Surviving In This Filthy World As A Novel Villain

Eric sucked in a breath, steadying himself, and hobbled toward the bus stop. He had no clue where Sera was or which bus would take him there. "Whatever," he muttered. "I'll hop the first one out of this dump."

A bus lumbered up, brakes whining, and he climbed on—only to get kicked off ten seconds later.

"What the hell!" he snapped, staggering back to the sidewalk. "Why can't I ride? You should be thanking me for stepping on your lousy bus—quit yapping about cash!"

Eric's legs burned, shaking like they might quit any second. The city Police Station loomed behind him in the western suburbs—a gray, ugly slab with a single bus stop out front.

Three routes trickled through, but it didn't matter. Broke and bullheaded, he'd tried two buses already, and both drivers had chucked him off without a second thought.

So he walked. No phone, no map, just him and the cracked pavement, hunger gnawing at his insides. He wandered through crossings, chasing the buzz of voices, hoping it'd lead somewhere worthwhile. Along the way, he'd waved down a coupleവ

couple of pretty girls for directions, throwing them his best smile. Bad move. They took one look at his ripped clothes and wild stare, yelped "creep," and ran off, clutching their phones like he was some alley stalker.

It stung—sharp and deep, like a stray dog had chomped down on his ego. Him, being a genius doctor—left hand healing, right hand killing—reduced to this?

Back in the mountains, his masters had hammered it into him: he was different, marked for greatness, destined to storm the world with skills that'd leave them awestruck and rolling in riches.

But since he'd come down, it'd been a string of flops, each one knocking him lower, chipping away at his strut. Now? He felt smaller than the dust under his grandma's porch.

On his miserable trek from the station, Eric had passed five old men crumpling like paper—heart attacks, strokes, one even jerking and frothing at the mouth like a rabid mutt.

Any other day, he'd have rushed in, hands working magic, pulling them back from the edge. Not today. It wasn't the fear of screwing up another "miracle"—no, it was the itch crawling up his neck, that nagging sense of eyes on him. He knew that feeling too damn well.

There they were: a gaggle of punks with hair dyed electric green and pink, phones aimed at him, recording like he was some sideshow oddity.

Those bloodsuckers again, live-streaming his every stumble. He itched to storm over and slam their gadgets into the asphalt, but his stomach roared louder than his rage.

His eyes snagged on a grimy ramen shack across the road, steam curling from its windows, and he was half-lost in a drooling daydream when a horn blared, yanking him back.

"Which jackass—" he growled, springing up, ready to unload a day's worth of venom.

The words choked off as his gaze landed on a red sports car purring at the traffic light, sleek and mean like a caged beast. Then he saw her. He dove behind a scruffy bush, heart hammering.

"S-Sera!"

There she was, the woman who haunted his nights, glowing in the passenger seat like something carved from a dream.

The sinking sun painted her in gold, sparking off her hair, her skin, making her look too perfect to be real. Eric stared, breath catching in his chest, the world fading to a hum around her.

Then he clocked the driver, and his gut dropped like a stone.

"Alex?"

Eric Vaughn's mind blanked, a jumbled mess of disbelief. "He's not dead? How's that possible? He should be a corpse by now—blood leaking from every hole, sprawled out cold!"

No way. No damn way.

He'd dosed Alex with three of his custom-blended poisons—a nasty cocktail Eric had mixed himself. Even a saint couldn't save that bastard from a death that ugly. The antidote? Locked in Eric's head, nowhere else. You couldn't buy a cure for this on any shelf.

Alex had no business still breathing.

"Something's wrong. Totally wrong!"

Alive wasn't the half of it—Alex looked fine, lounging behind the wheel of that red Ferrari like he owned the world. Eric's stomach twisted, a sick feeling clawing up his throat.

The traffic light blinked, red fading to green. The Ferrari's engine snarled, a deep, hungry roar that hit Eric like a slap from across the street.

"No chance I'm letting this slide. I've got to see what's up."

One of those poisons could floor a grizzly in a heartbeat. All three? Alex—that booze-soaked, worn-out shell of a man—should've been long gone.

Red vanished. Green flared.

Eric's eyes darted around, frantic, landing on a young guy in earbuds locking up a green shared bike. Scratch that—he didn't lock it, just walked off like an idiot. Good enough.

Eric bolted over, grabbed the bike, and hauled it to the road. One leg swung over, and he was off, pedaling like a madman after the sports car gleaming rear.

The bike was new, gliding smooth as butter. Eric's legs churned, thighs burning as he tailed the car, its taillights mocking him from ahead.

"Sera, Sera, how do I keep going without you?"

No idea how, but two intersections later, every light stayed green. Not one red to slow them down. Alex, cruising in his flashy ride, probably felt like a king—city traffic was a sports car's worst enemy, and a string of reds could ruin anyone's day. Today, though, the universe was kissing his boots.

Eric? He was falling apart.

His head spun, unraveling with every pump of the pedals. How's he not dead? How's he driving like that? The questions gnawed at him, each one a crack in his crumbling grip on reality.

Somewhere, out of sight, a quiet ping echoed in Alex's favor:

[The Protagonist 'Eric Vaughn' is having a mental breakdown. Congrats, you have earned 200 Critical points.]

[The Protagonist 'Eric Vaughn' is having a mental breakdown. Congrats, you have earned 200 Critical points.]

[The Protagonist 'Eric Vaughn' is having a mental breakdown. Congrats, you have earned 200 Critical points.]

[….]