Ryder’s POV

“Hand it over, Ryder Stone! Don’t play games with us, you useless Fatso!”

The gang’s voices echoed like a death toll across the cracked restroom tiles, each word sharper than the fists crashing against me. My back slammed into a basin, the porcelain groaning from the impact as another punch landed square on my cheekbone.

“I told you—I don’t have anything!” I gasped, blood spilling from the corner of my mouth, painting my teeth ...