The head of the group of thugs, a greasy-haired man whose scarred face I had become intimately acquainted with just twenty-four hours prior, stopped laughing mid-chuckle. He pushed himself off the damp brick wall and stood up straight as I casually strolled toward them. Hearing my overly cheerful salute, the entire group looked momentarily confused. They squinted through the gloom of the alley, trying to make sense of the towering, mud-caked apparition blocking their exit. Then, the boss's confusion hardened into a menacing, irritated expression.
"Listen, kid," he spat, taking a step forward and resting his hand on the heavy pistol tucked into his waistband. "Do you have any idea who we are? Scram before I put a bullet directly in your brains. I'm not in the mood to deal with a crackhead tonight."
I didn't even break my stride, stopping just a few paces away from the armed group. I let out a low, amused chuckle that seemed to echo unnaturally loudly in the confined space.
"You should really consider changing your M.O., man, 'cause you already did that exact same routine yesterday," I said, a bright, chilling smile spreading across my filthy face. "It wasn't very fun. Do you have any idea what it is actually like to die? The bullet really stings."
"Hey, kid, what the hell are you talking about? Are you alright in the head?!" The boss was starting to lose his patience, his scarred face twisting into an ugly sneer.
With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he signaled one of his men to step forward. The minion who answered the call was an absolute mountain of a man. He stood easily over two meters tall, boasting impressive, bulging muscles and a dense labyrinth of gang tattoos covering almost every visible inch of his skin. I was mildly impressed. If it had been yesterday, before all the supernatural glitchiness and the dying, I would have absolutely shat my pants in front of this imposing wall of meat.
But today? Today, he just looked incredibly fragile. Compared to that terrifying, ruby-eyed monster who had effortlessly reaped my head off my shoulders just hours ago, this giant was nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum.
"Take care of him, quickly," the boss ordered coldly, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "I don't know if this freak saw us working yesterday, or if that dead kid we left here was his friend. To be completely honest, I don't really care. Just get rid of him."
The sheer, chilling casualness of him ordering my death—acting as if snuffing out a human life was no more significant than taking out the trash—snapped something deep inside my mind. The righteous fury I had been bottling up since waking up in a shallow grave suddenly broke entirely loose. I started laughing. It wasn't a nervous laugh; it was a loud, booming, slightly unhinged sound that bounced off the brick walls.
"You know, you people will never, ever change," I snapped, the laughter dying in my throat as my glowing eyes locked onto the boss. "Before I walked in here, I just felt like making you pay for killing me yesterday. A simple eye for an eye. But now? Hearing you talk? I genuinely think I should just wipe you all off the face of the earth. It would be a public service."
The muscle-head didn't care about my psychotic monologue. He just let out a grunt and threw a massive, looping punch aimed directly at my jaw.
To him, it was probably a blindingly fast knockout blow. To my newly upgraded, supernatural senses, I could literally see the fist coming in slow motion. I tracked the trajectory of his knuckles, watched the micro-expressions of exertion on his tattooed face, and saw the beads of sweat flying off his brow. I felt like he was a turtle moving through thick molasses. I had all the time in the world to easily dodge it, but I simply didn't find the need to.
I casually raised an open palm and simply pushed against the incoming force of his punch.
There was a loud, sickening CRACK that echoed like a gunshot, followed instantly by an even louder, shrill scream.
I honestly didn't know a grown human being could scream like a slaughtered pig. The giant's momentum met the immovable object of my hand, and the kinetic force snapped his forearm completely backward. The jagged, white edge of a broken bone pierced violently through his tattooed skin, jutting out into the cold night air.
He fell to the ground, rolling in the garbage and clutching his ruined arm, wailing in absolute agony. Tired of seeing him thrash around and annoyed by the deafening noise, I took a single, deliberate step forward.
To the casual observer, I must have completely disappeared. The next time I reappeared, my heavy boot was already coming down in a brutal, merciless arc. My foot connected directly with the screaming asshole's head, reducing his skull and brain into a gruesome, unrecognizable mush against the unforgiving pavement. The screaming stopped instantly.
