Steven
You know that exact moment when you start losing a battle, so you go all in? That moment when you realize the rules no longer apply, and the only way to survive a war is to become worse than those who attacked you first. The ancient Greeks had the Trojan Horse. We didn't have any wooden sculpture. We had metal junk boxes on the road, wooden clubs ready in the trunk, and ten crazy heads split between two cars. And a rage that boiled inside us harder than any alcohol.
In the fan world, a club hoodie isn't just a piece of clothing. It's the honor of the entire group. A flag you wear on your chest. And when someone strips you of your colors and beats your brother to a pulp, you don't call the police. You call the crew, you wake up the whole neighborhood, and you go after that revenge that's smirking at you in the dark.
Most of the Grobari were at JNA that evening, at the match against FC Proleter, but not those clowns who beat up our friend. We got a tip that this crew from Borča was planning to pull off another action tonight. To cross the Danube, destroy Zvezda's graffiti near the Arena, and leave another one of their messages. That's why we had to intercept them on their own turf, before they even hit the bridge.
Entering someone else's territory is never an easy job. It's full of fucking risk. Every wrong turn in an unfamiliar neighborhood can cost you your teeth. Or something way worse than a beating. But we had that element of surprise. Not a soul expected us.
"Do you think they'll pass through here?" Dean asked, glancing at the navigation on his phone, which showed we were driving deep into Borča.
"They have to pass through here, bro," I said, lighting a cigarette even though the air inside the car was already thick and sticky from smoke and nerves.
"Listen, Steven. Once we beat the living shit out of these pussies from Borča, we're going straight to Victor's dad's cafe. Mr. Drake is struggling with cash, so we should go drop some money there," John suggested.
I liked that idea. Along with Dean, Victor was like a blood brother to me. His family fled the countryside and came to Pančevo with two bags and zero guarantees. Since then, their eternal struggle for bare survival has been ongoing. Poverty, bills, unpaid rent - all in the same package.
"Of course, bro. A successful action has to be toasted," I replied, looking through the window into the dark streets.
We rolled into a one-way street in a convoy and parked the cars in the dark. That was the spot where, according to our calculations, five of them should soon pass by with bags full of spray paint and stencils.
I opened the glove compartment in front of me and pulled out a black bandana with a skull on it.
Covering your face is law number one. In the 21st century, bystanders are worse than surveillance cameras - every idiot carries a phone in their hands and minds everyone else's business, dying to record something and post it on social media for a few views and attention. I know that at least a dozen of them will try to catch our action tonight.
Throughout life, I've always believed that real memories are kept in your head, but nowadays, not a single event can pass without a story or a post on Instagram. We fight this endless war on the stands against the mannequins and posers who come to matches just for photos and likes. They have no clue where they've ended up, so they casually record everyone's faces, post them on their profiles, and share them without anyone's permission. And then, of course, because of their fucking phones, those of us who live on enemy turf are the ones who suffer. A rival group spots you on someone else's story, tracks you down in your neighborhood, and they break you to pieces on your own doorstep until you sing and start snitching on others. That's why this rag over my face tonight was a matter of survival.
Unfortunately, because of many such videos and the chase for views, guys have lost their lives defending loyalty to their story and their group. And those posers with phones go home, go to sleep, and aren't even aware that with one simple click, they just ruined someone's life.
"John, is the trunk unlocked in the back?" Dean asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the windshield.
"Yeah, bro. I left it unlocked before we even took off."
"Alright then, let the guys in the other car know. As soon as that woman with the bags disappears behind the building, we grab the clubs and head toward that green building. There's a dark tunnel over there. We'll stake out there until the Grobari show up."
Dean was the only one who knew Borča well. John and I had never set foot in this neighborhood before, so tonight, he was our brains and the leader of the action. And we took him at his word.36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6Vl5He0gzU
I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. The cold night air cut across my bare neck instantly, but it put out the nerves inside me. The doors closed almost silently, one after the other, as if the car itself knew that we couldn't make any loud noise tonight.
Everyone knew their job down to the last detail. Everything had been planned and drawn out in advance, precise as a bank heist. There was no need for unnecessary questions. I popped the trunk of the gray Nissan. The wooden clubs lay inside, lined up like on a conveyor belt. I grabbed one - it was heavier than it looked at first glance. Tough, raw wood; it fit in my palm perfectly.
