CHAPTER 3
806 Words
Chris lay on the polished gym floor, his cheek pressed against a puddle of rose petals and blood. His ribs ached, his lip was split, and his left eye was swelling shut. But his expression? Still calm. Still unreadable.
Franklin stood above him, nose bandaged with tissue and eyes red with rage.
“Get up,” he snarled, his voice nasal and pathetic. “You thought one lucky punch made you special?”
Logan and two other cronies stood by, cracking their knuckles.
“You just bought yourself a first-class beating,” Logan sneered. “And don’t worry—we’ll mop you up afterward.”
Chris made no sound as the kicks started landing—his stomach, his back, one straight to the ribs. The crowd had mostly scattered, unsure of how far this was going to go, though a few were still filming from the shadows.
Chris didn’t cry. Didn’t beg. He just stared at the ceiling tiles, counting every blow in silence.
Then—
WEE-OOH! WEE-OOH!
The gym doors burst open. Blue and red lights flashed against the walls as two police officers rushed in, hands on their belts.
“Hands where we can see them!” one officer barked.
Franklin stumbled back dramatically, as if he were the victim. “Finally!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been assaulted!”
The taller officer narrowed his eyes at the scene. Chris, lying bloodied on the floor. Franklin, clutching his nose like he’d just survived war.
“What happened here?” the officer asked.
Logan raised both hands with a smirk. “He snapped, officer. We were just hanging out, and this janitor goes feral and punches Frank in the face. Unprovoked.”
Chris sat up slowly, wincing. “They attacked me first.”
The short officer looked between them, clearly unsure. “You’re bleeding like you lost a fight, not started one.”
Franklin stepped forward, dabbing at his bandaged nose for extra effect. “Officers, I’d like to remind you my father is Sir Dorian Moyes. Of the Moyes Group. I assume that name rings a bell?”
The moment the name dropped, both officers straightened slightly—just enough to be obvious.
“Oh,” said the tall one, voice suddenly silkier. “That Moyes.”
Chris frowned, still breathing heavily. “So that’s it? Because his dad has money, he walks?”
The shorter officer chuckled. “You got guts, kid. But guts don’t pay legal fees. Get up.”
“What?”
“You’re under arrest. Assault and disturbance of peace.”
Logan laughed loud and long. “Guess you’re mopping jail floors tonight, huh, Westminster?”
Chris gritted his teeth but didn’t resist. He stood up, eyes still cold and even.
One officer cuffed him, and they led him out through the gym doors. As he passed Anna, she turned her face away, as if she didn’t even know him.
No words. No defense. Just betrayal.
At the police station, Chris sat in a freezing cell, metal bars between him and the outside world. His cheek was bruised, and his knuckles were raw, but his pride? Still untouched.
A gruff officer approached the bars. “You’re being held until bail’s paid. Five thousand bucks.”
Chris scoffed. “I work part-time scrubbing toilets. You think I’ve got five grand lying around?”
“Should’ve thought about that before you hit someone important.”
Chris leaned forward. “He hit me first. Multiple times. In front of witnesses.”
The officer raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Did any of those witnesses have last names that matter?”
Silence.
Chris’s voice hardened. “So Frank gets away with it because of his father.”
The officer smirked. “Son, Sir Moyes doesn’t just own half the city—he built the police station you’re sitting in. Literally paid for the marble floors. Your dad wouldn’t afford the dirt under ‘em.”
Chris leaned back, the steel bars casting shadows over his face.
“Good,” he muttered. “Then he paid for the cell I’ll sue him from.”
The officer laughed so hard he slapped the desk. “You? Sue the Moyes family? Kid, your lawyer would have to accept payment in cafeteria vouchers.”
Chris didn’t answer. He just stared at the ceiling again.
Time ticked by. An hour. Two. Then—
Footsteps.
Another officer walked in, flipping through a clipboard. He glanced up, looking confused.
“You Westminster?”
Chris nodded slowly.
The man blinked. “You’re free to go.”
Chris sat up. “What?”
“Someone paid your bail.”
Chris frowned. “Who?”
The officer shrugged. “Didn’t say. Just gave a name. Paid cash. Real smooth about it. Drove off in a matte black car with no plates.”
- Writer
