…
Continuation from few months before
…
Bong-Gong's voice trembled with rage and panic, his pupils dilated from the drugs coursing through his system.
"If my dad finds out about this—if he even hears—I'll be kicked out of the house! Do you get that?!"
His fear quickly turned into fury as he glared at Glenn, veins bulging in his neck.
"This is your fault! You always ruin everything!"
Glenn tried to step back, raising his shaking hands in surrender.
"W-wait, Bong-Gong—please! I need to go. Claire—she—she needs me! Something happened!"
But the moment Claire's name left his mouth, the hatred in Bong-Gong's eyes ignited.
"Claire?" he growled, his tone dripping with jealousy.
"Didn't I tell you to stay away from her? What do you mean she needs you? You? A worthless garbage picker?"
His lips curled into a twisted smile.
"You think she'd ever choose you over me?"
Then his voice deepened into a furious growl.
"I don't care if I end up in jail, or if you die right here, Glenn. I've had enough of you."
Fueled by both rage and intoxication, Bong-Gong and his gang began to close in, their movements erratic and unstable. The sharp stench of weed and sweat filled the air, mixing with the humidity before the storm.
Glenn's heart pounded wildly. His instincts screamed at him to run, but his body was cornered. His mind raced.
Think, Glenn… think!
Then, a sudden realization hit him—the jacket.
He remembered what happened to his Uncle Noldy… how the man collapsed, coughing up blood, after opening the same plastic bag that contained this jacket.
If they inhale the same air… maybe—maybe it'll work again.
Desperation took over. Glenn gripped the sides of his jacket tightly and took a deep breath, stepping forward instead of back.
Glenn tore the jacket off his shoulders and wrapped it tightly around his arm, layer after layer, making sure none of the dried blood touched his bare skin.
He didn't fully understand what it was, but he remembered how Uncle Noldy collapsed the moment he opened that plastic. The blood on this jacket—whatever it was—was dangerous.
So he tied it tighter, securing it until his hand almost went numb.
The addicts—still high, still laughing—watched him mockingly.
"What the hell are you doing, Glenn? You think that rag's gonna save you?"
They howled in laughter, stepping closer, their eyes half-red and glazed from the drugs.
Glenn braced himself, feet planted, heart pounding so hard he could hear it echo in his skull. Bong-Gong barked an order to his men to finish him off.
Thunder cracked above them—
and suddenly, the rain came pouring down in violent sheets.
The narrow alley flooded instantly. The addicts cursed, shielding their faces, while the jacket around Glenn's arm grew heavy and soaked. But something else began to happen—the dried blood on the fabric started to dissolve, spreading across the wet surface like ink in water.
Glenn didn't notice at first. He was too focused on surviving.
One of the addicts staggered forward, laughing hysterically, and slapped Glenn hard across the face, the impact ringing through the storm.
"That's for acting tough, you little trash picker!"
The others laughed louder. Glenn's lip split open. His eyes burned. And in a desperate reflex—
he swung.
His punch was weak, clumsy, and slow.
It barely made contact.
But where his fist brushed the man's cheek, a small smear of diluted blood from the jacket transferred onto the addict's skin.
The laughter stopped.
For a split second, everyone froze—then the man dropped to his knees, coughing violently.
Blood spilled from his mouth, splattering the rain-soaked ground. His body convulsed as he gasped for air, clawing at his chest.
"Help!—I can't—breathe—help me!"
The others backed away, eyes wide, terrified. The rain couldn't wash away the blood fast enough—it spread, staining the puddles crimson.
And Glenn just stood there, staring at his shaking hands, unable to comprehend what he had just done.
The curse of The Fool's blood had awakened once more.
Blood slowly dripped from the jacket tightly wrapped around Glenn's arm, the rain gradually washing it away.
"What did you do, Glenn?!" Bong-Gong cursed, his voice trembling with fury and fear. No one could explain what had just happened—even Glenn himself couldn't believe what he was seeing.
The once-loud and arrogant addict who had slapped him was now lying on the ground, vomiting blood, writhing in agony. Seconds later, his body fell still… lifeless. A cold corpse, left in the middle of the street under the pouring rain.
