There he was, bleeding and sore on the ground of a rickety old bodega lost in Coney Island far from his Queen Borough comfort.
Leaning on his side and coughing harsh and painful breaths. His once smoothed and clean uniform was now a long rag on the filthy floor.
The Warriors had got him. Pulled off the streets while he was going to school and stripped him to only his white tee, baggy blue cotton pants now, and his converse. A gift from his older brother for his last year of middle school.
All in a state of disarray. Filthy, ragged, and ruined by the thugs of Coney Island Warrior.
Why did they do it? Because he wore the uniform of his school.
A school with a bad reputation to the common throngs. But for low-lives, the school has a reputation better than most scoundrels of N-Y-C.
Better than these lowlives of Coney Island.
That’s why the Warriors snagged him off his feet and pummeled him in the comfort of their hood.
Some left and scurry around their crib while others left the crib and scurry around Coney Island.
But one stayed. A soldier named Ajax stayed to torment the young sufferer. Kicking him while he was down and bopping the boy with his thick knuckled fist.
The sadist mocked and cackled while doing so. No remorse towards the middle-school senior.
He mocked the boy. This eighteen-something- man mocked this boy and continued to hurt him.
But Ritchie didn’t cry nor groan. Instead the middle-schooler sniggered at the tall and lanky white thug.
And Ajax hated him for that.
Through the several beatings, Ritchie could see someone scurrying in the darkness of the bodega. In the shadows away from the bum fire that lit up his torture room.
A split lip smirk couldn’t help but creep to his face. An expression that Ajax couldn’t help but bring it up.
“Da hell ar’ yous smilin’ fo’?” The soldier asked, his vocabulary matching his intellect. His face scrunching like he smelled cat dung inside the room.
Ritchie just smirk and him, snicker before saying, “Just looking at the retard in front of me,”
The comment had lit the young thug like a red christmas light. His retaliation was to stomp the boy’s chest. Satisfied to hear the youngling gasp for air as he slammed his heavy leather shoes on his chest- cracking the boy’s sternum.
“Still got sum jokes on ya, huh, pipsqueek,” He applied more pressure and Ritchie mewled. “Come on then, keep runnin’ that mouth of yours.”
Ritchie could only groan on the floor. His hand reached and wrapped around Ajax's ankle to try to lift him off.
“What? Don’t get quiet on me now,” Ajax sneered, crushing Ritchie’s sternum harder. “C’mon—say something funny.”
Ritchie let out a strangled groan, pain shooting up his spine as he clenched his jaw. Through blood-slicked teeth, he forced out a weak stammer:
“B-Behind you.”
Ajax’s brow knit in confusion, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What the hell you talkin’ ab—”
WHACK!
A rotted four-by-four slammed into the side of his head with a sickening crack, silencing him mid-word. Ajax collapsed in a heap, hitting the wooden floor with a dull thud that echoed through the empty bodega like a warning shot.
Ritchie winced, then looked up.
Even through the swelling, he could make out the silhouette of his brother, standing tall and scowling like a storm cloud. The sight made his stomach twist—not just in relief, but dread. The uniform said everything.
He was still in his school gear.
Which meant he was furious.
That infamous uniform—clean-cut but mean—carried weight in these streets. The slick black jacket with gold buttons, the checkered green-and-black cuffs, the Bronson coat of arms on the chest. It wasn’t just fabric. It was reputation.
A symbol feared in hood-riddled public schools across the five boroughs. A uniform that looked more like a biker’s cut than any standard school outfit.
It belonged to the most notorious institution in Queens—Bronson Tech Academy.
A school that didn’t teach kids how to play nice, but how to survive. How to fight.
Home to 800 students. All sluggers. All scrappers.
And right now, one of them was standing in front of Ritchie, breathing heavily, holding a bloodied piece of lumber like a badge of honor.
They wore uniforms—yet another strange quirk of the school, one that made it feel like some bizarre blend of prep academy and underground fight club. The design was sharp and unmistakably custom. A sleek black jacket, buttoned high to the collar with polished gold fasteners, gave off the air of authority with a rebellious edge. The cuffs were trimmed in a bold checkered pattern—green and black squares that broke the formality with a punch of color.
