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Some kids whispered, others pointed, but Ross just flashed them a grin and got out of the car.

Thud! As soon as he stepped onto the pavement, several men surrounded him. They looked out of place against the school backdrop—rough-looking guys with tattoos, leather jackets, and sneers. A white van with tinted windows idled by the curb, its engine humming like a waiting predator.

One of the goons, a towering man with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, stepped forward and draped a thick arm over our op mc’s shoulder. The weight of it pressed down, but Ross didn’t flinch.

"Hey, tough guy. Come with us. You’re popular. Someone important wants to see you," the big man said. His breath hit Ross like a wall—a foul stench of rotten meat and stale cigarettes. James resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose. Hygiene, it seemed, wasn’t high on this guy’s priority list.

Instead of reacting with fear, Ross merely raised an eyebrow and gave a little smirk. "Sure. I’d be delighted to meet this important someone," he replied smoothly, his voice casual. His lack of fear caught the goons off guard.

They exchanged surprised glances, clearly thrown by the young man’s calmness. Most people in his position would be trembling, shouting for help, or making a break for it. But Ross acted as if he were heading to just another Friday night out.

After a moment, one of the smaller goons, a wiry man with a scruffy beard and twitchy hands, shrugged and gestured toward the van. "Let’s go, kid. We ain’t got all day."

Ross gave a nod and walked forward, slipping into the van as though he’d been invited. The seven men piled in around him, filling the van with the heavy stench of sweat and leather. Inside, the seats were cracked and the air was stale, but Ross seemed unbothered, looking out the window as the engine revved and the van lurched into motion.

They drove off, leaving the school behind and heading toward parts unknown.

"Are you really as dumb as you look?" the goon leader asked, breaking the silence in the van. They’d been driving for over thirty minutes, leaving the familiar sights of Parkland City far behind.

The roads were now quieter, winding through areas that seemed more isolated. It was clear that wherever they were taking Ross, there’d be no witnesses—and no easy way back.

Ross didn’t seem the least bit worried. In fact, he looked amused, munching on a donut and taking a sip from a hot cup of coffee he’d found in the van.

"What gave you that impression?" he replied, raising an eyebrow. "I may not look like much, but I’m actually pretty smart."

The leader scowled, his eyes narrowing. This kid’s attitude was getting on his nerves. It wasn’t often they kidnapped someone who didn’t panic or try to make a run for it. Ross, however, acted as if he were on a casual weekend drive.

He hadn’t been restrained; the goons hadn’t thought it necessary, given their numbers and the confined space of the van. But now they were second-guessing that decision as Ross continued to act as if he were calling the shots.

Ross took another bite, savoring the sweet, sugary taste. He’d spotted the box of donuts and coffee when he’d first climbed in and figured he’d help himself. After all, it would have been a waste to let good food go to these roughnecks.

"Look at him," one of the goons sneered, crossing his thick arms. "He’s sitting there like he’s on a picnic. Kid’s got no idea what’s coming to him."

"Let that moron enjoy his last moments of peace," another one chimed in with a cruel grin. "Soon enough, he’ll be squealing like a pig."

Ross shot him a calm, almost bored glance, unfazed by the threats. His nonchalance was getting under their skin, and he knew it. He took another sip of his coffee and leaned back, acting as though he were completely in control of the situation.

"Funny," Ross said with a smirk, wiping a crumb from his lip. "I thought you guys were supposed to be scary. I mean, no offense, but between the smell in here and your intimidation tactics, I’m less scared and more… let’s say… disappointed."

The leader’s jaw clenched, a vein pulsing at his temple. "Keep talking, tough guy," he growled. "We’ll see how cocky you are when we reach the boss."

"Oh, I’m looking forward to meeting him," Ross replied with mock enthusiasm. "But I’ll need another coffee refill by then. You guys should really plan these trips better if you want people to stay comfortable."

The men exchanged frustrated glances. Ross’s calm defiance was clearly throwing them off. They had expected fear, panic, even pleading, but this? A smug young man acting as if they were his personal chauffeurs?

The leader gave a sharp nod to one of the goons beside him, who balled up a fist as if ready to teach Ross a lesson. But Ross just held up his coffee cup, giving the goon a disarming grin. "Careful now. This is hot, and I’d hate to spill it on you," he said, his voice light but edged with a warning.

For a moment, there was a tense silence. Then, with a frustrated grunt, the goon backed off, muttering under his breath.

As the van continued its journey down empty roads, Ross looked out the window, his expression cool and collected. He knew exactly where he was headed or who this mysterious "boss" was, but one thing was certain: he was sure to make this journey a lasting one for both these goons and their boss.

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Three hours later, the van finally pulled up to their destination—a large, secluded house nestled deep in the countryside, shielded by thick trees and rolling hills. As Ross stepped out of the van, he took in his surroundings.

The property was vast, stretching out in every direction, and yet, instead of a menacing hideout, it looked more like a working farm. Chickens wandered through the yard, clucking noisily, and a few cows grazed in a fenced-off pasture nearby. A rustic barn leaned against the backdrop of the forest, its red paint faded and peeling.

Ross felt a twinge of nostalgia as he breathed in the earthy smells of hay and livestock. The scene reminded him of home, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the urge to visit his own family’s farm. Christmas wasn’t far off, after all. He made a mental note to head back there this year, no matter how crazy things got.

"Alright, tough guy. Out!" one of the goons barked, breaking his reverie. The man shoved Ross forward, clearly impatient. He jabbed a thumb toward the house, his lips curling into a sneer. "Time to meet your new daddy inside."

Ross raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the taunt. He stepped out of the van with a calm, almost casual air, adjusting his shirt as if he were just stopping by for a friendly visit.

He glanced over his shoulder at the van and the grim-faced men surrounding him, noting the worn look of the place and the strange contrast it presented to the menacing mission they were clearly on.

As they herded him toward the house, Ross couldn’t help but smirk. These guys were trying so hard to be intimidating, but the setting—a cozy farm with chickens running loose—was hardly what he’d call frightening. If anything, it only heightened the absurdity of the situation.

One of the goons gave him a rough nudge as they reached the porch steps. "Move it. Don’t keep the boss waiting," he growled.

Ross rolled his eyes but complied, climbing the steps with an easy stride. Whatever lay inside, he was more curious than concerned. After all, he wasn’t the type to be easily intimidated, and these so-called "tough guys" hadn’t exactly proven themselves to be a threat.

Still, Ross knew that these people had done this before; they had the blood of innocents on their hands. None of them would live to see the end of today, of course.