طعنت عينا نيلسون في تامي مثل شفرة حادة، مليئة بالغضب الصامت الجاهز للانفجار.
تجمدت تامي في مكانها، مذهولة من النظرة التي شعرت وكأنها حكم صدر بالفعل.
وفي أعماق عقل نيلسون، انفتح باب إلى الماضي...
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كان نيلسون واقفًا في الغرفة، وكان قبضته على البندقية قوية لدرجة أن مفاصله كانت ترتجف، وكانت الدموع تنزلق على خديه وتندمج مع الظلال الثقيلة من حوله.
صوته، الهادئ والمرتجف بعاصفة غير مرئية، كسر الصمت:
"فهذه... هي مكافأتي؟"
تقدمت المرأة للأمام، ومدت يديها المرتعشتين وكأنها تريد أن تزرع الهدوء في قلبه.
"من فضلك... دعني أشرح..."
لكن عينيه بقيتا ثابتتين عليها، نظرةً لا تفصل بين الحزن والخيانة. نبرته كانت ثابتة، لكنها حادة بما يكفي لقطع الطريق:
لقد صنعتُك أعظم مما كنتَ عليه. وهبتُك ثروتي، وقتي، حياتي... وهكذا تُجازيني؟ بالخيانة.
شهقت المرأة، وخفضت نظرها وكأنها تحاول الاختباء داخل كلماتها:
"إنه يكذب... لم يكن بيننا شيء."
ارتفع صوت نيلسون فجأة، وكان الغضب يندفع من خلاله مثل الفيضان:
لقد منحتك ثقتي، حبي... وأصبحتَ الجرح الذي لم أتوقعه. لو كنتَ صادقًا معي منذ البداية، لما كنا هنا. لكنتُ سامحتك... لكنتُ تقبلتُ ذلك. لكنك اخترتَ أن تكون الجرح الذي لن يندمل أبدًا.
خفض رأسه، وبدأ الظل يزداد عمقًا على وجهه، بينما سقطت الغرفة في صمت خانق.
امرأة (دموعها تتساقط، صوتها يرتجف مثل لهب خافت):
"كنت خائفة... خائفة من أنني إذا قلت لك الحقيقة، سأفقد ثقتك."
نيلسون (عيناه غائرتان مثل صحراء بلا حياة، وصوته بارد ولا يرحم):
والآن... تخلصتَ من تلك الثقة. لم يبقَ سوى طريق واحد... لا فرصة ثانية.
امرأة (رأسها منحني، صوتها متقطع بين النحيب):
"عندما رأيت المال والسلطة... نسيت ماضينا، ونسيت نفسي... لم أرغب أبدًا في تذكر تلك الأيام مرة أخرى."
نيلسون (يرفع البندقية ببطء، ويضغط فوهتها على جبهتها - نظراته عبارة عن شفرة قاتلة صامتة):
"الآن... طريقك الأخير هو الموت."
[صورة مقربة - جسدها يرتجف، وعيناها تغرقان في دموع الندم]
امرأة (تهمس من خلال رطوبة أنفاسها):
"اتقتل... من تحب."
نيلسون (صوت أجش، مثقل بالغضب وأسى القلب):
"نعم... سأقتلك، كما قتلت قلبي... وخنقت آخر نفس من ثقتي."
[يتلاشى إلى السواد - يزداد المطر غزارة. يملأ صوت سحب الزناد المكان.
الهواء... ويقطع المشهد إلى صمت مطبق]
That Wednesday, July 15th, 875
On that day, the incident occurred.
Narrator (in a quiet, trembling voice, as if recounting an ancient tragedy):
The echo of the gunshot reverberated through the house like a slap across the face of fate, while the family rushed toward the room, driven by panic.
Tami emerged with heavy, dragging steps, pressing his palm to his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes as if confessing his crime before he could speak.
His voice was hoarse, broken:
Tami (words choked by tears): I'm… sorry…
Inside, Nelson sat before the body of his wife, his eyes wide in cold shock, whispering as if trying to convince himself this was a dream from which he had yet to wake:
Nelson (dazed): Did… did I kill my wife? No… I can't believe it… Did I really… do it?
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Narrator:
Thursday, July 16th, 875 arrived.
Tami was walking through a vast, empty desert, where the only sound was the rasp of the wind brushing against his face. He carried a black bag, his left arm bent so it pressed the bag against his back, as though it were a burden he could not drop.
His features were frozen, yet behind them burned a volcano of guilt. He didn't know where he was headed, only that there was no road back.
The desert stretched before him like a faded painting without end, while the shifting shadows of clouds painted faces from his past onto the sand—faces that never stopped accusing him.
Narrator: He felt as though every step drew him deeper into the void, and that life had lost all meaning since that night.
