BMK (Bad Men Killers)

Chapter 1: Breaking Chains

Nauru, a speck in the vast Pacific Ocean, appeared serene, almost untouched by the chaos that plagued the wider world. It was a place where the palm trees swayed gently in the ocean breeze, where the sunsets painted the sky in vibrant hues of orange and red. But beneath this postcard-perfect exterior, a darker reality festered. Beneath the island's calm facade, whispers of crime, corruption, and underworld dealings ran deep, like the roots of a tree buried beneath the earth.

Jori was no stranger to this hidden side of Nauru. By day, he was an ordinary student, blending in seamlessly with the rest of his classmates, his face buried in textbooks, his expression a practiced mask of boredom. But when the sun dipped below the horizon and the shadows lengthened, Jori became someone else entirely. A small-time drug dealer, barely old enough to legally drink, yet already well-versed in the art of deception and survival. His life was a delicate balancing act, teetering on the edge of two worlds—one filled with classrooms and exams, the other with dark alleys and secret deals.

It was a humid evening when everything fell apart. The air was thick with moisture, clinging to Jori’s skin as he moved through the backstreets, his footsteps quiet on the cracked pavement. He was on his way to a routine drop, a small batch of pills tucked securely in his jacket pocket, the familiar weight of cash already anticipated. It was a simple transaction, one he had done countless times before. But this time was different.

He didn’t see them coming. One moment, he was alone, the next, shadows peeled away from the walls, and a group of men surrounded him. They moved quickly, their faces hidden in the dim light. Before Jori could react, a fist connected with his jaw, the force of the blow sending him reeling backward. Pain exploded through his head, a bright burst of agony that blurred his vision.

“Got him,” one of the men snarled, his voice low and menacing. “Check his pockets.”

Jori struggled, but hands were already on him, rough and unyielding, stripping him of his jacket, his pockets turned inside out. The pills and cash were gone in seconds, replaced by sharp kicks to his ribs that left him gasping for air. He tried to fight back, but he was outnumbered, overpowered.

The gang’s leader, a tall figure with a scar running down his cheek, leaned over Jori as he lay crumpled on the ground. “Stay out of our territory,” he hissed, his breath hot against Jori’s ear. “Next time, we won’t leave you breathing.”

With that, they were gone, leaving Jori lying on the cold pavement, bruised, bloodied, and utterly defeated. He lay there for a moment, the taste of blood in his mouth, the weight of his failure pressing down on him. The humiliation burned more than the pain. He had been reduced to nothing, his power stripped away in a matter of minutes.

The days following the attack were a haze of pain and shame. Jori’s bruises healed slowly, each mark on his skin a reminder of his humiliation. But it wasn’t just the physical wounds that hurt—it was the sense of powerlessness, the knowledge that he had been weak, that he had been taken advantage of. The realization cut deeper than any knife.

Alone in his small, cluttered room, Jori stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror. His face was a map of bruises, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. He had always prided himself on being tough, on being able to handle himself in a fight. But now, all he saw was a boy who had been outmatched and humiliated. A boy who needed to get stronger.

Revenge. The word echoed in his mind, a mantra that drowned out everything else. He couldn’t let this go. He couldn’t let them get away with what they had done to him. He needed to get stronger, to become someone they would fear. And so, Jori made a decision. He would train, harder than he ever had before. He would make sure that the next time he faced those gang members, the outcome would be different.