VegasPete: REBIRTH OF A VILLAIN (Volume One)

PROLOGUE

In the dimly lit bar, the man sat alone, drowning his sorrows in the amber glow of alcohol.

The air was thick with the pungent scent of liquor and muted conversations. His disheveled appearance betrayed the recent days spent in mourning, yet he clung to the bottle as if it was the only thing keeping his pain away.

Amidst the buzz of acquaintances and familiar faces, none dared to approach the man, lost in his intoxicated haze. Thinking about school starting soon, he considered changing his course, driven by a personal reason known only to him.

The emptiness in his eyes mirrored the loss of direction in his life. He, who once inspired, now seemed only a memory.

His gaze shifted to two male couples at a nearby table, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips.

..you must be this happy if you were still alive today!

He muttered, thinking about his loved one who had passed away.

The fleeting euphoria dissolved when laughter erupted from another table, seemingly mocking the couple.

The bitter taste of resentment lingered on his tongue as he drained the last drop of wine, rose from his seat, and left the suffocating atmosphere of the bar. His hatred for judgmental people inflamed beneath the surface.

An ephemeral glow on his troubled face cast as he lit a cigarette, he stationed himself in the shadows, brooding for hours, smoke curling around his frustrations.

As laughter echoed from the bar's exit, his gaze, now masked in malevolence, fixated on the approaching figures. A palpable tension hung in the air, and as they confronted him, a frightening aura enveloped the scene.

Eyes narrowed, he stood, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His head burned hotter, blood boiling with unresolved anger.

"What the heck are you looking at?" one of the men sneered, breaking the tension.

The man rolled his eyes, flicked the cigarette filter, and stomped on it defiantly. Hidden behind him, his hand clenched tightly to an object awaiting its moment.

A subtle snap echoed as the trio exchanged glances, a silent understanding was passing between them.

Teasingly shrugging his shoulders, he stared into the eyes of the three.

A silent standoff ensued, the dim street devoid of surveillance cameras, became a stage for a confrontation fueled by sorrow and resentment.

As the first man rushed forward, an aggression spewed. Yet the first man's attempt was met with a swift, calculated response, a lumber stick bound against his head.

The alley became a theatre of pain, a sound of impact resonated as the man crumpled to the ground, his cries of pain harmonizing with the darkness that enveloped the scene.

Immediately hiding the object behind his back once more, a flicker of suspense crossed his eyes. He threw a sly glance at the two men, whose expressions shifted from nonchalance to surprise.

In unison, they advanced towards him, unaware of the impending confrontation.

With an artful motion, he struck the second man on the head, replicating the calculated accuracy used on the previous one. Simultaneously, he delivered a forceful blow to the third man's face, causing them both to crumple to the ground.

Their anguished cries resonated in the aftermath, meanwhile, the initial assailant lay unconscious, subdued by the unexpected turn of events.

"It's so wrong to laugh at those kinds of people. I've even heard you say you're disgusted by them," he said with a disdainful tone, words cutting through the air.

"P-Please," one of them pleaded, desperation tainting their voice, "we still want to live! We made a mistake."

"Take your clothes off," he ordered, voice carrying an unsettling authority.

Confusion hung in the air, "Huh?" both asked in unison.

"I told you to get undressed!"

Caught off guard, the two hurriedly stripped their clothes away. They moved quickly yet cautiously, mindful of the wounds that adorned their bodies like sore memories.

"Even underwear."

In a tense moment, both of them exclaimed, "W-What?" in unison. Their voices echo in the oppressive atmosphere.

"Do I have to repeat myself?"

The authoritative voice pierced through the awkward silence, prompting a hesitant compliance. With narrowed eyes, the two reluctantly removed their underwear, shielding their private chunk with trembling hands.

"Touch each other's manhood or I'll kill you. Let's witness the true capacity of your discomfort," he declared, settling into a seat as if anticipating a sort of theatre.

As instructed, the two men reluctantly complied, faces contorting with a mix of shame and disgust.

A sadistic laughter filled the area as if it were a cruel soundtrack made for their vulnerability. He approached them and declared "The show is over," with a chilling finale.

In a grim display of brutality, he repeatedly hit the victims with the lumber stick, each strike making a loud and disturbing thud.

As they struggled to breathe, their air grew short and weak. The harsh grip of the rusty nails on the end of the weapon dug deep into their skin.

He put on the gloves he had picked up from the bar, the kind worn by waiters, and used them to get ready. With thorough cautiousness, he arranged the lifeless forms side by side, creating a disturbing scene of his violent actions.

Before vanishing into the shadows, he captured the dreadful outcome with a chilling photograph, immortalizing the memory of that brutal act in the dark history of his legacy.

A haunting presence stuck in the corridors of his conscience..

The first time will never be forgotten.
_