I pulled the black bandana over my face and felt my own warm breath bounce back against my skin. I led the crew out behind me without a single word. We walked fast, quietly, and with control, as if it were our hundredth time doing the exact same thing.36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmkeYxeKFfd
We bolted straight toward the tunnel of that old building. Luckily, there wasn't a living soul outside. Just parked cars and the occasional window with a TV turned on. It always bugged me just how many eyes were actually watching through those curtains from the apartments. And later, in front of the cops, they play dumb like they didn't see a thing.
The tunnel was narrow, but just long enough for the ten of us to line up against the wall, packed together in the dark with clubs in our hands. The concrete reeked of dampness, mold, and urine. The walls were scarred with old graffiti - layered over one another, crossed out, scribbled over, faded. That street war of graffiti that, in reality, never ends.
The light above the entrance flickered dimly and erratically, as if it were about to die any second and leave us in the total darkness of the tunnel. It cast long, distorted shadows across the ground and our sneakers.
Man, how can anyone live here? crossed my mind as I sized up the courtyard inside. The building looked eerie, like it was falling apart all on its own. Balconies without railings, peeled, gray facade, and windows without shutters that looked like black holes.36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk7h4RkpeSu
In the distance, a man's laughter echoed - loud, arrogant, and relaxed all at the same time. The Grobari.
I subtly peeked out of the tunnel, just enough so that flickering light wouldn't catch me. The street was half-dark, but lit just enough for me to clearly count them. One, two, three...
Fuck! Shit. I paused for a second, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I looked at Dean. There weren't five of them - there were eleven. Twice as many as we were told. It looked like the Grobari had caught wind that something was brewing, so they gathered a stronger crew for the action near the Arena.
"Bro... there's eleven of them. Two are carrying backpacks," I muttered through my teeth, quietly, but sharp enough for everyone in the stakeout to hear me.
"What do you mean, eleven, man? It was supposed to be a pathetic handful!" Victor snapped in the dark, squeezing his wooden club so hard that his knuckles turned completely white.
"Who gives a fuck, we're still stronger, damn it. Steven, just give the word and we'll hit them!" John said angrily, trying to cut through the panic and maintain our winning momentum, as if nothing had changed.
I squeezed the wood in my hand so tightly that my palm ached. I didn't feel fear - at least not the kind that makes you back down. I felt that familiar pressure in my chest - the rush right before a direct collision, when your brain tells you that in a matter of seconds, everything around you is going to explode, and after the first blow, there's no turning back. No regrets.
"Shut up!" I said, quieter but sharper.
I tracked them with my eyes as they approached our tunnel, completely relaxed, waving their hands around, oblivious to the fact that just a few meters away, ten wrecked heads with clubs were hiding. I had to calculate the exact second. If we rushed out too early, they'd scatter down the street and run. If we let them get too close, they'd pin us inside the tunnel, and we'd turn it into our own cage.
Just a few more steps. Come on, a little closer. Now they were so near that I could see their faces under a streetlight. I raised my right hand up, held it for a second until their footsteps echoed right outside the entrance, and dropped it down.
"Now! Smash the scum!"
We rushed out of the tunnel at the exact same moment, like a pack of hyenas, without a shred of second - guessing, and went into a full sprint straight at them.
The surprise element took care of more than half the job. The Grobari from Borča literally froze in their tracks, completely stunned and clueless. The guy closest to me dropped his bag, and the sharp, metallic clang of spray cans hitting the asphalt was louder than all of our shouting combined. For them, that was the sound of the beginning of the end of that night.
The first guy who crossed my path didn't even manage to bring his hands up to guard, let alone process what hit him. I slammed the club straight into his stomach. The guy instantly folded like a lawn chair, gasping as all the air was knocked clean out of his lungs. Two of his boys jumped into the madness right away to cover him and back him up - brave on their part, but completely useless against an infuriated crew with solid wooden clubs.
"Let's gooo! Smash the scum!" Victor roared next to me, and right after that, the dull, sickening thud of wood snapping against someone's bone echoed through the air.
I saw Dean wrestling with two of them at the same time, furious and focused. As I looked at that chaos, a thought crossed my mind that we had never been more ready. John was already chasing that guy with the backpack, who was trying to save their gear.
The adrenaline kicked in, and I automatically kept swinging, driven by pure rage. Another guy lunged at me, trying maniacally to rip the wood out of my hands, but I caught him right in the jaw with my left elbow, throwing him backward. He fell onto his back, completely dazed. I stepped up to him without a second of hesitation and chained three heavy blows with the club across his head and back.
His screams and his whimpering with every blow echoed in my head, but it wasn't enough to make me stop. I beat him like a rabid animal. In that fucking moment, through that wood, I wasn't just beating that guy from Borča. I was unloading all those problems that had been building up inside me for years.
