Chapter 206: The Pain That Comes with Growing Up

According to federal sociologists, children raised in economically deprived neighborhoods struggle to find a viable path in life compared to those from more affluent areas.

They often end up as laborers or gang members.

Joining a gang becomes one of their few, if not only, options.

From being juvenile delinquents to full-fledged gang members, the culture of crime accompanies them through their youth and seeps into their bones. Their lives—however short or long—remain intertwined with crime.

Even those who manage to avoid joining a gang cannot sever ties with them. Crime is part of their world.

In these circles, one’s criminal record and gang status often define whether they’re seen as “successful.”

It’s unfortunate, but reality doesn’t reward effort with opportunity.

Being arrested and then released gave the three young men a wave of local fame. Even kids began looking at them differently.

They had once been moderately well-known—now they were celebrities. And celebrities had to pull off things worthy of their status.

“We could rent a truck. They’d never expect us to go back so soon.”

Their release only emboldened them. They now felt like they could even become founders of a new gang.

The previous gang on their street had vanished after a crackdown on financial crimes. What followed was economic decline. People became too occupied with survival to care about anything else, leaving a power vacuum.

If they could steal some money from the warehouses, they’d have the capital to start a gang—an idea that thrilled the hotheaded young man.

In this community, gangs were seen as jobs. You pledged loyalty to the gang leader, did dangerous work, and earned a steady income.

Many youth here dreamed of gang life. To them, gangs weren’t evil—they were disciplined, almost like righteous outlaw groups. Not that they truly were.

Becoming a gang leader was one of the local kids’ biggest dreams.

One of his friends, however, had doubts. “We’ve been caught twice. They might come after us again. I don’t think those people from yesterday are easy to deal with.”

He was referring to the ones who caught them before. Something about them evoked primal fear—like a mouse sensing a cat.

But the hotheaded young man scoffed. “They’re businessmen. And businessmen fear people like us.”

“We might not be able to fight the rich, but once we stop being afraid, they’ll fear us instead.”

There’s no saying like the barefoot aren’t afraid of the shod in the Baylor Federation, but there is a shared understanding: The rich hate trouble; the poor don’t fear it.

That’s why gangs still exist. Push people far enough, and they’ll do anything. With nothing to lose, the poor can endure the consequences of breaking the law and resort to crime to survive—hurting others along the way.

The rich can’t. They’d rather pay a little to preserve long-term stability.

The hothead turned to Blue Suspenders. Feeling the pressure, Blue Suspenders nodded reluctantly. “I’ll go along.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll gather the crew.” The hothead made the final call and went off to find a truck and more hands.

Thanks to their release, plenty of street youths eager to prove themselves were willing to join. Finding a crew was easy.

Blue Suspenders and the other young man didn’t really want to go through with it, but at this point, backing out would turn them into a joke across the whole neighborhood by morning. Their reputations would be finished.

The hothead somehow procured a barely functional old truck, rallied five more youths, and set off into the night.

Lynch got word of their move just as they left—and he was furious.

They had crossed a line before he’d even decided how to deal with them. He had tried to approach the world with a certain restraint, but the world clearly wasn’t responding in kind.

A little after 10 p.m., the truck was intercepted near the warehouse district. The young men had no time to resist—retired soldiers took them down swiftly and cleanly.

When they awoke, they were tied to chairs.

Blue Suspenders was the first to come to—unexpected, but logical, given he was the most physically fit. Years of hard labor had worn him down but also built his strength.

He awoke groggily, head pounding, memory foggy, but it soon came back. His heart sank.

He looked around. The place resembled a crude warehouse. A hanging bulb swayed in the breeze, throwing shifting shadows on the bare walls—an unsettling sight.

His companions were all tied to chairs like him. He shouted, and one by one, they began to wake up.

Before they could process what had happened, footsteps echoed from outside. They fell silent.

Lynch stood at the threshold between light and darkness. The light barely reached his knees, often illuminating only his polished shoes.

Beside him stood several intimidating young men in military-style formation—these were the ones who had taken them down.

“What should I do with you?” Lynch’s voice rang cold through the warehouse, trailing faint echoes.

“In my hometown, we have a saying: A man can be forgiven once, even twice, but not a third time for the same mistake.”

“This is the third time you’ve tried to rob my warehouse. I’m not forgiving you this time.”

The setting reminded them of dramatic scenes from films. Based on those scripts, they expected guns to rise from the shadows and be executed one by one.

A chill shot through their spines. Blue Suspenders shouted, “Murder is a crime! You can’t do this!”

Another warned Lynch that first-degree murder was a capital offense in the Federation. Killing them all at once would land even someone like Lynch on death row.

Their desperation amused Lynch. “I’m not going to kill anyone. I just want to teach you something—that the world is far harsher than you imagine.”

“Break their legs. Let these young men learn a real lesson.”

The sergeant beside him hesitated but ultimately obeyed. First, because he didn’t believe it was wrong. Second, because Lynch paid his wages—he was his commanding officer. Orders were orders.

The hesitation came only from the fact that, in all his time in the service, he’d never imagined civilians would one day be his enemies.The sergeant walked into the light holding a steel pipe, the kind easily found around here. He wore a dust-proof scarf and a common baseball cap, revealing only his eyes.

He stepped in front of Blue Suspenders, unmoved by his pleas. He wasn’t the one making decisions—only carrying them out.

The sergeant lifted Blue Suspenders’ leg. Blue Suspenders resisted, begging and struggling, promising he’d never do anything like this again. The others begged on his behalf; some cursed at Lynch.

Lynch ignored them. He turned to a soldier beside him. “Help him,” he said.

He meant the sergeant—Blue Suspenders’ resistance made the job difficult. Another soldier brought over a chair and slid it under Blue Suspenders’ legs to keep them level.

The sergeant raised the pipe high and swung down hard.

It wasn’t the crisp crack of bones you hear in movies. It was dull and thick, like dry wood wrapped in heavy cloth snapping under pressure.

A loud crunch. Then Blue Suspenders screamed.

His scream terrified the others. Snot ran from their noses, tears from their eyes.

The sergeant looked back at Lynch, his hand trembling. Lynch remained unchanged, lighting a cigarette.

“Keep going. Don’t look at me.”

One break followed another, echoing through the warehouse. The one who cursed the loudest got special attention.

The hot-headed one kept shouting at Lynch, never begging—defiant even now, vowing revenge.

To leave a lasting lesson, both his kneecaps were shattered.

Lynch flicked his cigarette to the ground. His shoes, worth hundreds, rose and crushed the ember.

“Remember, this is the last time. Next time, hell awaits.”