Emblazoned on the left chest was Bronson’s coat of arms: an oval-shaped shield flanked by two prestigious boxers, muscles taut and stoic looking. Above the shield floated the crown similar to those in old fairytales of Arthurian legends.
He wore the jacket over a pair of matching black cargo pants, crisp in cut. And where the uniform demanded polished leather shoes, his brother—as always—ignored the rulebook. On his feet were the same scuffed-up tennis shoes he wore everywhere, frayed at the soles and stained by the city’s asphalt.
He glared down at Ritchie’s smirking face, his hazel eyes were sharp and glaring, his dyed bleach hair was tuft meaning he was scratching his head trying to find him. His face was beat red and the sixteen year old boy was heaving breaths through his narrow nose.
The once four-by-four bloody lumber he wielded snapped in half due to him using it like a club and its withered state. But he still held it with a vice grip- enough for the lumber with marks of his choking grip. But he knows it was useless now- had served its purpose and deserved its rest.
Benji’s jaw was clenched so tight Ritchie could hear the grinding. He didn’t have to look twice—he knew that look. His brother was seething.
So, naturally, Ritchie opened his mouth.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” he chuckled, blood still in his teeth.
Benji’s nostrils flared. “I could say the same to you,” he snapped, chucking the bloodied lumber aside. He stuck out a hand.
Ritchie took it and groaned as he got to his feet, brushing off grime and bodega dust. “Took a wrong turn on my way to Boxington. These fine gentlemen said they’d take me to Coney Island. Claimed they were good Samaritans.”
He sniffed dramatically. “Should’ve known they were full of it. Smelled like they bathe in cat piss and broken promises.”
“Richard, shut up,” Benji muttered, dropping the government name like a gavel.
Oof. He was mad.
Before Benji could let loose with more, a groan cut through the firelight. Both brothers snapped their heads toward the sound.
Ajax was moving. Stirring. Getting up.
And Benji punished him for that.
The older brother huffed and stomped towards the Warrior thug and kicked him off his feet. Benji swung his leg like a batter swinging his bat and struck the goon on his head with his shin.
Ajax fell on the ground once again but Benji wasn’t finished. He then stomped Ajax’s head into the rotting floorboard, caving the man’s skull inside the wood in a vicious manner.
Benji growled as his foot slammed down on Ajax's head, a loud crack coming from the wood- not from Ajax’s skull.
It was vicious alright, brutal, but efficient and necessary if you don’t want more interruption coming your way.
Ritchie didn’t bat an eye at the ruthlessness of his older brother. He was used to the act, especially when it came to protecting him.
Benji went back to his brother, his voice low as he said, “C’mon, we gotta get to Stillwell and back to Queens.”
Ritchie replied with, “How about his friends, they’re still scurrying around these parks.”
Benji rolled his eyes at his younger brother’s concern.
“They won’t be a bother,” He said before going and kicking the barrel of the bum fire to its side. It’s flaming contents on the ground and burning the rotten floorboard and walls.
Ritchie flinched by the way everything ignited in flames. The room filled with cloudy black smoke that stung his nose. But his older brother remained unfazed. His eyes casually gazing as everything inside the room lit up in flames.
“They’ll be too distracted in saving their lousy crib.” He scoffed before exiting the room. Ritchie looked back at the unconscious Warrior, unsure to save him before the fire spread but the moment he heard his moaning and grumbling voice coming from his lumpy body, he was reassured that the man would be safe.
Ritchie followed his brother- even in his action. Benji and Ritchie were crouched close to the floor as they peek over the small rotten crate above the main room of the bodega.
“There’s a way out through the window, just follow me,” Benji commanded more than said to Ritchie as they crawled their way towards the open window.
Sounds of howling cries of “Fire!” was heard which was followed by more voices and a line of cusses. But the two brothers did their best to pay no attention to the howlers.
They climbed out the window which led them to the rooftop which overlook the nightly view of Coney Island.
Benji didn’t have the time for checking the view, instead he quickly moved his way towards the fire escape followed by his brother. Scurrying out of the bodegas like rats while the warrior cats went back inside to save their little crack in the wall.
The boys slithered out the warehouse and made their way to the street unhurt but exhausted. They had run like galloping horses that were stung by a wasp. Heaving air as they were closer to Stillwell. Close to the substation which is their golden carriage back home.
Ritchie cracked up when he spotted the subway stairwell—an open mouth in the concrete, lit by a twitchy street light flickering like it was nervous.
