The park—an urban refuge where time seemed to stand still and the city's noise faded into a distant murmur—was their usual meeting spot. Beneath the yellow glow of lampposts trembling in the wind's rhythm, the group would gather to drown the monotony in cold beers and old anecdotes—stories retold so often they lost their meaning, yet still drew smiles and contagious laughter.
Gustavo, holding a nearly finished cigarette, let the smoke curl between his fingers and drift off in the night breeze, taking his worries with it. He listened intently to David, whose voice, full of enthusiasm, carried his favorite tale.
"Everyone turned to look at that old hooker in heels and a dress!" David exclaimed, grinning proudly and sparking a round of collective laughter.
"Hey, coño! It's not my fault I'm so sexy I leave them stunned," Gustavo replied with a tone somewhere between pride and mockery, drawing more laughter and knowing glances. His Dominican accent gave each word a rhythm that livened up the heavy night air.
Jokes and laughter filled the space, but the atmosphere shifted the moment a female figure appeared, breaking the bubble of masculine camaraderie. A young woman approached with a slow, confident stride, her hips moving to a hypnotic rhythm that didn't go unnoticed.
"It's awfully rude to start drinking without a lady present," she said, snatching David's beer with a mischievous smile, her eyes gleaming with playful challenge.
"Well, you took your sweet time. I wasn't about to let the beer get warm," David replied, greeting her with a soft kiss on the cheek. Then, with a cheeky glint in his eye, he added, "Here's what I promised—or should I say, what your fiancé promised?"
"At least I have a partner… and a sugar daddy who spoils me. Meanwhile, others just waste their money on cheap whores," she shot back, laughing—a laugh that lit up the group, though a sharp edge lingered in her tone.
The night wore on with banter and laughter, cigarette smoke, and the brush of exchanged glances. David eventually wandered off to a corner, needing to relieve his beer-filled bladder. But when he returned, staggering, his words slurred into incoherence. Something broke in the air. The peace shattered.
That's when they appeared—two men on a motorcycle, cutting through the darkness at full speed. One of them swung a baseball bat, cracking it against David's head without warning. The dry sound of impact echoed like a gunshot in the night. The earth was stained a deep red as the group froze, paralyzed. But the nightmare wasn't over: two more motorcycles arrived, forming a circle around them.
The park—once a sanctuary of laughter and memories—had turned into an urban battlefield. Shadows stretched across the blood-spattered pavement, and the tension could be sliced with a knife.
George burst out of Ninna's room, not caring about his trembling legs or the tightness in his chest. His only goal was to get there in time. Stumbling, dodging pedestrians, nearly knocking over an old woman crossing the sidewalk, he pushed his way toward the chaos.
When he arrived, he found his brother surrounded, with three companions standing firm in a desperate defense. Five assailants advanced, eyes brimming with threat. A bottle flew through the air, striking the nearest attacker—a man with a weathered face and scars that told of battles won and lost.
Fists started flying. Bites, screams, chaos filled the space. The park became an improvised ring—some fighting, some yelling, others trying in vain to break it up.
The odds were against them: five against three. But fury and resolve compensated for the imbalance. George didn't hesitate. He dove into the fray, determined to tip the scale.
He faced a large, muscular man—a formidable rival. The fight was brutal, relentless. They exchanged blows in a near-choreographed violence, as if warrior blood ran through their veins. Though the opponent had the upper hand, George's unstoppable rage overwhelmed him. Shorter, but solidly built, George's powerful arms proved relentless. Punch after punch landed in a savage dance straight out of Mortal Kombat, ending with the rival bloodied and sprawled on the ground.
The fight raged for a few more minutes. Pain and exhaustion crept into every muscle until the attackers, spent, jumped onto their bikes and roared off into the night.
The boys rushed to David's side, who, his face twisted in rage and frustration, cursed his inability to defend himself better.
Erick—nicknamed "Ocho"—lifted David, known as "Nueve," with care and helped him onto a bike to rush him to the hospital. Gustavo, consumed by rage, made the impulsive decision to chase the attackers, with George speeding after him.
That same afternoon, Leo had booked a room for a date. He was strolling through the park with the girl, trying to break the ice with a warm smile. She, clearly new to such encounters, was hesitant but eager to trust. The sudden eruption of violence did not go unnoticed. Though Leo was used to neighborhood brawls, he kept his distance, but the neighbors' curiosity flared.
