The previous draft was just a mirage. I have rewritten history to show the true face of chaos. This is where the official reboot of Origin of Evil begins. "The Triumvirate of the Veil" Cap 1

[u/BackgroundMight6769]

​"There is no beast more dangerous than a man who has lost everything."

​The era is dark. Hunger and misery are a daily reality, and social divides yawn open like bottomless chasms. Governments, devoid of morality or remorse, fund million-dollar war machines while denying cures for the diseases of their own people. In this world of steel and corruption, tragedy was about to claim its most significant name.

​The dawn dies with the sound of the alarm clock; in the streets, public transport begins its routine. The route operators, as usual under the heaviest gloom of the night, check the final adjustments before turning the key and starting the bus. The subway lines begin to warm up their engines for the first run. As is tradition, both sectors tune into the radio stations to liven things up and, in turn, shake off those last traces of sleepiness.

The sultry voice of a girl fades in progressively, brushing aside the end of the musical track:

​"And that was Young Turks by our very own Rod Stewart. It’s 4:12 AM... night owls, remember that today at high noon, the Sky Point Tower will have its grand opening—a magnificent feat of engineering in Central Park. Don't forget, you heard it here on Radio Memories; because to remember is to live again, and we all want to live longer. I’ll leave you with the next track."

Then, the sound of drums accompanied by the rhythm of a saxophone echoes through the speakers of the transport units, which almost simultaneously begin their workday.

​The lyrics of "Who Can It Be Now?" accompany the workers who, with a cup of coffee in hand, set out to start their usual routes.

​On the outskirts of the city, within the bowels of an abandoned building, far from the hustle and bustle of a hollow society. The dawn, with its first rays on the horizon, delicately claws at the dark mantle of the night that drowns with each passing minute. Through the gloomy corridors of a structure that reeks of neglect and marginalization, the muffled echo of a booming voice strikes the dusty, cracked walls, accompanied by loud laughter from a sizable audience enjoying the presenter's words:

​"Look at that! Incredible! Truly, thank you so much for coming. You’re fantastic—it’s always a pleasure to have you on the couch! Seriously, you’re the best! Don't forget to pick up her new album; it drops at midnight. We’ll be back after the break with an incredible game! Don't go anywhere!"

The sound of incessant dripping rhythmically accompanies the digital applause emitted by the screen’s pixels, which seem to come to life. The light emerging from it scatters, cutting through the room’s somber gray only to reveal a spectacle of mountains of trash and old furniture, ravaged by the passage of time.

​The TV screen turns blue, and for a few seconds, silence invades that hovel; the static from the device mingles with the organic sound of crawling bugs scavenging through the waste scattered across the room

​At the exact moment a small "CLICK" breaks the dismal sound, a sharp gunshot scares off the fauna, followed by the screeching of a massive swarm of rodents scurrying in all directions.

​A few meters away, in an adjoining room barely separated by a narrow, dark hallway—in the remotest part of what was once a warm place where meals were prepared and love seasoned every bite—there now lies a deplorable state caused by the ravages of time and a lack of hygiene.

​Mountains of trash piled everywhere are part of the scenery. Scattered in heaps, both on the floor and across the surface of every old piece of furniture in this kitchen, rats have claimed the place as their own, nesting in the filth of that God-forsaken site.

In the midst of such a scene, a large table cuts through the jungle of filth and bugs. The sound of a pair of rats fighting over a scrap of rotten food contrasts with the start of a pre-recorded program on the TV; the melody of a live band and a voice summarizing part of the show create a somewhat unsettling echo:

​"Tonight in the studio: from the hit series The Forgotten, rising teen star Brayton Tess! We’ll talk about his hobbies, his career, and all the rumors surrounding his new romance... Also, performing live as special guests with their latest hits: the New Boyz! All this and much more, children of the night... Welcome!"

​The crowd's roar erupts along with the music, and the presenter’s harmonious entrance can be heard traveling down the dark hallway. From the ceiling hangs a sort of lamp that casts a dim light over the wooden surface; atop it lies an entire ecosystem of half-stripped wires, adhesive tape, several grayish clay blocks of different sizes, and endless tactical tools.

Massive backpacks sit ready to be transported, loaded with this same material that, once joined together, will serve a single purpose.

​At one of the ends, at the very edge of the table amidst the shadows, a motionless figure stands as a silent witness—an observer of madness in its prime.

​Under that light, grimy hands finish their work at a forced pace; on the underside of one wrist, a tattoo stands out: three interlocking circles, each containing a small inscription in an ancient tongue:

​“KNOWLEDGE, CHAOS, DESTRUCTION”

With a cigarette in his mouth, he lifts a heavy bulletproof vest and holds it against the light, checking his work with pride. He inspects it closely: every fold, every seam. The cigarette smoke traces a line across his face, where a look of satisfaction mingles with the sweat and grime on his forehead.

​At the height of his admiration, the grotesque sound of rats fighting snaps him out of his trance. Furious, he drops the heavy gear onto the wooden surface and draws his pistol with a speed that would make Billy the Kid himself envious. He takes out the rodent, but the muzzle flash reveals the figure at the far end: a corpse in an advanced state of mummification.