“Go!” he shouted, and the brothers bolted.
They took the steps two at a time, jumping whole flights like it was a game, until their sneakers slapped the tile of the station below.
But the rush died quick.
Down in the tunnels, under the flicker and hum of busted lights, five figures loomed. Coney Island Warriors. Smoking, loitering, pushing around some poor soul just trying to get home.
The moment the gang spotted them—especially Benji in that unmistakable Bronson Tech uniform—their vibe shifted. Startled at first. Then sneering. Like alley dogs catching a scent they didn’t like.
One by one, the Warriors peeled off from their victim, letting the civilian scurry off into the dark.
Now they stalked forward.
Ritchie and Benji stood their ground.
“Well, well,” rumbled Vermin, his voice deep and slow like a man dragging a shovel. “Ain’t it past bedtime for schoolboys?”
Cowboy smirked. “Yeah, you’re a long way from home, kid.”
“You’re on the wrong side of the borough,” added Cochise, cracking his knuckles. “We don’t take kindly to uniforms on our turf.”
Then Mercy pointed at Ritchie, squinting. “Wait… ain’t that the kid we snatched from Queens?” His eyes widened. “How the hell did he get loose?”
Swan didn’t ask. He just slipped a switchblade from his jacket, thumbed it open with a click that echoed like a death sentence. “Guess we’ll beat the answer out of ‘em.”
They closed in.
Ritchie side-eyed Benji. “We fighting?”
Benji’s eyes didn’t leave the gang—not for a second. “We’re fighting.”
No countdown. No warning. Benji moved.
He blitzed Swan first, feet flying. His kick smashed into the thug’s face, crumpling his nose with a sickening crunch. Swan hit the ground hard, knife clattering across tile like a coin dropped in a dead wishing well.
Then came Vermin.
He cracked Benji with a thick right hook, snapping the boy’s head to the side—but Benji didn’t fall. He roared back with an overhand bomb that clocked Vermin across the temple. The two traded blows, but even in the chaos, it was clear: Benji wasn’t just scrapping—he was fighting with discipline.
Ritchie knew that look. He knew the rhythm of his brother’s body.
Benji had trained for this. Not just on the streets of Queens, but back in Baltimore too—where fists flew like words and you either learned fast or got left behind. But it wasn’t all street. He studied. Watched. Learned. Bronson Tech sharpened that edge with drills, sparring, and pressure. Benji walked out tougher, smarter, meaner.
He wasn’t just some brawler. He was a boxer. A Kyokushin striker. A street-hardened fighter with a moral code stitched into his spine.
And deep down, he still believed in something bigger. He still looked up to heroes. Captain America was his blueprint. Back when he had nothing but pocket change, he’d spend it on comics. Panels of Cap teaching his moves to those who want to learn. Well illustrated artworks of his punches, judo throws, and wordy advice in combat. For those little guys who want to stand up against bullies- because even if he wasn’t there, he was still trying a way to watch over them
Benji memorized them. Copied the moves. Lived the ideal. And added a few of his philosophies in-between education.
And now he's more than a slugger- he was a tactician as well.
Vermin swung a wild fist at Benji but the teen simply blocked it off and followed it with a sharp cross that struck the thug in the chin knocking him to the ground. But Benji wasn’t done, he slammed his foot down Vermin’s chest. The thug gasped in air, as he felt his sternum crack under impact.
Cowboy lunged in to rescue his ally, aiming to tackle Benji off his feet—but the teen sprawled out low, dodging the hit with ease.
Mercy, sharper than the other bruisers, spotted the switchblade Swan had dropped. He snatched it up and charged at Benji, the blade raised, aiming to bury it straight into his throat.
But before he could strike, Ritchie came flying in from the side—driving a knee into Mercy’s ribs.
THUD!
Mercy hit the tiles hard, gasping.
“Oh no you don’t,” Ritchie barked, charging after him.
He cocked his fist back and slammed it right into Mercy’s face—SMACK!—a clean, brutal shot that echoed through the tunnel.
Mercy swung the blade wildly in panic, the steel flashing inches from Ritchie’s face. But the middle schooler didn’t even blink. He lunged in, locked onto the knife arm, and twisted his body into a tight, fast armbar.
