Within fifteen minutes, the boys had gathered near the wide, weathered concrete stairs of a shrine a short distance from the station. Samuel stood at the very peak, his silhouette sharp and jagged against the dim night sky. Below, the boys huddled at the base, gazing up at him like fearful subjects before a tyrant. The air was thick with a suffocating silence.
Twenty-four boys sat on the cold ground. Samuel took his seat on the highest step, looming over them. His eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on faces until each boy looked away in shame. Then, his voice cut through the dark—harsh, cold, and dripping with contempt.
"Listen up, you useless leeches! How's the collection coming? Are you actually filling my pockets, or do I need to remind you who owns the air you breathe?"
A frantic wave of nodding followed. Samuel watched them for a moment before a thin smile pulled at his lips. "Excellent. Then let's cut the small talk and get to why you're really here."
The tension spiked. Samuel leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "Tell me... has anyone here heard of the 'Street Dogs' out in New York?"
Blank stares met his gaze. Samuel continued, "They were just like us—station orphans with nothing. And now? They run their territory exactly how they please."
The realization hit the boys like a physical blow. Before they could process it, Samuel made his declaration: "I'm building a crew. Our own empire. And every single one of you is going to be a part of it."
Silence followed. To Samuel, the quiet felt like defiance. He leaned further forward, his eyes widening with a manic, lethal intensity. "What's the matter? You got a problem with my orders? Speak up now—and pray you survive the answer."
A boy near the front spoke, his voice trembling. "Forgive me, Samuel... but even without a crew, aren't we already doing everything you say?"
Samuel let out a sharp, mocking laugh that lacked any warmth. "Forgive you? How about you haul your pathetic hide up here and say that to my face?"
The boy was seized by a paralyzing terror. But he had no choice. When Samuel calls, you move. He knew all too well that if Samuel started a beating, he wouldn't stop until his victim was staring death in the face.
He began to climb, and Samuel began to descend. They met in the middle of the flight. Without a word of warning, Samuel delivered a brutal, snapping kick to the boy's knee. As the boy collapsed, Samuel pinned his head against the concrete with his boot, grinding his weight down.
The boy let out a horrific, muffled wail, thrashing in agony. Samuel looked out at the others, his voice a towering roar: "You filthy swine! Do you think I kept you around to talk back? I said a crew is being formed, and that is the end of it. If any of you breathe a word against me, I will turn you into a fucking example! Not another word!"
With that, Samuel ground his boot even harder into the boy's head, crushing it against the concrete step.
The boy began to let out a horrific, muffled wail, writhing in pure agony under the weight of Samuel's foot. The cold, detached way Samuel spoke, contrasted with the boy's desperate screams, filled the other youths with a soul-crushing terror. They didn't wait for another threat—they frantically nodded their heads, over and over, desperate to show their submission.
That sight filled Samuel with a twisted sense of satisfaction. A loud, booming burst of maniacal laughter erupted from him, echoing through the cold, industrial silence of the station.
After a few moments, Samuel noticed that every eye was fixed on the boy pinned beneath his boot.
He cut his laughter short and looked down. The boy was still feebly struggling to break free, his body twitching with what little strength he had left. But what caught Samuel's eye—and what held the others in a state of paralyzed horror—was the sight of dark, thick blood seeping from under the boy's head, slowly trickling down the edge of the concrete step.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood as Samuel finally withdrew his boot from the boy's crushed head. The moment the pressure was lifted, the boy's body went completely limp, his muscles giving out as he lost consciousness. Without any resistance, he began to tumble down the concrete stairs, his limbs flailing uselessly like a broken ragdoll until his battered frame came to a sickening halt at the very bottom.
The others watched in horror, realizing that the jagged edge of the concrete steps had caught him in two places. His skull had split open where it struck the corner of the stairs, and the force of the fall had shattered his jaw, snapping two of his lower teeth clean off. A thick, steady stream of blood began to pool from his mouth, staining the cold stone beneath him.
Samuel looked down at the mangled heap and scoffed, his voice dripping with cold indifference. "Lucky for him it didn't hit his nose, or the bastard would be dead by now. Get him to a hospital." He spat on the ground in disgust and muttered to himself, "Dammit! It looks like this month's earnings are going to be wasted on his recovery. Why the hell are these runts so fragile?!"
There was a distinct note of annoyance in Samuel's voice, as if the boy's injury was nothing more than a personal inconvenience to him.
He finally turned his gaze toward the rest of the group, his expression hardening into a mask of cold authority. In a voice that brooked no defiance, he made his grand proclamation:
"It's settled, then. As of today, right here at this Texas rail station, my new crew—the 'Iron Shadows'—is born. From this moment on, we don't just exist within these tracks; we're going to rule every street in this city. This is where the real game begins!"
Samuel wore a devilish grin that promised only bloodshed. And so began the reign of the Iron Shadows. Over the next three months, they tore through that corner of Texas like a plague—raiding shops, crushing rival gangs, and stripping the city of its peace. They became a shadow government of the streets, and the locals, paralyzed by fear, came to call those three brutal months "The Harvest of Terror."