The Rise of John Raymond

Bleeding in the Shadows

“Useless boy, when will you stop being the punching bag of this world?”

John muttered the words to himself as he dragged his aching body through the rusted gate of the hostel. His school uniform clung to his skin, torn at the sleeves, stained with dried blood, and splattered with mud. A swollen lip, a bruised cheekbone, and a knee that stung with every step—those were the free souvenirs he collected after yet another brutal encounter with campus bullies.

It was always the same: taunts in the hallway, punches in the empty corners, and mockery from the shadows. Nobody ever stood up for John. Not even the lecturers. Especially not the girls. He was the nameless face everyone passed without a second glance.

His room, barely bigger than a janitor’s closet, smelled of sweat, pain, and desperation. He threw his bag onto the creaky old table, unbuttoned his shirt with trembling fingers, and slumped onto his tiny bed.

But the world wouldn’t even let him breathe.

RIING!

His phone buzzed harshly. It was Rose, the lounge manager.

He picked up the call. “Hello…”

“You useless cockroach!” Her shrill voice exploded through the speaker like a whip. “Why the hell haven’t you started clearing the lounges? Or are you waiting for the dirt to start walking out by itself?”

John’s eyes tightened shut. “I just got ba…”

“I don’t care if you just came back from the moon!” she snapped. “You have thirty minutes to start, or I’ll give that job to another broke stray like you.”

CLICK.

She hung up.

John clenched the phone in his hand and bit his lip until it bled. He didn’t have the luxury to argue. That was his only job, the only thing keeping his stomach filled and his rent barely paid. And more than anything, he needed the little money to take Rita out that night.

Rita… the flame in his freezing life. The untouchable goddess of the campus. She walked like the world belonged to her, smiled like the sun kissed only her lips. Every man on campus knew her name. And every girl envied her throne.

John loved her like air—blindly, hopelessly, fully. He’d do anything for her.

He peeled off his dirty uniform, splashed water over his face, threw on a hoodie, and rushed back out. Every step he took reminded him of his bruises. But pain had long become his second skin.

The lounges were massive—five floors of filth and cigarette stubs. He started from the top, pushing his bucket, broom, and mop like a ghost haunting the halls. By the time he got to the third floor, his knees were jelly.

He sat against the wall, resting his head between his arms.

“Look who’s trying to breathe,” a familiar voice sneered.

SPLASH!

Ice-cold water poured over John’s head.

He looked up slowly.

Jerry.

The devil himself.

Jerry stood with a grin carved into his handsome face, the empty bucket in hand. His two friends—Anthony and Malik—snickered beside him like hyenas watching a wounded deer. Jerry’s designer sneakers sparkled under the hallway lights. His Rolex glinted like a threat. Born into a multimillion-dollar family, Jerry was untouchable. His father donated buildings to the school. His uncle sat on the board. Even the lecturers kissed his feet.

Jerry began dropping more dirt on the floor, dragging mud from his shoe across the clean tiles.

“You missed a spot, janitor,” Jerry mocked. “You should hurry up before I use your head to mop it.”

John swallowed his anger. His fists clenched, but his voice stayed silent. He dropped to his knees and cleaned the mess.

“Look at this fool,” Malik laughed. “He even enjoys being our pet.”

Jerry kicked the bucket across the hallway and cracked his knuckles. He stepped closer. “You want me to teach you how to clean faster? Maybe I should write it on your face…”

RIIING!

Jerry’s phone buzzed. He paused, glanced at the screen, and walked off to answer it. His friends followed.

John cleaned quickly, like his life depended on it. Because maybe it did.

By the time he returned to his hostel, his hands were trembling and his back was screaming. But his eyes were on the clock. 6:15 PM.

Dinner with Rita. His last hope. The one person he believed could give his life meaning.

He had exactly $3,000—his savings from over a year of hustling, cleaning, and starving. He’d never held that much cash before. He would have used it for rent, or to fix his broken laptop, or to buy new shoes. But Rita wanted dinner. Fancy, high-end dinner. And John wanted her to feel like a queen.

He didn’t have many clothes, so he just wore a black shirt with faded jeans. No lotion, no perfume—just soap and hope.

He walked all the way to the restaurant. The money was too tight for transport. When he got there, Rita wasn’t around. That gave him time to decorate the table—roses, candles, a custom menu. He begged the staff, pleaded with the manager, and finally got the most beautiful setup in the place.

He smiled as he looked at the table.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is the night everything changes.”

7:00 PM.

Still no Rita.

7:15.

His fingers began to shake.

7:30.

His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten all day. He picked up the fork. Maybe he’d just take one bite while waiting—

VROOOM!

A sleek white Benz stopped at the front of the restaurant.

John dropped the fork and stood up, hope swelling in his chest.

The door opened.

And his world shattered.

Rita stepped out—her red dress hugging every curve like sin in satin. Her laughter echoed as she clung to the arm of Jerry. Behind them came Anthony, Malik, and two other friends. Dressed in wealth. Radiating mockery.

They walked into the restaurant like they owned it.

Rita saw John. Her smile dropped.

John’s eyes pleaded. “R-Rita?”

Jerry laughed. “You didn’t tell me your houseboy was here.”

John’s lips quivered. “Why… why are you here… with them?”

Jerry walked up to the table and picked up the wine glass. “So this is your big date night?” He poured the wine over the candles.

SPLASH.

John flinched.

Jerry slapped him hard.

SMACK!

The restaurant went silent. Nobody dared interfere. Everyone knew who Jerry was.

John touched his cheek. It burned.

Jerry’s friends scattered the table, breaking the plates, spilling the food, and mocking every part of John’s existence.

Something snapped.

John clenched his fists and punched Jerry straight in the nose.

Blood sprayed out.

Gasps echoed. Jerry staggered back, holding his face.

But the moment was short-lived.

Anthony, Malik, and two others jumped on John. They beat him to the floor, kicked his ribs, and stepped on his hands. The customers looked away. No one moved.

They dragged him up.

“Apologize to Jerry!” Anthony demanded.

John, barely able to see through the blood, nodded. “I… I’m—”

WHAM!

Jerry punched him again. Blood dripped from John’s nose like a leaking faucet.

John crumbled to the floor.

His chest heaved. His eyes turned to Rita.

She stood there. Watching. Saying nothing.

He reached out, held her ankle gently. “Rita… please… don’t leave me…”

BAM!

She kicked his head.

He let go.

Jerry adjusted his collar and pulled out his phone. “Call security. I want this trash off the premises.”

Two security guards marched toward them.

John couldn’t move.

His body ached, but the betrayal hurt more. The humiliation was a blade twisting in his heart.

Then.

He heard heels. Sharp. Confidence. Powerful.

The restaurant’s doors burst open.

A woman in a crisp white gown walked in. Her presence silenced the room. She had the aura of authority—rich, composed, and untouchable.