The adults surrounding the pen weren’t stopping it.
They were clapping, laughing, recording videos on their phones—like it was a circus show.
“Run faster, kid! Don’t get caught!”
“Look how brave he is! Mrs. Brown’s method really works!”
“You never know your limits until you push yourself—face your fear!”
Even some kids joined in, chanting:
“Let’s bet how long Emma can last! Whoever wins treats everyone to snacks tomorrow!”
The parents actually started placing bets.
“Ten minutes—$10k!”
“Five minutes—$20k!”
“I say he’ll last until the end—$50k!”
Within seconds, the pot had reached half a million dollars.
Emma’s breathing was ragged, tears and sweat mixing on his face, pure terror in his eyes.
He was on the verge of collapse.
“Emma!!”
I screamed, my voice tearing through the air, and charged forward.
But before I could take two steps, a heavy force slammed into me from behind, knocking me to the ground.
Pain shot up my knee as it hit the hard ground.
When I looked back, I recognized her—Mrs. Brown, the wealthy socialite who had stirred up trouble in the chat group.
Her heavy body pinned me down, her face twisted in a triumphant sneer.
“Why are you running? Let your son train! We’re doing this for his own good!”
She sneered, digging her nails deeper into my skin until I almost cried out.
Emma saw me pinned down and began sobbing, his voice breaking.
“Mom!”
“Mom, help me… I… I can’t breathe…”
His steps faltered, and he nearly fell. The Rottweiler lunged closer, its snapping jaws drawing a cheer from the crowd.
I struggled with all my strength, but the woman holding me down was stronger.
Mrs. Brown stood, her expensive stiletto heel grinding down onto the back of my hand.
She twisted it cruelly, a smirk curling her lips.
“Mrs. Foster, I warned you in the Parent Group Chat, didn’t I?”
“I told you to discipline your son. You wouldn’t listen. Now look where we are. Too late to regret it.”
The pain shot up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest.
Tears slid down my face.
“Mrs. Brown, I was wrong. I was foolish. Please, let Emma go. He just had heart surgery three months ago—his heart could stop at any moment!”
Ms. Collins stepped forward, her cheek still red from my slap, and spoke solemnly as if she were the voice of reason.
“Mrs. Foster, you don’t have to worry. The Browns own a major sports and medical equipment company—they know better than we do!”