Getting A System In A Modern World

The rain poured heavily, soaking the dark streets with an icy chill. Donald, barely seventeen, crouched behind a stack of rusted barrels, his chest heaving as he fought to steady his breathing.

His hands gripped a steel pipe tightly, the cold metal biting into his palms. The sound of laughter and jeering echoed from the dilapidated warehouse ahead. Inside, his sister and little brother were held captive.

His body ached, bruises forming from the earlier struggle to even reach this far. But he couldn't stop now. Failure wasn't an option, not when his family depended on him.

He peeked around the corner, his heart sinking as he took in the scene. Four men lounged near the center of the warehouse, all armed.

One had a crowbar, another a knife, while the rest had guns slung lazily over their shoulders. Beyond them, in the shadows, his sister sat huddled on the ground, tied to a post.

Tears streaked her dirt-stained face, her gaze full of fear. His younger brother, only ten, was unconscious, slumped nearby with ropes digging into his small wrists.

The boy tightened his grip on the pipe, anger boiling in his chest.

"You can do this," he whispered to himself, though the doubt was still there, doing its best to eat away at his resolve. He wasn't trained for this. He wasn't a fighter. But he was their brother, and that had to be enough.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped through the broken doorway, keeping low to the ground. The metallic tang of blood and rust filled his nose, mingling with the damp scent of rain. He crept closer, his footsteps drowned out by the laughter of his enemies.

"Kid put up quite a fight, didn't he?" one of the men said, nodding toward the unconscious boy.

"Stupid brat thought he could stop us," another chuckled, leaning back against a stack of crates. "Should've just run when he had the chance. Now, he's ours."

The boy's blood boiled, his grip on the pipe tightening until his knuckles turned white. He couldn't wait any longer.

With a guttural shout, he burst from the shadows, swinging the pipe with all his strength. The metal connected with the back of the nearest man's head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

"What the—?!" another yelled, but the boy was already moving, his heart pounding like a drum.

He dodged a clumsy swing from the man with the crowbar, the weapon whistling through the air where his head had been moments before.

He swung the pipe again, this time aiming for the man's ribs. The sickening crack of bone echoed in the warehouse, followed by a howl of pain.

Donald barely had time to register his small victories before the others closed in. The man with the knife lunged at him, slashing wildly.

He stumbled back, the blade missing his chest by inches. Desperation fueled his movements as he ducked and weaved, trying to keep them at bay.

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A sudden blow to his side sent him crashing to the ground. He gasped as pain radiated through his ribs, but he forced himself to roll away before the crowbar came down again, smashing into the concrete where he'd been lying.

The men laughed cruelly, circling him like vultures.

"Brave little kid, aren't you?" the man with the knife sneered, twirling the blade in his hand. "Too bad bravery doesn't mean a damn thing in the real world."

Donald spat blood onto the floor, glaring up at them. "Let them go," he said with a raspy voice.

The leader of the group—a burly man with a scar running down his cheek—stepped forward, his boots crunching against the ground. He crouched low, staring the boy in the eye.

"Or what?" the man said, his voice dripping with mockery. "You'll fight us all? Look at you. You're barely standing."

The boy's hand tightened around the pipe, but his strength was waning. His vision blurred as exhaustion and pain threatened to pull him under.

"Let me teach you something about the world, kid," the leader continued, standing to his full height.

"You don't win because you're right. You win because you're stronger. And you…" He kicked the boy hard in the stomach, sending him sprawling onto his back. "You're not strong enough."

Donald groaned, clutching his side as fresh waves of pain wracked his body. But even as he lay there, battered and broken, his mind raced. He couldn't give up. Not while his sister and brother were still here.

Summoning the last of his strength, he pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. He raised the pipe again, his hands shaking.

The men laughed, the sound echoing like thunder in the cavernous space.

"Persistent little bastard," one of them muttered, raising his gun.

"No!" the leader barked, holding up a hand. "Let's finish this the old-fashioned way. I want him to remember how badly he lost."

The knife-wielding man stepped forward, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He feinted to the left, then lunged to the right, slashing at the boy's arm. The blade bit into his flesh, drawing a crimson line across his bicep.

Donald cried out, stumbling back, but he swung the pipe wildly, catching the man in the shoulder. The attacker snarled in pain, clutching his arm, but another blow from behind sent the boy crashing to the ground once more.

This time, he didn't get up.

His vision swam as he lay there, blood pooling beneath him. He could hear his sister screaming his name, her voice shrill with terror.

"No!" she cried. "Please, stop! Don't hurt him!"

The leader chuckled darkly, crouching over the boy's broken body. "You should've stayed home, kid. Now, you're gonna die here, and no one will even know your name."

But then, something unexpected happened. The faint sound of sirens echoed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second.

"Shit," one of the men muttered, his confidence faltering. "Cops."

The leader cursed under his breath, straightening up. "Grab the kids and move. We'll deal with this later."