Everything was pouring out of me with every single strike, without a shred of regret, until the guy beneath me went completely still and blacked out.
Suddenly, as if someone had pulled a trigger, everything around me went quiet. My vision blurred, and a wave of sickening nausea surged through my head while that disgusting, loud ringing echoed in my ears, completely throwing me off. Still, I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath through my nose, forcing myself to stay sharp. I couldn't afford to drop now, not when it was all over.
I lowered the club, barely catching my breath. I looked around. The street was in total chaos. Four of them were lying motionless on the road, while the rest had taken off in a wild sprint toward the end of the street, terrified and broken. Victor stood over one of them, keeping the situation under control, and Dean was wiping blood off his hand, breathing heavily through his nose. The action was over. They got what they deserved. Bastards.
- Christina
It was somewhere around nine in the evening when we headed back to Pančevo, after an incredible match and an easy victory for our Partizan. The whole time, Nick was stepping on the gas like a maniac, arrogant and confident, while retelling the fight that had just broken out in Borča along the way. He was saying how the Delije had intercepted our guys, beat them with clubs, snatched all their graffiti gear, and stripped a few serious group hoodies. I was only half-listening to him.
The exhaustion was slowly catching up to me, but that genuine smile wouldn't leave my face. I was ecstatic; Partizan had won, and I had released all my negative energy in the kop. At one point, during the total chaos after the goal, Nick had shoved a lit flare into my hands for the first time in my life. With all that smoke and nerves, I almost set myself on fire, clumsy as hell, but whatever. The feeling when that bright light burns right next to you and you're part of that crazy pyro show was simply too good. That was more than enough happiness for me today. Aside from Nick, of course.
"I told you guys we'd crush it today!" Nick shouted proudly over the steering wheel. He really had predicted the outcome of the match, and that fed his ego more than any compliment ever could.
"We were the best!" I called out, trying to yell over the loud music on the radio.
I smiled, feeling the adrenaline finally fade and my body start to crash. I was exhausted, my throat was burning dangerously from all the screaming, and my hair was completely messed up from the shoving, the jumping, and those famous terrace trains on the stands. Yet, my heart was still racing. That sense of belonging, that raw energy of thousands of people... it was the only moment I felt truly alive, far away from that marble prison my parents call a home. Over there, everything is by the book. Quiet, uptight, without a single mistake.
"Hey guys, are we hitting the party at Miljan's? He's throwing a massive party at his cottage. It's gonna be dope," Michael tossed from the back seat, and I frowned instantly, knowing ahead of time that Nick and Nadia would agree with open arms.36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2BCOXwPGh9
"Honestly, we could use some unwinding. Perfect way to celebrate a convincing win properly, bro," Nick said, holding the leather steering wheel tightly, already imagining himself as the main character and the star of the night.
"Look what I scored from Ranko in the kop," Michael pulled a small baggie of fresh, green marijuana from his pocket and proudly held it up like some kind of trophy.
"I'm down, right now!" Nadia added excitedly, without a second of hesitation.
"Christina, what about you?" All three of them looked at me at the exact same time with the identical facial expression - expectation mixed with that subtle, familiar peer pressure.
And there it was - the pressure had started. And I really, truly did not want to go anywhere. I was exhausted, drained. And I wanted even less to watch them get absolutely wasted on those damn substances within half an hour and lose their minds until morning. That was just another one of those flaws that I secretly hated about Nick. That endless need of his to be at every single party, to be seen, to be the loudest one in the room, to be the center of everything. Sometimes, sitting next to him in that same leather seat, I wondered if he even knew how to turn off that aggressive attitude, to just be quiet and be mine alone.
Still, I didn't want to be a drag on him. I would never allow myself to do something like that. If he wants to go, let him...
"I'm really not in the mood for a party."
"Oh come on, Christina. Why are you being a buzzkill? We won't stay long, I swear," Nick said, trying to soften me up with that deep voice of his that usually always worked on me.
"I'm sleepy, Nick. I'm dead tired. I just want to get into bed," I said, this time without acting. And it really was true - the adrenaline had completely melted away, and exhaustion was crashing over me in heavy waves.
"What are we doing now?" Michael asked, visibly pissed off.
I know I annoy him often because I refuse to keep up with their pace, but he kept his mouth shut and swallowed it only because of Nick. If he weren't his best bud, he probably would have thrown all of it in my face a long time ago.
"Nothing. You two go ahead, I'll drop Christina off at her place," Nick suggested.