Ritchie wasn’t just scrappy—he knew what he was doing. His brother had taught him the basics, and the streets had taught him the rest.
Mercy stammered in disbelief, his arm stretched far past its limit.
“Wait—no, no—!”
CRACK!
“AAAAAAHHHHH!!!” Mercy’s scream bounced off the tunnel walls, raw and ragged. Tears welled up as he clutched his now useless arm.
Ritchie let loose of his hold and Mercy directly curled up in a ball- nursing his dislocated arm while sobbing.
Ritchie turned—just in time to catch a fist to the face.
CRACK!
Cochise slammed a punch straight into his eye, catching him mid-turn. Ritchie howled in pain as blood spilled from the already-swollen socket. His balance faltered, the world tilting sideways.
Cochise didn’t let up.
Another hook smashed into Ritchie’s cheekbone, jerking his head to the side. Dazed and reeling, Ritchie threw his arms up, covering his head from the incoming storm.
Cochise threw wild, heavy punches, hammering at Ritchie's forearms like a man possessed. But the kid knew he couldn’t just take hits forever.
So he clinched.
Ritchie dove forward, wrapping his arms around Cochise’s sides, locking him down. The barrage slowed as the two struggled in close quarters.
“Get off me, brat!” Cochise growled, throwing sharp elbows down onto the back of Ritchie’s head.
Each blow rattled his skull, stars dancing in his vision—but Ritchie held tight, teeth clenched, refusing to let go.
Then—he swept the leg.
Cochise’s footing vanished and both of them crashed to the floor in a messy sprawl. Ritchie scrambled into a full mount, but the bigger thug thrashed beneath him, clawing at his face, driving fingers straight into the swollen eye.
Ritchie screamed.
The pain was blinding, and Cochise used the opening to buck him off. With a roar, the Warrior thug reversed the position—now he was on top.
Fists rained down.
One after another.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
Ritchie shielded what he could, but the punishment kept coming.
Benji, locked in his own brawl, caught a glimpse of his little brother beneath a rain of fists.
Something snapped.
A red haze flooded his vision. His blood boiled, muscles tensing like coiled steel. Ritchie was being brutalized — and Benji wasn’t about to stand for it.
With a guttural roar, Benji surged against Cowboy, who had him pinned. He pulled his arms above his head and slammed both fists down like sledgehammers into the thug’s spine.
THUD!
Cowboy let out a sharp grunt — the sound of air ripping from his lungs — his grip faltering just for a second. But that was all Benji needed.
Grabbing the thick leather of Cowboy’s vest, Benji yanked him forward and drove his knee straight into his face with a savage crunch.
CRACK!
Cartilage split. Blood erupted from Cowboy’s nose like a burst pipe. The impact launched him backward, the thug flopping onto the cold tiled floor like a broken doll, limbs jerking in pain.
Benji didn’t even pause.
His eyes burned. His breath was fire. And the only thought in his head was Ritchie.
Cowboy fell on his back but Benji wasn’t through. He dived to the thug with an elbow and cracked the thug in his nose. Cowboy’s head bounced against the tiled floor.
Benji went back up- satisfied for the fact Cowboy was down and unconscious. He rushed towards his brother but stopped to slip a thrusting blade that aimed towards his neck. It came from his side. He had to jump back from it but his new opponent went to attack again.
He slipped the thrust and twisted, eyes locking on his next opponent.
Swan.
The thug was back on his feet — nose crooked, blood pouring down his lips like a busted faucet. His switchblade was back in hand, glinting under the flickering station lights. He let out a sharp, wheezing laugh.
“I’mma feel good guttin’ you like a fish.”
With a sudden lunge, Swan slid forward, slashing at Benji in wide, reckless arcs. Each swing forced Benji to dip and weave, every second wasted here echoing with the thought of his brother — still trapped under that brute's fists.
The last swing came wild and desperate. Swan stumbled, chest heaving like a dying animal. Benji saw his chance.
He ripped off his jacket and tossed it aside. Sweat soaked through the green T-shirt clinging to his chest. He raised the jacket again — not to wear it, but to wield it.
He swirled it like a matador's cape, flicking it with sharp movements.
“That all you got?” Benji taunted.
“I thought you were gonna gut me! C’mon then!”
Swan snarled, eyes crazed. With a roar, he charged — knife aimed square at Benji’s chest, his whole body tightening behind the thrust.