"You! What the fuck are you?!?" The boss shouted, his cigarette dropping from his trembling lips. He was starting to get really, genuinely terrified, his hand frantically fumbling to draw his gun.
"Like I've been telling you since I walked in here, I am the kid you murdered in this exact alley yesterday," I answered happily, tilting my head to the side. "If you still can't seem to remember, maybe my punch can jog your memory? I am always happy to be of service."
"B-b-but it can't be! You were dead!!" Now, he was so afraid he was actively stuttering, his eyes wide with primal panic as he stared at the headless corpse of his largest enforcer.
"Yeah, right. The profound mysteries of life, man," I shrugged casually, wiping a speck of brain matter off my cheek. "Or, well, in this specific case, the mysteries of Death."
The remaining thugs all looked at me as if I were an insane, unstoppable monster.
I wonder if they're right? I thought to myself, momentarily distracted. I just extinguished a human life with extreme prejudice, and I didn't feel a single thing. It felt exactly like squashing an annoying, buzzing mosquito.
As I was busy doing my little mid-combat psychological introspection, those cowardly assholes finally broke. The boss and his three remaining thugs turned on their heels and started sprinting toward the street, abandoning all pretense of a fight.
"Nobody is leaving here alive! Well, except me, of course," I shouted after them. "Anyway, let's have some fun, guys!!"
Who cares if I was currently experiencing a psychotic break? You would probably act like this too if you had been violently murdered twice in the span of twenty-four hours. Plus, I think I was rapidly getting way more comfortable with the concept of death in general.
I bent my knees and took an explosive jump, launching myself a full five meters over their heads. I sailed through the air and landed with a heavy thud directly in front of them, completely cutting off their escape route. They didn't even get the chance to leave the alley. With inhumane speed, terrifying precision, and absolute savagery, I started a massacre.
When it was finally over, I was sitting casually against the cold brick wall, trying to catch my breath. Surrounding me in the dim alleyway were severed bits of flesh, twisted arms, broken legs, and scattered innards decorating the pavement. The air was thick with the heavy, metallic stench of fresh blood. I was completely covered in it.
Weirdly enough, sitting in the middle of this horrific, cinematic slaughterhouse scene, I wasn't feeling nauseous, guilty, or regretful at all. Au contraire, I was feeling incredibly good. It was like after a long, intense session with a top-tier psychiatrist. I had let out all my dark, festering demons, and it felt absolutely amazing. By the way, I highly recommend revenge; it's very, very cathartic.
Nevertheless, I was quietly surprised by my own apathy. The old Samsara—the scared, starving coffee shop worker—could have never done this and been totally cool with it.
Maybe my willpower, emotional detachment, and overall mental firmness had been significantly upgraded too, I reasoned, staring at my blood-soaked hands. It made sense. If my body was adapting to survive extreme trauma, my mind had to adapt to process the psychological weight of it.
I stood up, shaking the excess gore off my boots, and started the trek home. Of course, I had to stick to the absolute darkest shadows and rooftop fire escapes, actively avoiding being seen by anyone. Walking down the main street looking like the star of a slasher film was a surefire way to get the police involved.
I arrived at my rundown apartment building, slipped through the broken back window, and headed toward the bathroom immediately after locking my front door.
This was starting to become a severely annoying, recurrent theme in my new life—always coming home absolutely filthy and coated in blood.
Sigh. My life has been getting incredibly absurd lately, I thought as I stripped off my ruined, muddy clothes and stepped under the scalding hot water. Fighting and killing armed gangsters? Getting violently killed myself, twice?! Meeting two unbelievably strong vampires? I think I need a vacation.
Realizing the sheer, undeniable absurdity of my new daily routine, I smiled wryly, letting the hot water wash away the sins of the evening.
