"Welcome to the Dark Kings, brat," that words reverberated in his ears nonstop. All around him, the tenebrous silence defiled his vengeful thoughts, carrying the worried whispers of his terrified brothers.
Jay remained clinging to Darion's arms, silently praying for everything to stop, for life to return to what it once was—warm, optimistic, peaceful. Meanwhile, Darion's body stilled, his thoughts dampened by the vicious reality he had to come to terms with. They were slaves, powerless as the tyrannical organization held their lives within contemptuous clutches.
They were currently in one of the many rooms in the residence, locked away from the rest of the world. Wary pupils scanned their surroundings, Darion and Jay sharing grim expressions as the former did his best to calm his brother down. He repeated the words his parents usually told them whenever they found themselves in potential danger, silently hoping they would cheer his brother up.
"Everything's gonna be okay, Jay. Just close your eyes, count to ten, and the danger will be gone."
Seeing all of this going on, Raphael sneered, marched towards the door, and kicked the metallic construct with partially subdued malice. A trail of loud bangs infected the shadowy expanse, a clamor of enraged voices responding to the sudden disturbance. It wasn't long until a series of internal compartments shifted from within the door, the handle bending down before swinging open right after.
Standing on the other side of the door was the same guard who had escorted them into the eerie residence. His brows remained furrowed, crimson eyes oozing a chilling sense of malice as he gazed down at the runt causing all the ruckus.
At that point, Raphael remembered what the guard had told him earlier, about how, if the whole process didn't work out, that they would end up going with other… alternatives. Of course, he had no interest in knowing, or even potentially indulging in those alternatives, but that wouldn't stop him from going after what he currently seeked—answers.
Not too long ago, they stood before the leader of the insidious agency terrorizing Fluxton—Leonardo Thorne. Along with his comrades—Severus, John, Lukas, Nelson, and Levi, they dominated Fluxton, exercising their will with dreadful indifference. They were the cream of the crop, the pinnacle of power. Few dared to oppose their will, and all who did were met with a swift end.
After their encounter with the Dark King's leader, Raphael and his brothers were forcefully brought into this empty space, no further explanations, no orders, nothing. Still, Raphael wasn't just going to remain complacent. He believed he had a say in his destiny, and if he had to cause a scene to be heard, message across, no matter the cost.
And now, standing there, facing the seething guard, he stood defiant, holding the man's gaze. He didn't even realize when the man's hand moved, a sharp, stinging pain digging through his flesh, the force sending his body skidding across the floor. Darion and Jay glanced at their brother's compromised state, the scene sternly reminiscent of Raphael's adamance when facing against Levi.
"You brat… if not because the boss wants you alive, I would've ripped you to shreds the moment I laid eyes on you!" The guard cursed, shaking his fists in annoyance. "If you dare lay a hand on this door again, I'll personally sever your hands and feet. Let the boss do his worst. Seriously, just looking at your face makes my skin crawl!" with that, he forcefully shut the door, the same clicking sounds following suit as he resumed his post on the other end.
Meanwhile, Raphael's fingers curled, veins bulging through his forehead as he withheld his words, mumbling to himself through scorching fury. His brothers unconsciously distanced themselves from him, fearing his wrath just as much as they did the guard's.
******
Many years passed after that dreadful day.
Raphael and his brothers were gruesomely trained by the members of the Dark Kings. Being mutants, their aptitude for blood magic was truly commendable. Even as a child, Raphael was capable of performing skills such as blood swipe and blood weave, both of which required a considerable amount of malum in one's blood to pull off.
Malum was the essence within a vampire's blood that enabled them to utilize blood magic. Those who had large amounts of malum, such as the royals and the mutants, were capable of utilizing their abilities to create frightening results. On the other hand, those who lacked enough malum, such as the lowerclass who were hopelessly subdued by their local gangs, were barely capable of utilizing blood magic.
This was the driving force that demarcated the various social classes within the kingdom. Those who were blessed could flex their will on others, while the forsaken just had to managed what they were given.
Twelve years had past since the incident, which meant that currently, Raphael was twenty years old. As vampires, their lifespan wasn't any different from humans. Though they didn't have the luxury of living for extended periods, their powers easily made their short lives worth living. And as for those who suffered, a short life was something they could manage, since, either way, death was a reality they could only avoid for so long.
During that period, Raphael and his brothers had proven themselves to be valuable members to the gang. They performed their monthly duties, helped keep others in line, and even participated in battles against the gangs of neighbouring towns who wished to expand their territory. They excelled at every milestone, gaining more and more favour in the eyes of the leader and his pillars.
It was another typical day in Fluxton. The air was filled with grim resilience, locals hustling to make bare minimum wages. Raphael sauntered across acrid streets, a cold expression fixed on his face as he barged past individuals on the road. No one dared lay a hand on him, or even speak a word. To them, he was Raphael Stern, the man who was nicknamed The Red Death.
He was referred by that name because of one common belief—wherever he went, death always followed. And, of course, no one wanted to be on the receiving end of that despicable folklore.
Eventually, his steps drew to a sharp halt. Taking in the view of the low-end residence before him, he took in a deep breath, exhaled, then walked towards the entrance. A few hard knocks were placed, and not long after, Raphael heard the noise of someone shuffling to the door. Seconds later, it was unlocked, an old-looking man standing on the other side.
His appearance was far from pleasing. Dark bags clung fiercely below his veiny eyes, cheeks sunden deeply into his skull. A pungent stench clung stubbornly to his body, assaulting Raphael's nostrils with grim resolve. The latter grimaced, took a couple steps back, then said:
"It's been a while. How've you been keeping up?"
The older man didn't reply immediately, his eyes appearing heavy. They remained seemingly focused on nothing, their red luminescence incapable of withholding the despair thriving within his aching heart. Then, finally, his lips parted, a dry, acrid breath carrying his words with arduous weight.
".... I'm fine, I guess… How about you? How about Darion and Jay?"
Raphael shook his head, eyes scanning the decrepit state of his father as he responded.
"They're doing well. I just thought I might stop by. Mind if I come in?"
Gordon lightly nodded his head, stepping aside to allow his son passage. Seeing this, Raphael lightly smiled and walked into the enclosure. Instantly, the memories of the past resurfaced. He did his best to hide his discomfort as he moved across the miniscule space, arriving at the centre of their former living room, which also served as their bedroom and kitchen, and sat cross-legged on the solid floor.
His father did the same, sitting a short distance away. His gaze remained distant, corroded by the gruelling memories of the past.
Father and son remained seated in overbearing silence, neither one willing to break the awkward stillness. Eventually, Raphael was the one to speak, his stern voice drawing Gordon away from his stupor somewhat.
"How are you feeling?"
Gordon raised his head slightly, glancing back at Raphael.
"... I already told you, I'm fine."
Raphael slowly shook his head, his expression slightly darkening.
"No, you're not. Have you taken a good look at yourself? You're a mess. It's been what? Twelve years? Yet here you are, still mourning over her death like it was last week. So much time has already pass, move on already!"
At that moment, something inside the old man came to life. He sharply got off the floor, rushing towards Raphael with his fingers curled into a tight fist. Just moments before the blow could connect, Raphael caught the man's punch, narrowed eyes gazing into Gordon's fleeting hatred as he spoke, his tone bearing the weight of deeply surpressed anger.
"You don't even have a right to mourn for her. It's not like when she needed you the most, you did something to help."