Now, it was more of a normal house than the dump it used to be. Even Alex himself had transformed—from a dark, grim presence into something resembling an average, everyday guy.
Days passed in quiet rhythm. Alex's life, while far from ordinary, settled into something close to peace.
Each morning, he'd wake with the sun, make a simple breakfast—usually eggs and toast—and then dive into physical training to push his body further: push-ups, stretches, breath control, and slow energy circulation. The demonic mist was growing more obedient, more fluid under his guidance. In the afternoons, he'd head to the park, sit under his usual tree, fine-tune his demonic flow, and read deeper into the Devil Book.
He even started dressing like a normal young man—simple hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. With the house cleaned up and repaired, and no more police visits or suspicious neighbors, Alex almost felt... invisible.
Until one cloudy afternoon.
He was returning from a convenience store run, a plastic bag swinging lazily from his fingers, when he noticed the commotion outside his home. Three men—ragged, lean, with gang tattoos and cocky swagger—were posted near his fence. They didn't belong.
Alex narrowed his eyes and slowly set the bag down on the sidewalk.
One of them, the leader, a man with a thick chain around his neck and a scar under his eye, pointed at Alex's porch.
"Yeah, this is the place," he said, smirking. "Ain't no way that little bastard upgraded this dump by himself. Heard he's sittin' on money he stole from Sam."
Another thug cracked his knuckles. "Heard he got all high and mighty after the cops cleared him. Thinks he's untouchable now."
The third just grinned. "Let's take him down a peg. Or five."
Alex exhaled slowly.
"They really want to do this… now?" he muttered, the mist beneath his skin stirring slightly, like something dangerous just waking up.
He calmly stepped forward, his gaze flat. "What do you want?"
The leader turned to him, grinning. "Oh? Look at this slimy bastard playing innocent. Cleaned up nice, huh?" He scanned Alex from head to toe with mock amusement.
"Listen up, punk. You've been feeding off Sam's stash. Word is, you're sitting on money that belongs to us now," he added, pointing a grimy finger toward Alex's chest.
Alex blinked, already cringing at how cliché the whole thing felt. This is super cringy GTA cutscene stuff. But no—these weren't dreamland goons. They were real, greasy, and standing on his lawn.
"Let's not drag this out," Alex said, flexing his fingers slightly. He could feel the pulse of energy waiting behind his palm.
The leader laughed. "He's got sass now, huh? Let's see how cocky you are after we put you in the dirt."
Alex didn't flinch.
They might not walk away alive, he thought grimly. Not after waking the devil.
"I don't know what you're talking about. Sam's place was raided by the cops, not me," Alex replied calmly.
The leader squinted at him, then smirked. "Yeah, I know the cops hit it—but Sam still had a stash left. We sold some things together."
"And despite my warnings, he carried the $18,907 with him. Went to pick up a girl. After that? He ended up at your place. Got arrested—and poof, money gone."
Alex's eyes narrowed. That sounded too familiar. He remembered the money he found in Sam's jacket after Cypher dragged it home. Nearly $19,000.
"And let me guess," Alex said dryly, "you want that exact amount?"
The thug grinned, flashing a rotten gold tooth. "Smart guy. Yeah, 18,907 bucks. Half of that was mine. Sam just held it while we handled business. Now he's gone—and I want my share."
Alex stayed quiet. He needed time to assess. Three guys. Two flanking the leader. Their jackets looked bulky—concealed weapons, most likely.
"Look, kid," the leader growled, stepping in closer, "you better hand it over. I don't care if Sam's gone. That cash is still mine."
Alex sighed.
"Last warning," the thug snapped, nodding to his goons as they cracked their knuckles and closed in.
Alex looked down at his palm, feeling the faint pulse of power beneath the surface.
So be it.
Time to show them he wasn't the same weak stray they remembered.
The first thug lunged with a wild punch aimed at Alex's jaw.
Alex didn't even blink. He watched. Timed it.
Then—swipe—he sidestepped, letting the punch sail past. As the thug stumbled forward, off balance, Alex drove an elbow hard into his ribs. A crunch followed. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping.
The second thug rushed from behind.
Alex ducked low, grabbed the guy's coat mid-spin, and hurled him forward with his momentum. He crashed into the nearby bench with a loud clang, then slumped, unmoving.
The leader hesitated. His cocky grin gone.
Alex advanced calmly, steps deliberate.
"Wait—!"
Too late.
Alex's fist slammed into the leader's gut with force like a sledgehammer. He wheezed, folding over. Alex grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against a tree with a solid thud.
"You done?" Alex asked flatly.
The thug coughed violently, barely able to stand. "W-What the hell are you...?"
Alex didn't answer. He looked down at the three bodies—groaning, broken, but alive.
"I'm just a guy," he said, turning back toward his house, "who's tired of people thinking I'm weak."
The thug slumped against the tree, clutching his stomach, trying to catch his breath. His legs trembled beneath him, barely holding up his weight.
Alex didn't let up.
He stepped closer, eyes cold now—focused, unblinking. The wind was still. The street empty. The only sounds were the muffled groans of the other two thugs and the rapid, uneven breath of the man in front of him.
"You're gonna talk now," Alex said, voice low but sharp as a blade. "Who else knows about the money?"
The gang leader spat blood to the side and gave a shaky laugh. "You really wanna—kgh—play hardass now? You think this is over?"
Alex leaned in. "You're the one who brought this to my door. I was minding my own business. Now you're going to answer. Who. Else. Knows."
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