Saints of Sin

Shadows and Revenge

Thank you AlliBear012345 for saying what I should write
This was rushed don't judge qwq

TW: Abuse, shitty parents, that jazz yk?
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The air in the Esposito household was thick with tension, a constant, stifling haze that clung to every corner and crevice, even on days when the sun streamed through the windows. It was a house of silence and whispers, where each footfall seemed to echo and every noise was a risk. Andrés knew every inch of it—he had to. Knowing was surviving, especially when the walls held secrets he couldn't speak aloud and memories he could never let fade.

Training was not just a part of his life; it was his life. From the moment he was brought to the stronghold after his parents death, Andrés had been drilled in discipline, in precision, in harnessing his emotions until they became an extension of his will. It wasn't about fitness or skill; it was about control. His father's voice—the man who wasn't truly his father but held power like a lord over Andrés's life—was the metronome to which he moved, every instruction laced with cold expectation.

In the early hours, before dawn even hinted at breaking, Andrés would pull himself out of bed, mind foggy with exhaustion but body moving with practiced obedience. He learned quickly that showing weakness was asking for punishment. Bruises were frequent, invisible marks left behind as reminders to focus, to stay sharp. His "father" believed in discipline, after all. If Andrés hesitated, if he made a single mistake, it was another bruise, another harsh word, another reminder of what he was here to become.

Andrés didn't need to be told the reason for this training—it had been drilled into him from his earliest memories. His parents, those faint, soft recollections he kept locked in his heart, had been taken from him. Andrés knew that they'd been good people. He could remember flashes of warmth, laughter, the gentle strength of his mother's hand as it ran through his hair. But that world had shattered, leaving him in the hands of a man who wore kindness like a mask and cruelty like second skin.

This man promised Andrés justice, a twisted kind of justice that simmered beneath every training session, every calculated word. He spoke of it like a reward dangling on the horizon, just out of reach. "You'll get your revenge one day," he would say, almost absentmindedly, as if it were a simple task, a rite of passage. "But only if you're ready, if you're worthy." The words burned in Andrés's mind, mingling with his own anger and grief, shaping his determination into something hard and unyielding. Revenge was more than a goal; it was survival. It was the only light he could see in the relentless darkness that surrounded him.

The house itself was a testament to this twisted life he led. Cold, sterile, empty in a way that screamed of wealth but lacked warmth. There were rooms he was forbidden to enter, locked doors that beckoned with secrets he'd never be allowed to learn. He knew enough to recognize that his "father" had connections, and not the friendly kind. Every so often, men in suits would visit, faces hard and voices low. They never looked at Andrés; to them, he was invisible, a mere shadow at the edge of the room. But he knew what they were—the kind of people his father called "associates."

The kitchen was his least favorite place. That's where they would often have their discussions, each meal a silent test. His father would sit across from him, scrutinizing every bite, every move, dissecting him with a gaze that could slice through steel. Andrés learned to keep his eyes down, to eat without a word, because silence was safest. Silence was obedience, and obedience was survival.

But silence did nothing to lessen the man's wrath. Some nights, after particularly grueling training sessions, his father would test him, pushing his buttons with cruel, calculated jabs. He would talk about Andrés's parents, twisting their memory into something bitter, something weak. "They were foolish, you know," he'd say, voice laced with mock pity. "Too soft. Too naive to protect themselves. And look what happened to them." The words hurt more than any punch could, striking Andrés in the place he kept locked away from everyone, even himself.

On the rare occasions he allowed himself a moment alone, Andrés would retreat to his room, a small, cold space that held nothing of him except his exhaustion. The walls were bare, the bed stiff, as if it were never meant to be lived in, only used. He kept a sketchbook hidden beneath his mattress, where he scribbled faint memories of a life he could barely remember and dreams he knew he would never live. Drawing was his only solace, his way to escape the reality around him. It was something his father didn't know about, a piece of himself he could hold onto. Sometimes, he would draw his parents, trying to capture the way his mother had smiled or the way his father's eyes had softened when they looked at him. Those sketches were smudged, hurried, as if he feared they'd be discovered and ripped away from him.

Every now and then, as he lay in bed, Andrés would think of his friends—the people who somehow managed to see him as more than a weapon, more than a tool. With them, he could laugh, he could joke, he could pretend that he was just another high school kid without the weight of revenge pressing down on him. But that laughter was fleeting, slipping away as soon as he returned home, replaced by the cold reminder of why he couldn't afford to let his guard down.

He was here for a reason, after all. To train, to learn, to harden himself into something unbreakable. The man who called himself his father had drilled this purpose into him, even if the price was his own humanity. Andrés could feel the anger boiling under his skin, a quiet, constant rage he kept buried deep, channeling it into every punch, every kick, every calculated move. He would make himself strong enough, sharp enough, until no one would ever be able to take anything from him again.

Sometimes, in the quietest moments, Andrés wondered what he might have become if his parents had lived. If he had grown up surrounded by warmth and love instead of darkness and bitterness. But those thoughts were dangerous, distracting. So he pushed them away, burying them as deep as he buried his pain, his memories.

For now, he had a purpose, a singular goal that gave him a reason to endure. And as he clenched his fists, staring at the faint scars etched across his knuckles, he vowed silently to himself: he would survive this. He would survive and become stronger than anyone who had ever tried to control him. One day, he would take his revenge, and he would finally be free.

Until then, he would endure.

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Short one for today ^^

Thank you for reading!!
Leave a comment on your thoughts and voteeeee /nf

~The Heroborn Cabbage