I'm someone from a planet called Earth. I used to help people but would get used in return. The older I got, the less I cared even when someone like friend i wouldnt help only family. Wherever I went, I would make problems either big or small.
I was once a chess prodigy, until my family started falling apart. I finished high school in economics. I was a pretty good student; teachers always told me I was smart but lazy, but they didn't know how much bigger my problems were than school. I never returned to chess. Instead, I chose boxing, because it made me feel something again.
I was pretty good at boxing. If I had trained from a younger age, I became a country champion. I fought in super heavyweight. I was 195 cm tall and weighed around 105 kilos, i didnt have to cut weight. For that height and weight, I looked good — sharp features, solid build. Especially my eyes. They always looked empty, bored, like everything around me was meaningless. They only ever lit up when I fought and drove.
I was only 21 years old.
I also had a bike. A Kawasaki ER‑5, It was the last thing my father left me before he passed away. That machine saved me more times than I could count.
One night, my friends wanted to see me and insisted they would pay for the drinks, so I agreed. When we started talking and drinking, they suddenly just went to wc and didnt return.
That's when the fight started.
I was alone when three men showed up. They were associated with the mafia. I had beaten the son of a mafia boss earlier, and now they wanted to return favor.
They beat me. And we moved somewhere, and then they started torturing me.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I didn't waver. I stayed silent the entire time. Then the boss's son arrived, pointed a pistol at my head, and said:
"Say you're sorry, or your head goes ka‑boom."
I looked at him like he was retarded and stayed quiet. My pride wouldn't allow me to speak. But then they started talking about family, indirectly threatening mine. I knew that if I showed emotion, it wouldn't end well, so I acted like I didn't care. Still, the more they talked, the more anxious I became.
I knew this wouldn't end well.
The only thing I truly trusted in this world was my family. Everything I did, I did for them. That's when I knew I had to escape this place.
I was in chains. The only thing I could do was make my hands as slippery as possible, but first I had to wait.
So I provoked him.
"I never apologize to weak, dumb trash."
I knew he would get angry and start hitting me. I didn't care. He was weak. His punches felt like pillows to someone who had fought all his life. After a while, he realized he wasn't doing much damage, even though my face was swollen and red with blood.
Then an idea came to me.
I could use the blood to escape the chains.
That was when his bodyguard started telling him where to aim — the liver, the solar plexus, even between the legs. I defended my honor as long as I could, but after ten kicks to the liver, I couldn't keep it together anymore. My poker face broke. He saw it and started going even harder.
I forced my mind to stay solid. If my spirit broke, my honor would fall the same way my liver was.
When they finally stopped, he laughed and told his bodyguard he would come back often to "train on a living dummy." I knew he would return sooner rather than later.
I waited. I focused on breathing. Every breath hurt, so I knew some ribs were probably broken from missed kicks. Still, I moved.
I smeared the blood from my head onto my wrists and fists. I pulled. My skin peeled, pain burned, but the chain slipped free. I did the same with the other arm.
My legs were much worse. I had to pull much harder. I knew that if I survived this, I would probably never box again.
I checked the door. Quiet. Sounds came from far away, maybe ten or fifteen meters. I moved slowly toward them.
Around the corner stood a man — easily 130 kilos (286 pounds in freedom units) — staring at his phone. I stepped into his shadow for a split second and crushed his chin with an overhand punch. My left hand fractured slightly, but it was tolerable.
I entered a large room with huge windows. Outside, I saw guards and gardeners.
That's when I realized where I was.
I had been kidnapped and brought to a massive villa.
I went to the kitchen and took a knife left near the door. Then I overheard something worse. They had sent men to my country.
I understood immediately what that meant.
My family was in danger, and I didn't care anymore. The only way to save them was to either kill the one who sent those men or make a ruckus big enough to force them to turn back.
So I went berserk.
I killed the guards quietly, sneaking behind them and slitting their throats before they could reach their guns. I took their weapons but didn't use them. Using guns felt cowardly.
Later, I would regret that thought.
I heard the son and his father eating on the second floor. I went up, killed the guards at the door, and moved closer.
Gunshots tore through the wooden door.
One bullet went through my leg, right where the chains had cut me earlier.
I collapsed behind the corpses and used them as shields. When five men rushed in, I opened fire. Four died instantly. I wounded the fifth and finished him when I stood up.
I went after the father and son.
That's when I felt it.
The man I thought I had killed was still alive. He aimed a pistol at my back and fired at point‑blank range. I couldn't dodge. I couldn't hide.
The bullet tore through my chest.
In those dying moments, I could have killed him. But it felt meaningless. He was only doing his job. I would have done the same.
The hatred I felt was reserved for everyone else.
For the people who used me because I was good to them. For those who destroyed my family. For the man who stole my father's lifework — everything he built over years — and left him sick. I found his sons later. I beat them. I stole from them. I ran.
That was when I went down the criminal path. But I didn't do everything criminals do. My pride wouldn't allow it. I always thought about my family. I never stole from just anyone — only from those who wronged me in any way, shape, or form.
But the ones I would not only kill — the ones I would torture — were the friends who set me up and left me to die like a dog. And now, lying there powerless, I felt hatred knowing I couldn't do anything to them.
My deepest regret wasn't revenge.
It was my bike.
The Kawasaki ER‑5. My father's last gift. Loyal. Durable. It saved me countless times.
But it couldn't save me now.
As my breath faded and my vision blurred, one thought burned hotter than the pain.
If I was going to die, I would leave behind as much destruction as humanly possible.
I raised the gun and aimed at a gas pipe running along the wall.
The shot rang out.
Fire swallowed the villa.
I couldn't see who lived or who died. I only felt the heat, the shockwave, and then nothing.
One final regret surfaced in my mind.
I hoped the mafia heading toward my home would stop after hearing what happened here.
It was something I would never learn.
And then I fell into darkness.