Benji moved fast.
He whipped the jacket straight into Swan’s face, blinding him. Swan didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His momentum carried him forward — right into a trap.
Benji sidestepped cleanly, vanishing behind the flurry of cloth. As Swan barreled past, Benji twisted — his fist cocked and coiled like a spring.
CRACK!
A vicious hook slammed into Swan’s jaw. The sound echoed like a gunshot down the tunnel.
Swan flew.
He landed hard on his backside, dazed, the jacket still tangled around his head. He clawed it off, staggering back to his feet.
He shouldn't have.
Benji was already there. Already moving.
His body twisted like a slingshot — one fluid, brutal motion. His rear leg shot out in a spinning back kick, boot aimed dead at Swan’s face.
The moment Swan cleared the jacket from his eyes, all he saw was the dirty sole of Benji’s worn-out tennis shoe.
BOOM!
The kick smashed into his face with the force of a cannon. Swan was launched into the steel pillar behind him.
CLANG!
His skull bounced off the stanchion, then slid down like a sack of bones — limp, unconscious, head slumped forward.
Benji panted hard, sweat pouring down his face. He turned back toward Ritchie—
—and stopped.
His brother wasn’t in danger anymore.
During Benji’s fight, Ritchie had won.
There he was — legs locked tight around Cochise’s thick neck, his arms yanking down on the thug’s head with pure grit and rage. A perfect triangle choke. The warrior’s toughest bruiser was squirming, turning purple, trapped in a vice of limbs and stubborn will.
Benji’s lips curled into a proud, breathless grin.
The moment when Cochise’s both felt limp in Ritchie’s hold, the middle schooler took a few seconds before releasing his hold. Making sure the bruiser wasn’t planning to come back up.
He let Cochise’s body roll beside him. Ritchie coughs and spat blood as regain his breath. He was too exhausted for this. His body is in excruciating pain. His body was sore in every place while his vision was more of a blur through thick swollen eyes.
Benji walked up to his brother and offered him a hand he accepted.
The fight was over.
All five Warrior thugs lay scattered across the subway tiles — most of them unconscious, one of them screaming like a wounded animal, his arm bent at an angle it shouldn't be.
Ritchie swayed on his feet, barely able to stand. His body was wrecked, every muscle trembling with fatigue. He leaned heavy on his brother just to keep upright.
“I hate Brooklyn,” Ritchie groaned.
Benji let out a snort.
“Benjamin,” Ritchie muttered through cracked, swollen lips, “when can we get back to Ridgewood?”
Benji glanced down the empty tunnel, eyes narrowing at the horizon. “Don’t worry, Richard,” he said. “The cars’ll be here soon. Just hang in there. Take a nap. Heal up.”
“I could nap faster if I was in my bed,” Ritchie grumbled, managing a lazy smirk.
Benji laughed, short and sharp. It felt good. It felt done.
Then the clicking started.
Fast, heavy, rhythmic — like storm hail on steel — coming from the stairwell. Dozens of footsteps. Hundreds.
Benji’s smile faded. His body went still.
From the shadows, they poured in like rats. Hundreds of Coney Island Warriors flooding the station. Armed to the teeth with metal pipes, chains, bats, lengths of lumber. Faces twisted into wicked grins. Eyes hungry for blood.
At the head of them stood Cleon. Broad. Cold. Smiling like a wolf.
“You think you can burn our crib and walk away?” he said, voice low and smooth. That toothy grin didn’t match the hate bleeding through his tone.
“You boys from Queens should’ve thought twice before doing something that dumb,” he added, menace curling off every syllable.
Ritchie lifted a shaking finger, barely able to point. “The only thing dumb is that hat you wear.”
Benji groaned. Maybe Ritchie’s mouth was the whole reason he got snatched in the first place.
Cleon’s grin dropped into a scowl.
“You’re jokin’ days are over,” he snarled. “I’m gonna bury your bodies right here in this tunnel. The cars’ll be your coffins. A message to anyone who dares mess with the Warriors.”
The horde moved in slow. Smiling. Cruel. Confident.
Benji stepped back, dragging Ritchie with him. Too many. He couldn’t take them all. Not with Ritchie half-dead and clinging to consciousness. If they stayed, they'd die here.
