Payback Time 5
"So you came," Charles sneered, crossing his arms as Ebilade approached. A mocking grin played on his lips as he took in Ebilade's fitted black attire, his hands casually resting in his pockets. "What happened? Forget to bring the car? Or did your rental time expire?"
Ebilade's gaze drifted over the group, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The lineup was just as he'd expected, and it filled him with a deep, quiet satisfaction. His eyes flicked back to Charles with an air of calm amusement. "Didn't see the need to bring it here. I can walk—and besides," he added, locking eyes with Gregory, whose face was twisted into a predatory grin, "what I'm about to do will attract enough attention."
From the back of the group, a boy stepped forward, his hand extended, offering an easy, friendly smile that seemed oddly out of place. "Hello. Don't think we've met yet," he said. "I'm Owen. And I gotta say, violence? Not the best approach. We're all guys here. Shouldn't let a girl get between us." He held his hand out, a calm presence amidst the brewing storm.
Ebilade's eyes narrowed slightly as he examined Owen, his gaze picking up on every tiny movement and subtle shift, his Divine Enhancement allowing him to gauge Owen's sincerity with ease. Owen's relaxed stance, his unblinking gaze, the small lines of tension around his mouth—he was, surprisingly, genuine in his offer of peace. But Ebilade's eyes held no warmth as he looked at the outstretched hand. He barely gave it a glance.
"I'm not here because of Grace," Ebilade replied, his tone flat, dismissive. "I'm here to get back at the ones who did me wrong. I couldn't care less about some 'bloody girl.'" He brushed past Owen without another word or look, his gaze fixed on the others.
Owen's hand slowly dropped, his expression unbothered as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled joint. Lighting it with a flick of his lighter, he took a slow drag, leaning back casually as he exhaled a stream of smoke. "Fine, have it your way," he muttered with a resigned shrug. "I'll sit this one out. Not a fan of getting my hands dirty. But just so you know, I'll be the one taking the injured to the hospital. Might wanna start calling the ambulance now," he added, a hint of dry amusement in his voice.
Ebilade's gaze remained unwavering, his smirk darkening as he rolled his shoulders, feeling the satisfying crack of his muscles flexing, ready for action. "You should, Owen," he said coldly, his voice carrying a faint edge that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. "Because they're going to need it."
Gregory stepped forward, his grin widening as he took out a knife, the blade gleaming coldly in the dim light. He dragged his tongue slowly along the edge, his eyes never leaving Ebilade's face. "I like the way you talk now," he said, his voice low, almost a growl. "Won't be long before I cut that tongue right out of your mouth."
Charles let out a mocking laugh, his face twisted with contempt. Without another word, he lunged forward, his fists clenched and eyes blazing with the thrill of a fight. The others followed, their faces hardened with anger, their movements quick as they spread out, forming a loose circle around Ebilade. Gregory hung back a few steps, his steps slow and measured, savoring the moment like a hunter stalking his prey, watching as the pack closed in on their target.
Ebilade didn't flinch as the first swing came his way. He ducked smoothly, his movements fluid and calculated. Charles stumbled, his missed punch sending him off balance, but he quickly regained his footing, eyes flashing with frustration. Ebilade straightened, meeting Charles's gaze with a calm that only fueled the other's anger.
The crowd watched in stunned silence, the air heavy with tension, as Ebilade continued to dodge each attempted hit with a casual grace. His expression remained unreadable, almost bored, while his eyes gleamed with a hint of something darker, more dangerous.
Charles's face twisted in fury as he charged forward again, but Ebilade sidestepped with a quiet ease, letting Charles stumble forward into empty air. Ebilade's lips curled into a smirk as he finally lifted his hands from his pockets, his posture relaxed but his stance radiating an unspoken warning.
"You're gonna regret this," Charles hissed, his fists clenched tightly as he glared at Ebilade.
"Am I?" Ebilade replied coolly, his voice as calm as ever.
Ebilade's expression shifted, his smirk vanishing as he squared his shoulders. He rolled his neck, a faint crack punctuating the air. Charles lunged again, his face contorted with rage, but Ebilade moved with calculated precision. His fist shot out, a blur of motion that struck Charles squarely in the jaw. The sickening crunch of bone echoed as Charles staggered backward, clutching his face, his eyes wide with pain and disbelief.
Ebilade's stance was unyielding, each step a measured prowl toward the next boy, who rushed at him in a desperate attempt to overwhelm him. Ebilade sidestepped and grabbed the boy's arm, twisting it back with brutal force until a loud snap rang out, followed by a scream that filled the night. The boy dropped to the ground, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle as he gasped in agony.
Another boy tried his luck, charging from the side with a clenched fist aimed at Ebilade's ribs. Ebilade caught the fist mid-air, gripping the boy's hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white. With a sharp twist, he forced the boy to his knees, then brought his knee up with relentless force, smashing it into the boy's face. Blood spattered, and the boy fell back, clutching his broken nose, his face twisted in agony.
Ebilade's eyes were cold, almost detached, as he moved to the next two, who circled him warily now, the fear evident in their wide eyes. One swung wildly, his face pale, his movements frantic. Ebilade ducked the punch, then drove his elbow into the boy's ribs with brutal precision. There was a dull, cracking sound as the boy crumpled, gasping for air.
The last boy took a step back, his face drained of color, trembling as Ebilade turned his gaze on him. With a swift motion, Ebilade closed the distance, grabbing the boy by the collar. He lifted him off the ground effortlessly, bringing him close so he could see the terror in his eyes. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled him to the ground. The boy landed hard, groaning as he tried to crawl away, but Ebilade stomped down on his leg, another crack shattering the silence.
Each of them lay on the ground, broken, battered, and barely able to move, their faces marred with blood and bruises, bodies twisted in pain. Ebilade barely spared them a glance as he straightened, brushing a smear of blood from his knuckles with a calm precision.
Finally, his gaze found Gregory, who stood a few steps away, clutching his knife tightly, his expression a mixture of shock and twisted excitement. Gregory's grin faltered as Ebilade raised his hand, pointing directly at him. The blood-spattered hand lowered, and Ebilade's voice, low and resonant, cut through the tense silence.
"Now," he said, his tone unyielding, each word sharp and heavy. "It's your turn."
Gregory's grin returned, wild and unhinged, but a flicker of fear lingered in his eyes as he realized the storm he was about to face.