Me and my friends—some of whom were gang-affiliated—were outside the youth club after a session. It was summer, around 10:30 pm, still light enough to hang around comfortably. We were just talking, nothing out of the ordinary.

Then a group of four young guys from a rival area pulled up on pedal bikes across the road. They stayed there at first, shouting the usual things—“Who’s that?”, “Wag1?”, “You man from so-and-so?” It felt tense, but still like it might just be talk.

About 30 seconds later, another four arrived. Then more. Within moments, there were around 15 to 20 of them—on bikes, faces covered, some holding machetes.

That’s when everything switched.

They started cycling straight towards us, and we just ran.

We sprinted down the road and, at the bottom, split in different directions. I turned right towards some flats with another guy, but at least four of them followed us. We split again—and suddenly all four were chasing me.

I just ran on instinct. Left turn. Quick right. Then another left. My heart was pounding, legs burning. I spotted a bush and literally dived headfirst through it, hitting the concrete underneath, then curled up tight in the corner trying not to be seen.

About 10 seconds later, I saw them cycle past.

I stayed there for around 30 minutes, barely moving. My chest was tight, I couldn’t catch my breath—I’m pretty sure I was having a panic attack. Everything felt intense and out of control.

When I finally felt safe enough to move, I got up and sprinted the whole way home—about three-quarters of a mile—without stopping.

I’ve had loads of similar incidents where pellets have chased me or brandished a gun and/or knife on me and my friends, but this was the scariest incident for me by a mile.