Coming out of the tent, I wore a breathable, lightweight shirt, as it was the only shirt provided in the tent. Then I put on athletic shoes with good support and cushioning. I also wore a light jacket and a head cap that lowered to my forehead.Seeing this, Samantha walked towards me immediately. I could see how she smiled at me and led me towards the sandy patches.As I walked with Samantha, the way she approached me and smiled at me made it clear that my claim of not being nervous was a lie. I turned my head around in search of Ethan, who might emerge from the tent he had entered at any moment.Meanwhile, the others were with Mr. Harry by the crates. They opened each crate, selecting weapons and loading them with bullets.I quickly wondered why they were doing this, considering that Mr. Harry had asked Samantha to train me specifically. Suppressing my question wasn't an option at this point, so I directed it to Samantha."Why are they loading bullets into each gun and strapping them
"Is she insane? How could she tell me to pull the trigger on her? Does she want me to kill her all in the name of training?" I thought, and hence, I refused, saying, "I can't."Hearing what I said, Samantha's face grew colder as she said, "In the act of war, it is a game of being the first. When your enemy refuses to shoot, you hit him in the head with a bullet."Now Samantha came closer to me and pointed the gun at her head. She looked at me and said once more, "Now f**king pull the trigger!"At this moment, my legs trembled in great fear, and I could not even fathom what Samantha was thinking."Does she really mean I should kill her?"My hands began to shake simultaneously like leaves in the wind, trembling under the action Samantha had portrayed.Slowly, while I expected Mr. Harry and the others from a distance to see the insanity Samantha had asked me to do, I looked at Mr. Harry and the others, and what they did and said at this moment surprised me."Such a feeble-minded street b
How Samantha said, "If I were indeed the son of my father, I would assemble the gun back," made me furrow my brows in deep seriousness as I immediately began to disassemble the gun, noticing each piece I had disassembled and capturing it in my mind as if a camera had snapped it and stored it in a hidden place to be used later.I said nothing at this moment, and certainly, Samantha said nothing to me either. Even so, she stood closer to me and picked up one of the pistols from the sandy patches, then proceeded to load it with bullets.With both hands, she held the pistols in her grip, closed one eye, and aimed at a distant target."Pa! Pa! Pa!"She fired three times, and the sound of the pistol was deafening. However, when I looked to see what Samantha had shot, I realized it was all a ruse.Nevertheless, I said nothing and continued with what I was disassembling and assembling as instructed by Samantha. At this moment, Mr. Harry's voice called my attention."That's some excellent targ
I did not flinch, nor did my feet tremble with fear. Just like before, I knew the gun was empty because I was the one who assembled it, and I did not see where I had inserted the bullets. "Why are you not flinching?” Samantha asked, and with that, I replied, "Because there is no bullet in the weapon in your hand.” I answered, showing perfect confidence on my face. "Oh! Really?" Samantha asked. "How about now?” She said this as she now, indeed, right in front of my eyes, inserted some bullets into the gun and pulled the safety off. "I ask, how about now?" My heart was racing right at this moment; however, I did not show it. For some reason, I knew very well that Samantha was never going to shoot me. I did not respond but continued to breathe heavily, with my face swollen like a frowning child. Either way, it did not mean Samantha was not going to ask another question. "Are you the son of your father?” She asked. However, if I said anything, it would be a lie. A perfect silence ami
Suddenly, out of my blank state, my eyelids fluttered slowly. Awareness crept back into my senses. A deep breath escaped my lips, and with each inhale, life returned like the first rays of dawn breaking through the darkness. Finally, my eyes opened, and I blinked at the world's brightness.The weather seemed cold and unforgiving, with a biting wind that cut through layers of clothing like a sharp blade.As soon as I groaned in agony, attempting to sit upright, the first person my eyes peered at was Samantha."We thought you were dead!" she said."Welcome to a new day. Now, get ready for training," she said again."But training? I was barely getting better," I thought. As if the others heard my thoughts, my eyes peered at them, who were right in the right corner adjacent to Samantha in the left corner in the same tent with me. I saw them shrug their shoulders and raise their hands like they were unconcerned about my health."Get up now, Mr. Marcus. Get to training. Your father's enemie
Life can be tough. But what if your life involved sleeping in the street, getting beaten by heavy rain, and having the cold slap you in the face during winter? What if you had to watch someone get killed in front of you like they were just a tiny fly? That was my reality. I'm Marcus Taylor. At 22 years old, 6.5 feet tall, and with curly hair, I'm that person who grew up on the streets. They told me my father and mother died in an accident on the highway from Chicago. I was just an infant, whom they strapped to the back seat of the car. Of course, I remembered nothing of what happened while I was growing up, so I had no reason to question their deaths. My parents were poor before they died. I needed no one to tell me that. I had no inheritance left to me. And the closest family they could have taken me to rejected me. I mean, who rejects a baby? But that's the definition of the useless uncle that I have. That was the reason the orphanage took me in, and then when I ran off, it was
The gang leader was as tall as me. He always walked as if he'd been injured in a shooting war, but no one knew for sure. The turf war that he was involved in was said to have taken place even before I arrived on the street. He was a black man who wore a red beret and a big gold chain around his neck. He had a vest on his bare chest that belonged under a suit, on top of an inner white shirt. His trousers were easily recognizable by the soldiers, and he wore black boots that seemed too heavy for his feet. "Talk! Who stole from me?" He demanded, grabbing a guy and blowing smoke in his face. The guy remained silent. Of course, he didn't know who it was. But I was wrong. Yes, he knew who it was, and he wasn't ready to become the sacrificial lamb with a bullet to his head. Slowly, he pointed at Andrew, who was visibly trembling and quivering his body involuntarily. The gang leader followed the guy''s hand with his eyes. He suddenly smirked. The bag in Andrew's hand, coupled with the fa
May 16, 2005, every person on the street had already forgotten that Andrew had been shot. At this moment, it felt as though it had happened a long time ago. But he was only shot the day before. My sleep throughout the night was disturbed by the dream of what happened during the day. And one of the persistent questions that I kept asking myself, even in my sleep, was: If the old man had not recognized my necklace, what would have happened to me by now? The new day began with the rising sun, which arrived far too early, and everyone on the street already started their day by begging for food or money to buy it, or pick-pocketing for cash. I also saw a few boys across the road planning some kind of illegal activity that also involved stealing from a gang. But of course, for anything that involved stealing from either of the gangs, I will not be part of it. However, it did not undermine the fact that Andrew stole from the big gang, gave the other boys the courage to do the same, and "e