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Eventually, he reached the mouth of a dark cave, from which wafted a damp smell laced with the scent of rusted iron. Inside, the men of the Scorpion gang were gathered.
In those days, their leader was Shoken—a man of both might and presence, with short black hair, a black cloak lined in red, and eyes brown as the earth after rain, yet harder than stone. He wore black trousers with a sleek, almost plastic-like sheen, adding a further edge to his intimidating aura.
Shoken stood at the cave's entrance, his voice booming:
"You've crossed into our territory, boy… and you won't leave alive."
The fight erupted, the shriek of steel mingling with the roar of breath. Sand flew into the air, and their shadows wrestled on the cave walls like mythical beasts.
In the end, it was Tami who brought Shoken down, his phantom sword driven more into the man's resolve than his flesh.
According to gang tradition, whoever defeated the leader became the new one.
Shoken left the cave, dragging his defeat behind him like a heavy shadow, while the Scorpion men pledged their loyalty to Tami.
But Tami sought no power—he was searching for a forgiveness he wasn't sure existed. He turned the gang from a force of cruelty into a hidden guard, intercepting drug trafficking between Thunder Village and Fire Village, knowing well that Nelson's family was plotting the destruction of Thunder.
Nelson, however, did not sit idly by… Instead, he tarnished the gang's reputation, reshaping it in the public eye into a bloodthirsty beast, until the very name Scorpion became synonymous with fear, not protection.
---
If you want, I can also make you a cinematic screenplay version of this in English so it reads exactly like a Net
flix script. That would make it even more intense.
They returned to the present, silence hanging in the air, as if the walls themselves bore witness to the weight of the story that had just spilled out.
Ten was staring at Tami with wide eyes — a mix of shock and disbelief, as though his mind hadn't yet grasped the magnitude of what he had heard.
Ten, his voice hoarse from the shock:
> All of this… happened to you?
Tami kept his head lowered, as if avoiding the weight of the eyes fixed on him.
Kazuma muttered, his tone carrying both sympathy and sorrow:
> What a… tragic story.
Rin, who had been watching silently, felt a tear slip down her cheek and smiled bitterly:
> And even after all that… he still stood tall.
Harry, eyes closed as if pondering beyond the words, spoke in a calm tone:
> It's a sad story… but full of lessons.
Then Tami slowly turned around, standing behind his chair, and bent down to pick up something hidden there.
He opened a large wooden box, its edges worn by the passage of time, and the scent of aged wood drifted out.
Inside the box was an old piece of paper, carefully preserved, bound with a faded red ribbon.
With his left hand, Tami held the paper, his voice deep and serious:
> Take this… it's the village's last hope.
He then stepped forward, his tone growing firmer:
> Now… finish what your uncle and I started.
But Ten stepped back, his voice trembling with refusal:
> You do it… I can't.
Tami suddenly shouted, his voice mixing pain with anger:
> I didn't tell you this story so you could pity me!
Ten froze, his eyes wide as if he had been slapped in the heart, while Tami continued with a decisive tone:
> Take this paper… you are the path we built.
Ten slowly stepped forward, sorrow filling his gaze, then reached out and took the paper — as if he were holding his fate in his hands.
At that moment, Toji broke the silence with a childlike tone, though laced with sharp curiosity:
> We've heard your story… but those who hide their faces behind masks — what do we really know about them?
Ten's brother (in a deep, challenging voice):
> See, Ten? I told you… you should listen to his story before you judge.
Tami clapped his hands in a sharp motion, and silence fell again, as if even the air was bracing for what would follow.
Hands moved toward faces, and with every mask removed, a hidden truth was revealed.
First — the man with the hammer: Takada Ginzo.
Seventy years old, his features carved deeply by time like maps of past wars. His bald head gleamed under the light, and from his chin flowed a thick white beard like a waterfall of snow. His chest was made of stone and muscle, telling of a life that had never known weakness.
Second — the man with the knife: Kuroyama Renji.
Thirty-two years old, with sleek black hair falling neatly to the sides, each strand catching the light. His black eyes were like a still lake hiding unfathomable depth. Short in stature — one hundred and sixty-four centimeters — yet his presence made shadows grow longer.
Third — the man with the axe: Oshida Goro.
Dark-skinned, bald, with muscles like the walls of a fortress that never trembles. His gray eyes were as cold and unyielding as stone on a winter's night. Sixty years of life had not dulled the sharpness in his gaze nor the steel in his resolve.
Fourth — the man with the gun: Sudo Haruto.
His brown hair shimmered with streaks of sunset, and his warm brown eyes hid the tremor of a bullet ready to fire. At forty-seven years old, his face bore the blend of harsh experience and patient wisdom.
Fifth — the man with the wooden staff: Takeaki Kuroma.
Black, gleaming eyes and tied-back y
ellow hair. Forty-four years old.
Tami (in a rough voice):
> These are… the Scorpion Gang.