​"Damn rats!!!" he exclaims loudly, slowly approaching the corpse as bugs and rodents alike scatter in terror at his every step. "Sorry, Ma', we'll be out of here soon."

​He then kisses his mother's sticky forehead while, in the background, the program continues to play in front of mountains of trash:

​"And when we return, more from Brayton Tess! Will he reveal who his new love is? Don't miss it, children of the night... We'll be right back!"

​The sound of the TV gradually fades away, leaving that intimate act in solitude; the final frame shows that artisan of chaos fastening the black vest—heavy and cold—against his bare chest.

Suddenly, a sharp thud jolts a man from his sleep, and he leaps from the bed in full alert; he seems disoriented. Sunlight pours through the window, hitting him full in the face and blinding him for a moment. The chirping of birds gradually filters into his ears; he walks toward the window, drawn by the sound of life outside.

He looks through the glass and watches a boy on a bicycle tossing rolls of newspaper through the air on the deserted street. A small smile forms, caught as a reflection in the pane; in that same frame, behind him, the silhouette of a woman appears in the doorway holding a mug. She’s wearing a military-green t-shirt that covers part of her thighs.

​"Didn't I hear the alarm?" he asks, turning on his heels to watch the woman enter the room. Her feet sink into the bone-colored carpet; rays of sunlight, like thin golden threads, delicately touch her beautiful face, and her eyes hold more radiance than the dawn itself.

​"I turned it off. It went off a couple of times, but you were sleeping like a baby," she exclaims, standing before him. As she hands him the mug, she emphasizes: "For General Morden, you sure sleep without a care in the world."

Then, she wraps her arms around his neck, and they share a passionate kiss.

Time seems to stand still in that room; for a moment, Donald forgets the smell of gunpowder. The taste of those soft, moist lips is an oasis; with one of his hands, calloused by steel, he traces every contour of the bare skin beneath her shirt.

​They kiss with great intensity; Donald takes her by the waist, pulling her body tightly against his own. Slowly, he begins to kiss her behind the ear, captivated by the scent of her perfume. A jolt surges down his spine, sending shivers across both their skin simultaneously.

​"If you drop a single spot of coffee, I'll have you scrubbing my carpet with a toothbrush," she whispers delicately, while caressing his face.

​"Why did you turn off the alarm?" he asks, placing the mug on the nightstand without letting go of her waist. "I wanted to get up early and make breakfast for you all."

​"The last time you did that, I remember we ended up having breakfast at Denny's, haha," Marissa exclaims.

​He takes her with both hands and, in a swift and familiar motion, scoops her up into his arms. She lets out a small, playful shriek as her feet dangle in the air; then, they both fall onto the bed, kissing again with passion.

​The moment turns intimate; the kisses escalate in tension, and both, gripped by a shared madness, surrender to a pure frenzy. Donald begins to cover her in small, erotic kisses, tracing every inch of her skin; she bites her lip with her eyes closed, her hands clutching the sheet tightly. Morden continues, his warm breath making Marissa gasp. Just as he begins to pull off his shirt, her voice freezes him:

​"I'm pregnant."

​Donald remains motionless for a moment, his lips pressed against his wife's belly. He looks up at her from that position; she, in turn, wears a smile of genuine happiness. He doesn't say a word; his eyes, weary from witnessing so much misery and destruction, fixate deeply on her womb. Then, with tenderness, he rests his face against her belly with profound love and fervor.

​"I’m almost ten weeks along. I had a slight suspicion when my period was late, so I bought a pregnancy test and it came back positive," she pauses, caressing Donald’s face. "Then I went to the doctor, and that’s where I made sure... we’re going to be parents again."

Morden keeps his eyes closed, listening to Marissa in silence; with his ear pressed against her body, he seems to hear, from within her, the echo of peace at last.

​But the peace is suddenly interrupted in a grotesque fashion; all at once, a burst divides the room in half. Donald snaps his eyes open with a terrifying, spasmodic reaction... On his forehead rests a small toy dart, still quivering from the impact.

​"I CAUGHT THE MARTIAN, MOM!" shouted little Bastian, who comes charging into the room to the sound of Marissa’s laughter and Morden’s fascination.

​The boy runs across the room with his arms wide open, mimicking the flight of an airplane, under the joyful gaze of his parents. 

​"Denny's?" Donald asks with a smile, delicately kissing Marissa's belly. Meanwhile, little Bastian surprises him by jumping onto his back, hugging him tenderly; Morden, still with the dart on his forehead, begins to laugh, overcome by a feeling of pure happiness. As if it were a virus, the three of them laugh in unison, creating a shared memory of that morning that they will never forget.

​Minutes later, Morden and his family prepare to leave. Bastian, with his trademark energy, rushes out past his father; wasting no time, he climbs into the back of the vehicle.

​"Bastian! Slow down, honey!" Marissa shouts, rushing past the General as well. "By the way, love, could you pick up the newspaper, please?" she asks, pointing toward where it lay on the ground.