He needed a miracle.
And he got one.
The train car pulled in.
Its brakes hissed. The doors hissed open.
And then—
“Waaaarriors… come out to plaaaay~”
From the cars poured Bronson Tech.
Five hundred juniors — loud, armed, and ready. Baseball bats. Bike chains. Thick wooden clubs. One kid even brought a pair of polished nunchucks, twirling them like a storm.
Juniors in all shapes and sizes. In every ethnicity. And in every grade came out of those cars- united in one uniform. The Bronson uniform. Their uniform filled the station in black and green colors.
Led by a face Benji was glad to see.
His classmate- John Gallo- the irish-italiano came leading the siege. A playful tooth showed past his thin-lip smirk. He was lean in build and wore his uniform with jacket open revealing his blue silver shirt underneath. His head- skinhead or buzzcut. His eyes glinted like a sharp blue dagger.
“Sorry, Clay,” John called out, voice rich with that cocky drawl as he stepped forward, bold as brass, “but the Parker boys are comin’ home with us.”
His grin widened into a taunt. “So why don’t you scurry back to whatever rathole you crawled out of.”
Benji exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the tunnel went quiet.
“Damn good to see you, Johnny.”
John gave a half-smirk, shrugging like this was just another Tuesday.
“What can I say? The second I saw you bolt outta your seat like a bat outta hell, I figured something fun was about to pop off.”
Benji raised an eyebrow. “So your solution… was to bring the entire junior class to Brooklyn?”
“Hey,” John replied, grinning now, “last time you moved like that, we ended up fighting every lowlives of Queens for the number one spot. Figured it’s always smart to bet on that crazy Parker luck of yours.”
“That’s what I told him,” Ritchie chimed in, wincing as he leaned on his brother. “But Benji’s more stubborn than a mule.”
The comment earned a chuckle from both boys—short-lived, of course.
“ENOUGH!”
Cleon’s voice cracked through the station like thunder. His fury echoed off the tiled walls.
“Hand over the Parker boys. I ain’t askin’ twice.”
John scoffed, pure arrogance in the tilt of his grin.
“Or what?” he drawled, daring him.
Cleon sneered. “You really think a bunch of high school pipsqueaks can take us?” He cackled, loud and cruel, but his voice wavered under the surface.
John didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.
Instead, he took a step forward.
And the Bronson juniors moved with him.
A hundred feet in synchronized rhythm, boots stomping like war drums. Pipes clinking. Chains rattling. Bats resting on shoulders like old friends.
Some of the Warriors faltered—faces uncertain, shifting between bravado and fear. Even Cleon’s mask of confidence began to slip as the tide rolled closer.
John walked slow and cool, hands buried in the front pockets of his cargo pants. Eyes locked on Cleon. Calm. Dead calm.
A storm waiting to break.
Benji and Ritchie watched it unfold, breath held. The juniors moved like a single wave crashing toward the shore. Unified. Relentless.
“You think threats work on us?” John said, voice low and steady. “Nah. That shit don’t fly in our neighborhood.”
Cleon took a step back. Just one—but it was enough.
“Y-You wouldn’t dare,” he stammered, trying to hold his ground.
John grinned. And that was more terrifying than any shout.
“We’re Bronson boys. And we’ve got a motto—Audentes fortuna iuvat.”
He let those words hang in the air like a promise.
Then his fists came out of his pockets, tight and ready.
A devil’s smile split across his face.
He charged and the juniors followed with a roar. Like a stampede of wild beasts, they surged forward, gleeful and unafraid, flooding the station in black and green.
Benji didn’t join. He couldn’t.
He had a brother to carry. A promise to keep.
So while war erupted behind him, Benji hoisted Ritchie over his shoulder and slipped into the empty train car.
And just like that—they were gone.
The next day, the streets were buzzing. Word had it the Coney Island Warriors were done.
Cleon—battered, broken, and barely breathing—was found in Brooklyn Hospital. By morning, NYPD had him in cuffs.
Without their leader, the Warriors scattered like roaches in the light. Most of them were too bruised to even stand.
Benji didn’t care.
He was home. In their tiny apartment. Ritchie was laid out on the couch, wrapped in blankets, black and blue but alive.
And for once, everything was quiet.
Benji didn’t need headlines or glory.
He had what mattered most.
He was finally home.