8 Changes

16th March 1990

Three months had swiftly slipped by, marked by the steady ascent of Bondrewd's influence and the fervent dedication of his followers. Under his guidance, actions that once elicited shock were now accepted as the norm.

Bondrewd deftly manipulated the Matron's avarice to his advantage. With a considerable sum amassed from donors and various side ventures, he offered her a tantalizing bribe, promising enhanced stability during inspections and reduced workload in exchange for her compliance. Without hesitation, she greedily accepted the bribe, bestowing upon him the title of "Head Prefect" before retreating to the comfort of her opulent office.

The first order of business was the complete replacement of the previous prefects, in replacement, members of the Umbra Legion whom swiftly assumed the empty roles, their loyalty and allegiance firmly pledged to their enigmatic leader.

Bondrewd's authority solidified as he efficiently managed the orphanage's operations, either by meticulously organizing schedules or by enforcing discipline among the residents. Punishments were moderated, schedules adhered to, and surprisingly, few complaints were voiced.

The orphanage witnessed a resurgence of order, with Bondrewd's directives reigning supreme. Only the Matron remained an outlier, her influence diminished in the face of his dominance.

Food became more abundant, sourced from clandestine channels known only to the select few within Bondrewd's inner circle. While the gloom that once pervaded the orphanage dissipated, the innocence of its inhabitants remained forever shattered, replaced by a new power dynamic carefully orchestrated by Bondrewd.

During an assembly hall meeting, Bondrewd singled out Mark, Bruce, Steven, John, and Will, summoning them to remain behind. Mark, having matured physically and emotionally, exuded a newfound gravity, while Bruce radiated confidence befitting his elevated position. Steven, John, and Will, older and more muscular, stood alongside them, their loyalty apparent in their demeanour.

As the murmurs in the hall subsided and the others departed, the chosen five remained, standing before Bondrewd who occupied the central seat, a symbol of his authority.

"I want the Bistro under our control by the end of the week," Bondrewd commanded with unwavering authority.

"Yes, my lord," Bruce responded promptly, his allegiance unwavering.

"Consider it done," Mark affirmed, his voice tinged with a sense of determination.

"Of course, sir," Will replied with poise, his demeanor reflecting his eagerness to comply as Steven and John flanked behind him, nodding in agreement.

"Your efforts will be duly rewarded," Bondrewd assured them graciously, dismissing them with a wave of his hand to carry out his bidding.

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The bistro, once a beacon of warmth and hospitality, now echoed with the frustrated exclamations of its owner. Glass shards littered the black and white tiled floor, a stark contrast to the establishment's former charm.

Situated in a coveted location, the restaurant boasted a steady stream of patrons drawn in by its inviting ambiance, delicious cuisine, and friendly staff. The polished wooden flooring exuded an air of sophistication, while the clear glass windows bathed the interior in natural light, casting warm patterns on the tepid streets outside.

Yet, despite its allure, the bistro had fallen victim to a relentless barrage of vandalism. Each day brought with it a new assault, as bricks and rocks pelted the once-pristine windows, leaving the owner exasperated and the establishment in disarray.

Initially dismissing it as a one-off occurrence, the owner soon realized that the attacks were becoming a daily occurrence. Despite his efforts to apprehend the culprits, they remained elusive, striking with precision and disappearing before he could intervene.

Reflecting on past experiences, the owner lamented the breakdown of trust between the police and the community. In years past, he might have turned to law enforcement for assistance, but now he feared the repercussions of doing so. The strained relationship between the police and the working class had only worsened over time, leaving him with few options for recourse.

"Every day!" the owner exclaimed, his frustration boiling over as he voiced his concerns to his staff. His brow furrowed with worry as he contemplated the mounting damages and the toll they were taking on his business.

"I've heard from my friend that some of the other stores are having the same issue," a female employee chimed in, her voice tinged with sympathy for her employer's plight.

"Back in my day, they wouldn't care," an older employee interjected, his anger palpable as he recalled a time when such acts of vandalism would have been swiftly addressed by the authorities.

The owner's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he surveyed the wreckage strewn across his bistro's floor. "This can't go on like this," he muttered to himself, his voice heavy with exasperation.

With a resigned sigh, he motioned to his staff to begin cleaning up the shattered glass before turning to retreat into his office. Each step felt heavier than the last as he trudged towards the dimly lit room, the weight of his mounting troubles pressing down upon him.

As he entered his office and groped for the light switch, confusion clouded his thoughts. "Hm, I could've sworn I had turned the light on in here," he mused aloud, his hand fumbling along the wall in search of the elusive switch.

Suddenly, he froze as he felt a presence behind him. Whirling around, he found himself face to face with five masked figures, their ominous silhouettes looming in the dim light.

"Shhh, we're here to talk," a cold voice cut through the tension, sending a shiver down the owner's spine.

"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice tinged with nervousness as he struggled to maintain his composure in the face of the intimidating intruders.

"Calm down, George," one of the figures responded, the use of his name sending a chill down his spine.

"Isn't it awful? Kids nowadays," the figure continued, his tone dripping with arrogance as he addressed the bewildered owner.

Before the figure could continue, accusations erupted from George's lips, his anger momentarily overpowering his fear. "That was you!" he shouted, his voice rising in indignation.

But his outburst was quickly silenced by a stern reprimand from the masked figure, Will. "I talk, you listen," he asserted, his voice brooking no argument.

"As I was saying, this vandalism is ruining your business. You can't afford to let it continue. It's scaring away your customers and driving down the property value," Will admonished the bistro's owner, his words laced with a hint of hypocrisy as he stood before the trembling man, whose eyes were fixed on the knives brandished by the masked figures.

"But fear not, George," Will continued, his voice dripping with false reassurance. "With a little financial support, we can put an end to this vandalism once and for all."

"No more smashed windows, no more disgruntled customers. You won't have to suffer any more losses. Just a small investment to keep everything running smoothly," he added, his tone almost soothing despite the menacing presence of his cohorts.

As George started to argue, a sucker punch cut off his protest, a reminder of who held the power in this situation.

"Speak when allowed," a rough voice barked from one of the taller boys, his words a harsh reminder of the owner's precarious position.

"Do we have a deal?" Will demanded, his piercing gaze locking onto George's timid green eyes, leaving him with no choice but to capitulate.

"Deal," George muttered, his voice barely audible as he surrendered to the inevitable.

"Glad we could come to an agreement," Will remarked with a smirk, his sarcasm cutting through the tension in the room as he made his exit through a side window, leaving behind a sense of foreboding.

"Pay up, 350 and not a cent less," the demand echoed as George stumbled to a nearby safe, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the lock.

Counting out the money with trembling hands, he passed it over to the outstretched palms of the remaining masked figures, watching helplessly as it disappeared into the depths of their coats.

"See you next month," Bruce's pompous voice rang out as the remaining figures departed, leaving George to contemplate his grim reality.

As he stood alone in his office, George could only find solace in the knowledge that he wasn't alone in his plight, knowing that others on the street were facing similar extortion tactics.