Surviving In This Filthy World As A Novel Villain

Eric burned under the growing stares and whispers, the chatter slicing into him like dull knives. A normal guy would've bolted by now, but Eric wasn't normal. His obsession with Sera ran deeper than sanity.

Alex's smug grin caught his eye, and something clicked—loud and ugly—in Eric's head.

"I get it now. It's all you," he snarled, pointing at Alex like he'd cracked the case. "You've been screwing me over this whole time—just to steal Sera from me. You're so lowlife, you'd pull this dirty crap!"

Alex and Sera blinked, baffled.

What the hell was he ranting about? Had the protagonist finally snapped—pushed over the edge by what he'd just seen? Alex wondered if toying with a nutcase broke any laws.

Eric's face twisted, borderline unhinged. "I saved her grandpa in the hospital—I know I did. Then he drops dead out of nowhere? That's you, pinning it on me!" His voice climbed, wild with certainty.

"And those punks with the rainbow hair—every time I tried to save someone on the street, they'd jump out with their phones, blocking me. They're yours, aren't they? All part of your setup!"

"Even the poisons I slipped you—" Eric froze mid-sentence, clamping his mouth shut. Couldn't say that. Poisoning someone, even a creep like Alex, was a one-way ticket to trouble.

He'd already burned his bridge with the Dawson Family—no one left to bail him out if the cops nabbed him again. A cold sweat prickled his skin. Close call.

Alex clicked his tongue. The guy had actually nailed it—every bit of it. Too bad there was no prize for being a paranoid genius.

Before Alex could respond, Sera snapped from the passenger seat, "Are you seriously messed up in the head?"

Just then, five punks with neon hair—red, green, white, you name it—shoved through the crowd, phones up, live-streaming like vultures on a kill. Eric flinched, hands halfway to his face to hide.

But when the punks spotted who was in the car, they lit up like they'd hit the jackpot. Time to shine for the big boss.

White Hair jumped in first. "You're a slippery one! Didn't the hospital drag you off? How're you not locked up after killing someone?"

Green Hair stepped up next. "Last time, you ran into six old guys keeling over on the street. We stopped_you from 'saving' the first five. The sixth? We missed him—you 'helped,' and guess what? He's the only one who died. The five we kept you from? Ambulance got 'em, patched 'em up—two already back home, good as new."

Red Hair sealed it. "Everyone you touch croaks. Everyone you don't makes it. Funny, huh?"

Alex shot the punks an approving nod. Where Waters dug up these clowns, he didn't know, but they were gold—sharp, loud, and useful.

The five glowed under the praise, amping up the energy, though they kept their cameras off Alex like pros. Three angles locked on Eric, pinning him in the spotlight.

"How'd you slink out of lockup so fast?" Alex asked, then gasped theatrically. "Wait—you're not some psycho, are you? I hear crazies can kill and walk free!"

….

In the original story, Eric never landed in police station. But Alex knew the Dawson Family had sprung him the first time with a shiny mental health certificate—proof he was unhinged enough to dodge blame.

This time, they'd paid a steep price to smooth things over with the Wade family, dusting off that same "crazy" card to fish him out again.

"Get lost, or I'm calling the cops for disturbing the peace," Alex said, waving Eric off. The guy was unraveling fast—push him more, and he might actually shatter. Alex wasn't ready to harvest this little weed completely just yet.

"Cops" hit Eric like a jolt. He was already twitchy about the police station—pure instinct now. With the Dawson Family out of the picture until that woman came begging, he'd lost his safety net.

If those bumbling badges nabbed him again, no one would pull him out. And those two freaks in lockup? Hell no.

Since getting out, he'd passed plenty of old guys collapsing on the street—heart attacks, strokes, whatever—and hadn't lifted a finger. Not once.

Alex's punchable smirk, the crowd's mocking jabs—it all fueled the fire in Eric's chest. His fists tightened, one hand slipping into his waistband.

From a grimy pocket, he fished out a pinch of black powder and a scraggly black thread malnourished looking, even for poison.

'You might have some hotshot detoxing you, but this? No dodging this.' Eric's face darkened as he gripped his latest creation, brewed right before his masters kicked him off the mountain. No antidote yet—ran out of time to whip one up.

Eric flicked a glance at Sera in the passenger seat, calculating. How much force would it take to fling this poison—nicknamed "Belly Blaster"—right at Alex without splashing Sera? Years under his master's brutal training had honed his knack for precision.

This black powder was no joke: five seconds to kick in, then a full day of nonstop runs. He could already picture Alex doubled over, a laughingstock.

'That's what you get for crossing me.'

With the bike still slung over his right shoulder, he raised his left hand and gave a light flick toward Alex. No big swing—just a gentle toss. But as the dark dust sailed toward the car, a random gust whipped through the still campus air, out of nowhere.

"What the—!"

It happened too fast, a tornado of bad luck. The powder didn't just stall—it reversed, rocketing back at Eric before he could blink. His stomach gurgled, a loud, ominous rumble followed by a sharp twist of pain.

"Oh no." He knew exactly what that meant.

His face went gray, the bike nearly slipping from his shoulder as his strength drained. "Belly Blaster" was clockwork—five seconds flat, no exceptions—and he had no antidote. Right on cue, five seconds hit, and—

"Pffft!"

A thunderous blast erupted from his backside. Across the lot, students jerked their heads up, scanning the clear sky.