"Please, please boss, I'm willing to do anything, just spare my family!"
A middle-aged man was on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Snot and tears mixed on his face as he begged for mercy.
"Tak... thunder... tak, tak, tak!"
The rhythmic sound of shovels echoed in the rain. Around a dozen men worked in silence, digging a square pit in the mud.
Across from them, another group stood beneath umbrellas, shielding a handful of individuals in high-quality suits. Their gazes were fixed on an old man standing at the front of the group, cigarette in hand, face unreadable, heart seemingly devoid of pity.
They looked at him with reverence, fear, and respect.
"Out of my 273 million dollars, two dollars and seventeen cents are missing. My—money—is—missing, my dear accounta...!!"
He broke into a coughing fit, smothering his mouth with a handkerchief. When he pulled it away, blood stained the fabric, a clear sign of his lungs failing.
The suited men behind him noticed, but none dared speak. They held their breath, trying to be invisible. No one moved. No one dared provoke this madman.
Even the kneeling accountant remained silent, his lips trembling as he held back further pleas.
Ali glanced around and nodded slowly in approval.
"Woooo..."
Ali took another puff of his cigar, smoke curling from his lips.
"So as I was saying... out of my 273 million dollars, two dollars and seventeen cents are missing. Why?"
"Please, sir, I made a miscalculation! Here, here's three dollars. Please, I beg you, just spare my family!"
The accountant, sniveling with snot and tears streaming down his face, shakily held out a few dollar bills.
Ali stared coldly at him. "Do you take me for a beggar?"
"N-no, sir, that's not wha—"
Ali raised his hand.
The accountant immediately fell silent.
Clack. Clack.
The sharp sound of Ali's polished shoes striking the wet ground echoed as he walked toward the accountant. He leaned forward, plucked the crumpled bills from the man's trembling hands, and tucked them into his suit pocket.
Still bent over, Ali raised a hand and pointed at random.
One of the suited men hesitated, then stepped forward, his body trembling—rain hiding the sweat running down his face. He bent near Ali, who gestured for him to come closer.
The man leaned in, and Ali whispered something into his ear.
The man nodded quickly, then scurried back to the group. After hearing Ali's words, the other men began patting their own pockets, pulling out loose change and small bills, which they handed over.
The messenger returned to Ali and gave him the money. Ali, in turn, passed it to the accountant.
"Count it," he ordered.
With unsteady, shaking hands, the accountant obeyed. After a long pause, he finished.
"Eight-seven cents," he whispered.
"That's your balance, accountant. It seems after twenty-three years of working with me, you've grown rusty. Maybe it's time you took some rest," Ali said, gently parting the man's hair with a surprising tenderness.
"P-please... please, sir. I don't mind retirement. I agree, I need rest. But please... even for old time's sake... spare my family. I beg you..."
The accountant's face was a mess of snot and tears, desperation pouring from every word.
Ali sighed.
"You know that's not possible. It's because of old times' sake that I didn't torture your family and kill them in front of you. But don't worry..."
His eyes softened just slightly.
"...I'll make it as painless as I possibly can."
Without hesitation, in one fluid motion, Ali raised his gun. Before the accountant could form another word
PAA!!
The gunshot echoed through the rain.
The accountant's brain sprayed across the muddy ground.
"Sigh..."
Ali tossed away the burnt-out cigar. His head hung low, his expression solemn,
almost mournful—as if offering a final moment of respect.
After a few minutes of silence, he gave the order.
"Bury him," he said flatly.
His men began moving the body toward the square pit they had been digging.
Ali turned and walked slowly toward the prearranged car. One of the suited men rushed forward and opened the door. Ali nodded politely, a faint smile on his lips, and stepped forward to enter.
But he paused halfway in, as if something had just occurred to him. He turned his head, eyes locking onto one of the men nearby.
"I don't want any close friends, family, chickens, or even the ants living in his properties, seeing past today," he said, still wearing that unsettlingly calm smile. "Or you'll pay."
"I—I'll make sure of that, sir," the man replied, his body rigid, trembling with focus and fear.
Ali nodded again.
He moved to enter the car, but stopped once more. His eyes slid back to the same man. The man met his gaze and froze. That faint smile returned, and with it came a chill down his spine.
"Oh," Ali added gently, "and make it quick. Painless, if you can."
Then he slid into the car. The door shut behind him.
Once inside the car, Ali's face turned blank, emotionless. A shadow of boredom settled over him.
He leaned his head back against the seat, then opened a small compartment beside him. From it, he pulled out another cigar. With a flick of his lighter, he lit it and took a deep puff.
Cough, cough, cough...
He covered his mouth with his hand. When he pulled it away, dark blood coated his palm.
"This damn body..." he muttered, a rare hint of bitterness in his voice.
He had no one.
No wife. No children. No heir to inherit his empire.
Ali was born an orphan, his mother gave birth to him in prison after being convicted of murdering his father. She died just a few days later.
No one wanted him. No one dared adopt the child of a murderer.
People whispered that he was cursed, bad luck.
Eventually, even the orphanage's caretaker threw him out. With no home and no future, he took to the streets. He survived by pickpocketing, stealing, sleeping under highway bridges, whatever it took.
By the age of twelve, he came into contact with the underworld.
And he thrived.
Through sheer savagery, ruthless decisions, and a total absence of emotional ties, Ali climbed the ranks. By fifty-eight, he had become the most powerful and wealthiest figure in the criminal underworld.
He never let anyone get close. No weaknesses. No attachments. That was the rule.
Looking back, he couldn't help but salvage those moments of struggle, the hunger, the street fights, the endless nights under the stars. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
But despite having everything he had ever wanted...
He felt empty.
Like he had achieved nothing.
The drive that once fueled him, the hunger to rise, to conquer, to win—had long since burned out. Becoming the number one Mafia boss had its cost: isolation.
He couldn't afford attachments. He knew too well that anyone he cared about would be used against him. Or worse—killed, just to reach him.
He had often thought about children... but he never allowed himself to have any. He didn't believe he deserved them. Not in this brutal, soulless world he had helped build.
By the time he turned seventy-two, Ali was diagnosed with lung cancer. The doctors gave him ten years, maybe less if he didn't stop smoking.
He didn't care.
The cigar was the only thing left that gave him even the slightest sense of relief. Of control. Of calm.
Now, at seventy-six, he had four years left. Maybe less.
And what did he have to show for it?
Too much wealth. Hidden away in places no one would ever find, under property roofs, inside reinforced walls, cars made of gold, diamonds stored deep within mountain caves, private islands, jets.
He had everything.
And yet...
It was all boring now.
Meaningless.
He yearned for something, anything—to make him feel alive again. Something to remind him he was still human.
And then...
A white light.
It appeared out of nowhere, floating before him like a dream.
Then, in an instant, it surged forward and pierced his forehead.
Straight into his mind.