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Ariel Beckham. Blood. There’s so much blood. I will never be able to fully process what’s happening. I know it all started with gunshots that battered the air like thunder, and now—I’m watching Ramirez crush the life out of these men. He’s taking on fifteen of them, maybe more, and by the sound of bones snapping like dry twigs, I know they’re not getting back up. My back’s pressed to the ground, hands clamped over my ears as I watch, terrified, unable to look away. Every time he throws a punch or a kick, its feral. The man leading the group tries to aim that huge gun but Ramirez wrestles it from his grip and smashes it across his face, splattering blood in all directions. I thought he would get hurt. I thought they’d ambush him from all sides, close in and overwhelm him. But it’s not