Although the floorboards creaked beneath his feet, Michael was unconcerned. The warped, wooden planks had made odd noises since before the gang had moved into the apartment complex, most likely because it had stood for decades and had been abandoned in its early years--not that he was too keen on learning the building's history.

The boy dragged his hands through his hair, fingers tugging on the dark strands he caught between them. He couldn't help but wonder why his life needed to be so difficult: he was faced with three options, and all of them were sure to end badly for him. On one hand, he could work for his father's company and finally have a semblance of a relationship with the man. On the other, he could take over his mother's gang, just as she had been training him to do for his entire life. Then, he had the choice of doing what Justice told him--taking a path he never would have considered before meeting her--he could do what he wanted.

However, the mere thought of Justice completely derailed his train of thought. The image of her shocked, betrayed face had ingrained itself on his mind and it wormed its way back into his thoughts in that moment. It only made him pull harder at his hair, dislodging a few strands from his scalp. He had blamed everything on her just days before, said that she had messed up his head and caused this frustrating indecision to settle upon him. He told her that he would have been happier blindly obeying his mother's orders and becoming a gang leader, and that he would have been better off if he had never met her. After he'd shouted until his throat ached he hadn't felt the slightest bit of remorse, but now... Forty-eight hours was long enough for Michael to start regretting everything.

He was only just beginning to realize that he wouldn't have been happy with the future chosen for him, yet leading the gang would make his father upset. If he alllowed himself to be employed by his father, however, he would gain a decent relationship with him, but it would also anger his mother--he didn't want a job he didn't work for, either. And then, if he was to do something completely different than what either of them wanted for him, he would disappoint both of them. It seemed like he was back at square one.

As Michael paced the floor, wracking his brain for a solution to his dilemma, he was jolted out of his thoughts by the squeal of a plank of wood under his foot. He merely shrugged it off and shook his head, proceeding to take another step forward. This was accompanied by a creaking of even louder volume, then a suspicious snapping noise.

And then he fell.

The boards caved under his weight and sent a shower of splinters flying through the room. The boy plummeted downwards and braced himself to hit the next story. He didn't stop.

His back hit the floor, yet it simply gave out from the sheer force of him landing on it. He crashed through to the next level.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

The wood of each story continued to collapse, dropping him down and down and down. His body smashed through the entire apartment complex, each impact sending a stab of pain through him, anguished noises wrenching themselves from his throat. Michael was dimly aware that the building was twelve stories high, but he was too terrified and in too much pain to even cry out for help.

The cement floor of the building's ground level came increasingly closer, and although he wasn't sure how close, he braced himself for the shock that was sure to come. He was soon met with the sound of a sickening crack, paired with agony unlike any other stemming from his back--yet he didn't have the strength to make any noise, let alone move. Michael blinked to clear his vision, and as he did he began to make out the blurred shape of a jagged hole in the ceiling above him. Beyond that, he was able to see similar cavities in the floors further up. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was the cause of those gaping holes. However, he had next to no time to comprehend exactly what had just occured with his vision rapidly fading to black.

The last thing he heard was his mother calling out his name.