"No, no, no way. You go with them, Nick."
I said it, trying my best to sound as genuine as possible. I didn't want to ruin their plans.
Sometimes I even felt sorry for them - they literally live for those parties and drunken nights, while I only share that world with them from time to time.
"There's no way in hell I'm leaving you alone, Christina," he shot back the exact same second. His gaze turned serious, almost protective. That look always, without fail, broke me in half.
"You're not leaving me, Nick, relax. Seriously. It's not fair for you to constantly miss out on parties because of me. The world won't end over one night apart."
I said it exactly the way I meant it. Or at least, I was lying to myself that I meant it.
Nick locked his eyes on me for a few seconds, as if trying to read my face and figure out whether I was actually cool with it or just faking understanding. In the end, he gave in anyway.
"Are you sure, Christina?"
Nadia and Michael kept wisely quiet in the back, watching us go through our usual minor back-and-forth over something that was completely irrelevant and boring to them.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Besides, Nadia is there to keep an eye on you. If you pull any crap, you're dead meat," I added with a bitter joke, just to break that stupid heaviness in the air. Even though, somewhere deep in my gut, I wished more than anything that this time he had chosen me and turned the car toward my house.
"Hey, you can't go home alone at this hour, Christina," Nadia finally chimed in, faking some solidarity.
And why on earth couldn't I? What's going to happen if I take a little walk and clear my head?
"Don't sweat it, I have my private chauffeur that my mom constantly shoves in my face and forces me to call," I said sarcastically. That word, chauffeur, had always been synonymous with police handcuffs in my vocabulary.
"I love you, Christina. You're the best," Nick blurted out, his face beaming with joy, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, barely able to wait to step on the gas toward that cottage.
"I love you too, Nick."
We shared a quick kiss, and then they left me in front of the bus station in the center of Pančevo. That was my choice, just to be clear. They wanted to drop me off right at my house, but I didn't let them. My split-second plan was to call a cab that would show up in a minute, but then this crazy urge to walk just pulled me in. And so, that's what I did.
You could rarely catch me alone on the streets at night. My parents had always insisted that someone drive me, that security or a chauffeur accompany me, checking in every half-hour to see where I was and who I was with. They said it was all for my safety. To me, that breathing down my neck felt like textbook suffocation.
Walking the half-empty streets woke me up instantly. The cold Pančevo air felt good; it washed the smell of smoke and sweat off me. Only then did I feel my stomach seriously vibrating with hunger. Way to go, Christina. Now you're starving too, I thought ironically.
The mere thought that back home, some boring, organic, healthy food would be waiting for me - which I had to swallow daily under the watchful eyes of my parents - made me quicken my pace. In our house, everything is healthy, balanced, calculated, and correct. Only I am not.
I checked my wallet to see how much cash I had. Hmmm, 65 euros and 200 dinars. More than enough for some fast food. I racked my brain trying to think where to turn, but every place I passed was long closed. It was late. It was annoying me more and more, and the hunger was becoming unbearable.
Around the corner, down a side street, I suddenly caught the sound of noise, male voices, and the clinking of glass bottles. I picked up my pace, hoping to stumble upon an open restaurant or at least a fast-food joint working the late shift. And then I saw it - a small cafe with a faded fast-food sign above the entrance.
And then, a cold shower hit me. I saw them.
A massive group of Delije had literally occupied the entire venue and the space in front of it. Some were standing with bottles in their hands, some were sitting at plastic tables, and crates of beer were lined up all around. They were incredibly loud and relaxed. Looks like they were celebrating something.
They locked their eyes on me the exact second I stepped into the light in front of the cafe. Shit. Christina, you idiot.
I had totally forgotten that I was wearing a Partizan t-shirt. In Pančevo, which was considered our turf, I had just marched straight into the single pocket where they had set up a party, or something like that tonight. All those heavy, scanning glares from the crew of guys were directed straight at my chest.
They wouldn't actually attack me, right? I'm a girl, they must have some kind of code... The last thing I need is to get broken to pieces over a t-shirt. Way to go, Christina, you idiot.
My brain was working at a hundred miles an hour. My first thought was to turn around and run in any direction, but it was too late for that. They had already spotted me - at least the vast majority of them. I felt those stares on my skin - heavy, sticky, and threatening, as if some invisible force were pushing me straight into the middle of them. If I start running, I'll look like a coward, and then they'll definitely come after me.
I took a deep breath, straightened my back, and gripped my purse. It's too late now. I'm going inside, and whatever happens, happens.36Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdY6E3otZKc
and then Add to home screen.