Good," Kayla hissed, baring her teeth. "Still protecting her, huh? Let's see how long you last." She raised the dagger for another strike.
Despair flooded Grayson's heart.
Had his family truly abandoned him? Impossible—Grandpa, the one who'd loved him more than anyone, would never turn his back on him. And his sister…if she knew this, she would never stand for it. But why was no one coming?
Slash! Kayla swung again—when suddenly,
Boom!
A deafening crash rattled the courtyard. Everyone jumped—Viktor and Kayla both spun toward the sound.
A battered Santana sedan had plowed into Viktor's prized Phantom, crumpling its door and mangling the bumper.
"Holy shit, that Santana driver is so dead," someone muttered. "Imagine the repair bill—especially since it's Viktor's car.""He's probably in shock.""Look at Viktor—his face just went bright white."
The Phantom was Viktor's pride and joy; seeing it wrecked was like stabbing him in the heart.
Crunch!
The Santana's door twisted off; the driver—a rugged man in an oily mechanic's jumpsuit—pounded out, striding straight toward Viktor.
"That guy must've willingly bought a one-way ticket to hell," whispered an observer. All eyes turned to the scene.
Viktor's face was an ashen mask as he bellowed, "You! Get over here!"
But the driver ignored him, walking past Viktor and heading directly for Grayson.
The crowd gaped—what on earth was happening? The driver knelt two meters from Grayson and bowed deeply.
"Damon Cross, reporting to Young Master Grayson," he announced, as if the dozen black-suited enforcers simply didn't exist.
Everyone's jaws dropped. He had really called someone—but this was hardly the cavalry they'd expected. The driver's salute, his utter disregard for Viktor's men—it was baffling.
Kayla snorted with contempt. "Great. Let's see what you're really made of."
Grayson gently cradled Jasmine, relief washing over him for the first time in hours.
While Viktor's men exchanged glances of confusion and scorn, Damon Cross moved to the patch of grass beside them. He knelt, producing white chalk from his pocket, and drew five circles—each containing a cross. Then, from behind his back, he retrieved two triangular flags: one red, one yellow.
"What's this nutjob up to?" someone muttered. "First he calls someone insane, and now he shows up with his own brand of crazy."
Laughter and jeers rippled through the crowd. Suddenly, a distant roar—like thunder rolling in—echoed from above.
"Look!" someone pointed skyward.
Far off in the cloud-dappled heavens, five black specks drifted down, slowly closing the distance…