Eleven

Inside a full packed clubhouse, still trying to go undercover, Marcelo forced himself through the crowd, limping, his entire lefthand locked in a cask, a mask and his over grown hair covering his face, space left only for his eyes to see. He followed the familiar corridors of the back setting of the club, now his club. Inside his final destination, he limped himself over to a seat, behind which stood a girl in a black hoodie and ripped skinny jeans. Everyone else just watched in utter silence as he descended onto his throne.

He made it! Under rough circumstances but still; he was now the leader of a mob; not just any; the biggest, baddest and most dangerous.

For everything he'd been through as a fugitive, Marcelo swore to be soulless during his reign. He would strike fear into the souls of his enemies just by the mention of his name. He would become their nightmare: starting with the two people who had contributed in his hell experience.