Getting out of the shower and wrapping a towel around my waist, I wiped the steam off the cracked bathroom mirror. Sure enough, the person I was seeing looked absolutely nothing like the pathetic 'me' from yesterday. He was toweringly tall and fatally charming, like, impossibly, supernaturally so. The lean muscles from my first resurrection had packed on more density, leaving me with killer, chiseled six-pack abs and broad shoulders. Despite my somewhat androgynous, flawlessly beautiful face, you couldn't possibly mistake me for a girl with a hardened, muscular physique like that.
I once again realized just how much of an absolute, reality-breaking cheat I had become. I was basically immortal, steadily getting more attractive, and exponentially getting stronger every single time I died. I literally embodied the old cliché saying: "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Except, in my case, it was: "What kills you makes you a god."
Now, I seriously need to find a sustainable way to make some money, I thought, walking into my bedroom and throwing on some clean sweatpants. I really don't want to live my new eternal life as a broke, starving immortal. Also, I desperately need to move out of this shitty, crime-infested neighborhood.
I sat on the edge of my bed, pondering my options. Should I just rob a high-level gangster? Nah, that sounds like way too much of a hassle, and the cash is probably dirty. But maybe not a gangster... hum... I seem to remember a certain entitled, billionaire asshole.
I was, of course, thinking about the spoiled brat who was entirely guilty of my wrongful employment termination at the café. The guy who had set off this entire chain of miserable events. Extorting a billionaire's son sounded like a highly profitable, morally grey venture that I could easily get behind.
It was going to take some serious internet searching to find his exact whereabouts and gather intel about his family's security details. But for now, my stomach let out a ferocious, echoing roar. I was absolutely starving. I still hadn't eaten anything thanks to all the chaotic, bloody shit that had happened over the last few hours.
I guess I'll order a pizza. No, make that two pizzas. Fourteen dollars should be just enough to cover it, I decided, pulling out my phone.
I quickly called the cheapest local pizza joint and placed my order. The next fifteen minutes were pure, unadulterated torture. I was pacing around my small apartment, barely holding on. The wait for the food was maddening, my upgraded metabolism burning through my nonexistent energy reserves.
Finally, I heard a sharp 'ding' from the apartment doorbell. I practically ripped the door open, ready to devour the food right out of the box.
But I was immediately surprised, and then deeply pissed off.
It wasn't the teenage delivery guy standing in my hallway.
"Well, hello there, Miss Vampire," I said, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms.
Yup. You guessed right. I don't know how she managed to track my scent through the mud, the death, and the city smog, but she clearly knew I was still alive and had even managed to pinpoint exactly where my shitty apartment was located.
"Mr. Samsara, we need to talk," she said, her stunning, porcelain face completely devoid of humor.
"You can just call me Sam," I replied apathetically, not moving an inch to let her inside. "After all, aren't we quite intimate now? You stood there and watched my head being reaped clean off my shoulders by your psychotic boyfriend."
She physically cringed a little at my bluntness, a flash of genuine guilt crossing her striking features.
"I am truly sorry about him," she said softly, adjusting the collar of her jacket. "And for the record, he is definitely not my boyfriend. He is just a very, very annoying, persistent problem. Sam, I didn't even get the chance to introduce myself properly before. I am Chloe A. Crimson."
"Great to meet you, Chloe. Now, what exactly do you want? And more importantly, how the hell did you know I was still alive to come knocking?" I demanded, keeping my guard entirely up.
"Can I please enter first?" she asked, sighing softly. She raised her hands, revealing two large, greasy cardboard boxes. "I have your pizza."
I blinked, staring at the delicious-smelling boxes. "Where's the delivery guy?"
"He is perfectly fine. I compelled him to leave, and I paid him a very handsome extra tip for the trouble," she explained smoothly.
My stomach gave another aggressive rumble, effectively making the decision for me. You can't fight fate, and you certainly can't fight a double-pepperoni pizza when you're immortal and starving.
"Fine," I grumbled, stepping aside and gesturing to the cramped living room. "Come on in."
She stepped elegantly over the threshold, bringing the scent of ozone and expensive perfume into my dingy apartment, and I firmly closed the door behind us.