The alley swallowed sound and returned it distorted.
Another punch landed. These hits were far from warning strikes. Knuckles cracked against bone with a thick, ugly thud.
Damian's head snapped sideways. Blood sprayed in a visible arc, catching the dim light overhead before dripping down the brick behind him. He sagged, but the man gripping his hair kept him upright, fingers twisted deep into silver strands.
"You think this is a shortcut?" the ruined-ear thug barked. "You think you can just stroll through and sell on our turf?!"
A knee drove into Damian's stomach.
He folded, choking.
"Answer me!"
"I—I wasn't—" he gasped, voice shredded.
A backhand silenced him.
The white-eyed one leaned closer. His left eye was milky and unfocused, the right sharp and ugly. "You kids think just 'cause you got clean shoes and a fancy phone, you can do whatever you want. This is our corner. Our money. Our people."
He squeezed Damian's throat until the boy winced.