The other addicts suddenly fell silent. Their faces grew serious and twisted with rage. They couldn't comprehend what they'd just witnessed, but one thing was clear—they wanted Glenn dead.
With murderous eyes, they unsheathed their knives and lunged at Glenn in unison.
Terrified, Glenn backed away and, in desperation, flung droplets of blood still clinging to the soaked jacket toward them. He splattered as much of the cursed fluid as he could while stepping backward, trying to hold them off. But not before one of the blades reached him—cutting deep into his side.
He gasped in pain, his body weakening from the stab. Blood trickled down his shirt.
Yet rage burned inside him.
Through gritted teeth, Glenn kept moving forward—toward Bong-Gong, the only one left standing.
Bong-Gong, now all alone, trembled. Snot mixed with tears streamed down his face. His arrogant mask had shattered, replaced by raw terror. Surrounded by the lifeless bodies of his addict friends, he stared at Glenn like he was death itself.
Glenn's body was failing—he knew it. The wound on his side was deep. But he no longer cared about his own life. His eyes bore into Bong-Gong's soul with a fire he never knew he had.
Why won't you leave me alone? he thought bitterly. Why do you people—rich, entitled, sheltered—treat other people's lives like playthings?
He took another step, the bloodied jacket still wrapped around his arm.
Bong-Gong collapsed to his knees, his voice cracking in panic.
"Please… please, Glenn, don't kill me. I-I swear, I'll stop. I'll leave you alone. I won't ever bother you again," he pleaded, groveling, sobbing.
Glenn stood over him, rain pouring over his face, mixing with the blood on his hands. His vision blurred—not from the rain, but from the dizziness and pain creeping deeper with every heartbeat. He could barely stay standing.
But one thing was clear.
For the first time, Bong-Gong was truly afraid. And Glenn… Glenn had become someone he would never forget.
The blood that had clung to Glenn's jacket slowly began to wash away under the relentless downpour. The dark stains that once pulsed with something unnatural were now fading—diluted, vanishing into the flood of rainwater that pooled across the narrow alley.
Exhausted, Glenn's arm trembled. The jacket, heavy with water and blood, weighed him down. With what little strength he had left, he pulled it free from his arm and threw it aside—far from him—terrified that whatever curse it carried might still infect him too.
Pain surged through his body. His breath hitched as he began to cough violently—blood spilling from his mouth. The knife wound on his side burned like fire, and the rain stung against his torn skin. The cursed blood had touched him too.
Still, Glenn's eyes burned with rage.
"I won't let people like you live…" he muttered under his breath, glaring at Bong-Gong—the last one standing, shaking in the rain. "People like you… who think you can do anything because your father's in politics. You'll just grow up to be another monster."
With trembling hands, Glenn bent down and picked up the blood-stained knife from one of the dead addicts lying beside him. The blade felt heavy—too heavy for someone as frail as him—but his fury drowned out the pain.
Bong-Gong screamed, voice cracking.
"Please! Please, Glenn! Don't kill me! I'll stop! I swear, I'll never touch you again!"
But Glenn couldn't hear him anymore. His world was painted in red—his vision dark, his heartbeat a constant roar in his ears. Rage and despair clouded everything else.
He staggered forward, raising the knife. Bong-Gong crawled backward, crying, slipping in the blood-soaked mud—but it was too late. Glenn plunged the blade into him. Once. Twice. Again and again—his face blank, eyes glassy, as if possessed by every humiliation, every punch, every insult he'd endured.
All the pain, the anger, the years of mockery and loneliness—all poured out of him in that single, horrific act.
And when it was over, Glenn fell to his knees.
His body was weak, the rain mixing with the blood covering him and his enemies. The alley was silent now, except for the sound of water hitting flesh and concrete.
A boy who had once just wanted to study, to live peacefully, now lay motionless among corpses—his frail body soaked in the same red that had destroyed everyone around him.
His breathing slowed…
Until it stopped completely.
The cursed blood of The Fool had claimed another soul.