— “Everything’s fine, Mom. Don’t worry about a thing.”
But inside, he was a furnace. He looked at his mother—her trembling hands, the fear in her eyes, her graying hair—and he knew there was no turning back. These punks had broken her. They’d nearly killed her just because they were bored. Just because they could.
Andrew sat in the kitchen, staring out the window. The decision was made. The reckoning was coming. They were going to learn what it felt like to be the victim. And they would never forget it.
They took Kyle on a Saturday night. Lee had been watching him for three days and knew the routine: every weekend, Kyle hit “The Vault,” a club on 5th Avenue. He’d arrive around eleven and leave between three and four in the morning, usually hammered. He always parked in the dimly lit lot behind the building where the cameras were spotty.
Andrew, Gray, and Gus were waiting. They’d parked an old, nondescript van in the shadows. It was quiet, save for the occasional sound of Gus cracking his knuckles. Gray sat silently, watching the club’s exit. Andrew checked his phone—fully charged, camera ready.
At 3:20 AM, Kyle stumbled out. He had a girl on each arm, laughing loudly. He walked them to a waiting Uber, handed them some cash, and sent them off. Then he headed toward his BMW, fumbling with his keys. He was drunk, swaying on his feet.
Andrew moved first. He approached quickly from behind. Kyle turned but didn’t have time to react. Andrew delivered a sharp blow to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Kyle doubled over, gasping. Gus grabbed him by the arms and hauled him toward the van. Gray slid the side door open. They tossed Kyle inside, duct-taped his mouth, and zip-tied his hands. The whole thing took twenty seconds. No one saw a thing.
They drove to the industrial zone. Kyle was kicking the floor of the van, trying to scream through the tape—it was useless. Andrew sat in the front, staring ahead, his face like stone. He kept thinking about his mother on the ground, the tears on her face, and Kyle’s voice: “Give us a dance, Grandma.”
They arrived at the shop. Gus and Gray hauled Kyle inside and dumped him into a heavy metal chair. They chained his arms and legs to the frame. Andrew ripped the tape off his mouth.
Kyle gasped for air, coughing, his eyes darting around the dark room. When he saw Andrew, his face went white.
— “You… what the hell are you doing, you psycho? Let me go right now! My father is…”
Andrew backhanded him. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to draw blood. Kyle went silent, blood trickling from his lip.
Andrew crouched in front of him, looking him dead in the eye:
— “Remember filming my mother? Remember making her ‘dance’ for your friends? You thought it was a joke, right?”
Kyle was silent, breathing hard. Andrew pulled out his phone and hit record.
— “Now I’m going to film you. For the ‘Gram.”
Kyle tried to lung forward, but the chains held him fast.
— “Look, man, it was… it was a misunderstanding. We were just messing around. We didn’t mean anything by it. I’ll pay you, okay? How much? A hundred grand? Two hundred? I can get it.”
Andrew didn’t say a word. He stood up and nodded to Gus. Gus stepped forward and delivered a heavy blow to Kyle’s midsection. Kyle doubled over as much as the chains allowed, a strangled cry escaping his throat. Andrew kept filming.
— “Scream. I want everyone to hear you.”
Gray stepped in, adding another blow. Kyle was wheezing, sobbing, spit dripping onto the floor.
— “Stop. Please. I get it. I’m sorry.”
Andrew lowered the phone.
— “You don’t get anything yet. Again.”
Gus worked him over methodically. He didn’t hit the face—he didn’t want him passing out. He hit the body. It was a prison lesson: hit where it hurts the most but keeps them conscious. Kyle was wailing, begging for mercy. Andrew stood back, filming, his expression cold. After ten minutes, Gus stopped. Kyle was slumped in the chains, his breathing ragged, blood dripping from his nose. Andrew stepped closer and turned the phone screen toward Kyle.
— “Look at yourself. See that? That’s what my mother looked like. Helpless. Humiliated. Except she was innocent. You? You earned this.”
Kyle looked up, his eyes bloodshot and streaming:
— “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please.”
Andrew tucked the phone away.
— “Too late.”
He nodded to Gray, who pulled a pair of heavy-duty hair clippers from a bag.
— “What are you doing?” Kyle shrieked.
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