Surviving In This Filthy World As A Novel Villain

'Freaking pervert.'

Eric was mid-rant in his head, cursing Mike in hissix ways, when a soft, warm voice floated in from the hallway. It hooked him instantly—sweet enough to turn heads just by sound alone.

"Grandma, the doctors here are amazing. In a couple days, a really great one doctor is coming to treat you. You'll get better, I promise."

The girl's voice was like honey—soft, sticky, the kind that stirred a primal urge to shield her. Eric had heard plenty of women speak, but this one hit differently, yanking his attention like Sera legs had once glued his eyes to her. Suddenly, he needed to see her—see the face behind that voice.

He knew he shouldn't move. Walking? Out of the question. One big step could rip his stitched-up rear wide open. But the itch in his chest wouldn't quit—like a swarm of ants crawling under his skin.

'Maybe it's fate.' Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up, ignoring the searing pain. One hand clutched the urine and waste bags, the other gripped the peeling cane. He hobbled to the door, slow and shaky.

Mike, sprawled on the next bed, gawked. He rubbed his eyes, unbelieving, as Eric—gauze-wrapped and bleeding—dragged himself to the threshold.

'Holy hell.'

At that moment, Mike's resolve hardened. This guy's mine—I'm locking him down for the club. He swallowed hard, eyes gleaming.

At the door, Eric peered through the glass and froze. Pain racked his body, but his heart felt light.

In the hall, a girl trailed a gaggle of doctors, her eyes fixed on an old woman being wheeled along.

"Grandma, Grandma," she kept saying, voice tender. Eric sized up the old lady in seconds, late-stage liver cancer, days from the end. How he did it no one knows… but he did it. Her face already wore death's shadow. Without him, she was toast.

'Those foreign doctors are Useless. They'd just prolong her misery, not cure her.'

But after a quick glance at the girl grandma, his gaze locked on the girl—and wouldn't budge. He'd scoffed at destiny before, until Sera… no, until her. Now he believed.

She was pure—untainted. Plain clothes, no makeup, a world apart from Sera's polished shine. Simple, raw, and real.

This girl—like Sera—was his fated match.

Eric Vaughn stared, already naming their future kids in his head. She trailed the doctors down the hall, shrinking into the distance. Only when she vanished from sight did he snap out of it, shoving the door open—too late. She was gone.

A nurse passed by just then. Eric grabbed her arm. "That girl—the old lady with her—where's their room?"

The nurse yanked at her sleeve, eyeing him. Up close, he was a mess: plain face, reeking of something foul, clutching urine and waste bags.

She nearly gagged. Eric hadn't bathed since leaving the mountains—hadn't even washed his hair—and those bags didn't help. If she weren't a trained pro, she'd have bolted, screaming "Freak!"

"Twelfth floor, A8," she muttered, then hurried off without a glance.

"Twelfth floor, huh?" Eric nodded, memorizing it. As long as they were in the hospital, he'd find her.

But saving the old lady? Not a chance. He wanted the girl, not some tube-riddled granny. She looked poor—plain clothes, no frills.

If he cured the old bat, who'd foot the bill? Him? Get real. Sera's grandpa was worth it—big family, big money. This girl? No backing, no payoff.

He turned back toward his room when two nurses strolled by, chatting.

"That girl's so pitiful. Just her and her grandma, and now the old lady's got liver cancer."

"Yeah, late-stage. Few Days left, tops."

"I heard she's desperate—ready to sell herself to cover the surgery."

"Sell herself? In this day and age?"

"You know, find a rich guy to bankroll her. Whoever pays, she's his."

"Poor thing. If only some mystery savior stepped up."

"Right? It's the perfect chance to win her over. Picture a young, hot doctor swooping in, secretly curing her grandma—but he's gotta stay low-key. No hints or anything 'til it's done."

"Why?"

"Duh—surprise! She's drowning in despair, then bam, some mystery doctor goes, 'I fixed your grandma.' If you were her, what'd you do?"

"I'd be floored—marry him on the spot. Even if he chased other girls later, I wouldn't care."

The nurses faded down the hall.

Eric couldn't stop the grin splitting his face.

Yes! They nailed it—why hadn't he thought of that? A lightbulb popped in his head. 'That's how you snag a girl.' Lesson learned.

He buzzed with excitement. Just as he'd guessed: a tragic backstory, clinging to her grandma. Follow the nurses' playbook, and her heart was his. Losing Sera had gutted him—he wasn't letting this one slip.

….

9:02 p.m.

Eric Vaughn waited until the night-shift nurse finished her rounds, then slipped off the bed, quiet as a shadow. The cane clacked too loud—he ditched it, opting to grit his teeth through the ripping pain in his stitched-up rear with every step.

Holding his urine and waste bags, he shot a glance at Mike, snoring like a freight train. He fingered a silver needle, then tucked it away.

"I'll spare you—for now. If I weren't saving my strength to heal my future girlfriend grandma, tonight would have been your little boy last stand."

He didn't know her name, but that didn't stop him from claiming her as his—untouchable, off-limits.

Sure, walking tore at his wounds, but it didn't slow his agility. He'd spent the afternoon mapping the building—camera blind spots, nurse patrol routes.

Once the night shift checked his room, dodging the surveillance was cake. Tricky, sure, but not for a guy trained by a world-class assassin master.

The cameras here? Full of holes in his eyes. The only snag was the elevator—monitored straight-on. Stairs, though? Clear. He was on the second floor—just ten flights to climb. No sweat.

Say what you will, the protagonist's endurance was unreal. Bags in hand, each step a stab to his backside, Eric climbed from two to twelve. By the time he stumbled out of the stairwell, his bandaged rear was a soaked, crimson mess.

The stitches had popped again.

He hissed, wincing, teeth bared, leaning on the wall as he shuffled to Room A8. Peering through the glass, he frowned. "No nurses? No girl?"

Something was off—no caregivers at all.

Then it clicked—those daytime nurses' words: Pitiful, scraping by, ready to sell herself for surgery cash. Of course! No money for surgery meant no cash for aides or helpers.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, pain pulsing, but he brushed it off. "She's not here—probably working some job." Feeding herself, her grandma, scrambling for treatment money.

'She must be exhausted.' Picturing her pure, unblemished face from earlier, his lips curled into a wide, goofy grin.