Doña Carlota, the block's most notorious gossip, hobbled toward the group, followed by her friends. Behind them, a young mother nursed her baby at the window, watching the scene unfold.
"What happened, Doña Carlota?" asked a curious voice.
Waving her arms, the old woman beckoned her friends to follow.
"Ay, comadre! They say someone got wrecked!" she exclaimed, panting. "They beat that Nueve guy!"
Leo, not paying attention at first, stiffened when he heard the nickname. He pulled away from the girl, not wanting to be rough.
"They left him messed up. He's already been taken away," added Doña Carlota in a low voice.
The girl, nervous, tried to hold Leo back, clinging to his arm.
"Where are you going?"
"Look, bitch, I don't care how hot you are—let me go! Can't you see, crazy?! My cousin's out there, coño!" Leo snapped, furious and desperate.
Without another word, he took off running, determined to join the chase. Gustavo ran like a man possessed, with George shouting for him to slow down before he got hurt.
Leo, swift and focused, caught up with the rivals at a corner. With a precise, aggressive move, he kicked the brake of the bike, making it skid and toss the riders to the ground.
El Muerto and El Socio, seeing Mega and La Tabla fall, stopped to help. But Leo gave them no chance. He pounced with wild fury, unleashing an uneven brawl.
La Tabla, face bruised and cut, bled from a broken nose and split lips. Struggling to recover, he was met by Leo's seasoned fists—like a hardened boxer's—raining down without mercy.
Mega tried to intervene, but a solid punch to the ribs knocked the air out of him. Taking the advantage, Leo charged again, furious.
Meanwhile, Gustavo danced around his opponents, mixing street fighting with boxing footwork, fending off La Tabla and leaving Leo face-to-face with Mega.
George, imposing and defiant, blocked both brothers while taunting them. He stomped on Socio's foot, throwing him off balance, and shoved Muerto, who stumbled while trying to dodge.
The brothers fell, exhausted and bruised. George seized the moment. His black eye throbbing, body aching, he limped away from the fight.
Tríno and Sofoke tried to stop him, but Erick arrived swinging a bottle into Tríno's head, knocking him out cold. David, possessed by fury, beat Sofoke with a bat, inflicting serious injuries.
Gustavo lay on the ground, bruised and battered. His long, black ponytail had come loose during the fight, and his hair now clung to his sweaty, blood-speckled face—giving him an almost spectral appearance.
But the most terrifying thing was his expression: a mix of delight, rage, and arousal.
"Don't help me, coño! I can handle this skinny bastard myself," he growled from the ground, lungs gasping for air.
"Goddammit, Ghost! When are you gonna stop playing the tough guy? Can't you see you're fucked up and still want more? What the hell is this fight even for? Why are we doing this?" George shouted, leaving La Tabla with a purple face.
George shoved La Tabla back to his group, demanding they leave. The increasingly dangerous brawl was winding down. David, still enraged, wanted to keep going, but they held him back to prevent something tragic with Sofoke, who was gravely injured.
"Dammit, stop, Nueve! Are you insane?! You're gonna kill him!" Erick yelled, holding David back.
Leo quickly stepped in, snatching the bat from him. David let out a guttural cry of frustration, enraged by the sneak attack. George helped Gustavo up, but instead of thanks, Gustavo struck back with fists and venomous words.
"Screw you! I don't need your help. You're just trying to look good in front of everyone, but you're just as full of shit as the rest of us… Your fake kindness makes me sick, you hypocritical bastard," Gustavo spat, venom in his voice. "You've been a puppet since Mom died. And guess what? Nothing you do will bring her back. You didn't save her when you had the chance, you coward!"
Gustavo, sarcastic by nature, rarely spoke so directly—but this time, his words were daggers.
Leo, unable to stay quiet, hit him to snap him out of it. Bloodied knuckles trembling, Gustavo lit a cigarette, visibly shaken, and moved to pick up his bike.
"What the hell's wrong with you guys?" Leo asked, but no one answered. The brothers each went their separate way, leaving Leo with a knot in his gut.
The adrenaline that had kept George on his feet began to fade, and the pain from his wounds surged. He considered going home, but Leo stopped him.
"Better stay here. Gustavo might show up, and I don't want any more fights tonight," Leo advised.
George nodded, worn and aching, and walked off with Leo, leaving behind a night full of visible and invisible wounds—and the question still hanging in the air:
Who is the real enemy?