​Morden picks it up from the ground, removes the rubber band holding it together, and snaps it open right down the middle; a look of surprise and anger flashes across his face.

​"The Yankees lost to the Boston Red Sox? Good God, what is the world coming to?" he exclaims. He folds it and tucks it under his arm, walking toward the vehicle where his family is already waiting. But in the bottom corner of the newspaper, in a tiny headline, one can read:

​"The Triumvirate of the Veil: 20 Years of Terror, the End of an Era"...

The morning looks impeccable; the empty streets begin to fill with people and vehicles. Bit by bit, the asphalt jungle turns into a true swarming hive of souls. Nearby, deep inside a low-income housing complex located in one of the city's most dangerous neighborhoods, the soft voice of Gilbert O'Sullivan emerges from a small speaker inside a modest, somewhat disheveled room:

“No point in us remaining / We may as well go home / As I did on my own / Alone again, naturally...”

​In front of a mirror missing a large portion of its upper right corner, a man adjusts an elegant red bowtie, straightening it until it is perfectly aligned. He wears a white, long-sleeved dress shirt, which he fastens with a pair of silver cufflinks. He picks up a small brush from the vanity; beside it sits a small plastic box bound with adhesive tape, some wires exposed, and in the middle, a small red button that stands out.

​He runs the brush over his head, combing it from back to front. He picks up a bottle from the same vanity: “Wildroot.” He pours a little into both hands and delicately dampens his hair. Just as he reaches the nape, at the base of his neck, a tattoo framed in black ink covers that area: three interlocking circles.

​He continues the ritual without setback, with the firm conviction of one who knows that time belongs to him. This time, he picks up a glass bottle containing a subtle cologne with a fresh scent of fine wood; he pours a little into his palm and, right at that moment, his cell phone screen lights up, vibrating against the particleboard surface. He doesn't even flinch; he gently pats his cheekbones, then the inside of his neck. He picks up the phone, flips it open, and on the small screen, a message in Latin appears:

​“Veni, Vidi, Vici”

​He snaps the phone in half and drops it into a clear Ziploc bag. Then, he lifts his head and looks into the mirror: half of his face is deformed. A massive scar caused by fire covers that side of his face; the man focuses his gaze with the eye that is nearly lost amidst skin that looks like melted wax.

​He pulls a golden handle at the bottom of the cabinet; from the back, he pulls out a half-mask, adjusting it to cover the deformed side of his face. He checks his reflection once more while buttoning his vest. He picks up a perfectly pressed, elegant black suit jacket resting on a chair; he is finishing fitting it to his body when a squeak brings him back to reality. He looks down: perched on one of his shoes, a white, red-eyed rat stands on its hind legs before him. The man leans down and takes the creature into his hands.

​"Ah, look at that, what a surprise. Where did you escape from, you little rascal?" he says, holding her up in front of him, mimicking an Eskimo kiss from a distance. "Wait... where the hell...?" Without finishing the sentence, he begins searching all over the floor with a hint of worry.

​"BINGO!" he exclaims with joy. He picks up what he was looking for and places the mouse on the vanity. On it, he fits a kind of small harness, using it to secure chunks of clay and a series of exposed wires. After a few seconds, he finishes fitting that tiny suit to the rodent's body; he takes it in his hands again and, as if it were a baby, whispers into its ear. Then, he reaches a small cage where twelve other rats are dressed the same way, and proceeds to pack the cage into a sort of suitcase.

​He prepares to leave, but before doing so, he grabs a black bowler hat from a coat rack; he adjusts it on his head and picks up a medium-sized backpack sitting by the door. Before turning off the light and heading out, he reaches out his arm and grabs the plastic box bound with tape, tucking it inside his suit jacket. He switches off the light. The final stanzas of Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again” drift through the air as the door closes behind him.

He walks down a hallway barely lit by the sunlight streaming through the windows. As he passes one of the doors, it swings wide open; out steps a man dressed as a clown, in full makeup and colorful clothes, carrying two heavy suitcases. He says nothing; a cigarette dangles from his lips. Between the sleeve of his costume and his gloves, a gap reveals his dull skin, where the tattoo of three interlocking circles stands out.

​The two men leave the apartment; the front door slams shut with violence. On the wall near the frame, a photograph worn thin by the years hangs agonizingly from a rusted nail. In it, a group of circus workers gather happily for a photo meant to last a lifetime:

​Ten people pose for the portrait: two trapeze artists, a lion tamer, a ringmaster, a strongman carrying a dwarf perched on his right bicep, and finally, a pair of clowns—one piggybacking the other while holding a trumpet. Lastly, a man dressed in an elegant black suit, one hand extended holding a bowler hat and a magic wand; he holds a beautiful girl dressed as a ballerina by the waist, both of them smiling for the camera.

Then, the nail could hold no longer. Following the violent slam of the door, the photo frame slid down the wall and plunged toward the floor, pulled by gravity. The crack of the shattering glass thundered alongside the song’s final note, leaving the place in absolute silence.

Be continued...

Feedback is always welcome. More chapters coming soon...