Chapter 3: Reborn
1294 Words
“No!”
Carlos shouted, his voice hoarse but resolute. He would not sell out his family to save himself. “Dumb,” Pablo sneered.
“I still have one month. Let my wife and my son go. I swear, I’ll get you the money,” Carlos begged, his voice trembling.
Pablo stood and spat in his face. The spit splattered across Carlos’s cheek.
An evil smirk twisted Pablo’s lips. “Vete a la mierda! You think I believe you? You don’t have a cent to your name. How will you raise a million dollars in a month?” Pablo mocked.
Carlos’s heart sank. “Please, give me a chance. I’ll pay it,” he pleaded, his voice breaking.
Carlos had hoped for some kind of mercy, but he forgot who he was dealing with. Pablo wasn’t a man who felt empathy. He was a cartel leader, a man devoid of humanity. Pablo stepped closer, crouching down to meet Carlos’s gaze.
“Let’s end this,” Pablo said coldly.
Carlos’s mind raced, panic setting in. “What do you mean, end this?”
His blood ran cold as the meaning of Pablo’s words hit him. Carlos fought to stay calm, his hands straining against their bonds.
“No, please—don’t do this!” Carlos cried, his voice raw with desperation.
“Kill his wife and child. I’ll finish this coward myself,” Pablo ordered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Carlos’s throat tightened, a scream building as he watched Pablo’s men drag Rosita and Ricardo away. Then the sound of rapid gunfire rang out—three shots. His wife and child, torn apart before his eyes. His hands clenched into fists, trembling.
“Bastard!”
He stared at Ricardo’s lifeless body, his heart broke. Rosita was still fighting for her life, blood staining her clothes. Carlos struggled to move, desperate to reach her, but his hands were tied.
“Please, hold on, Amor,” he whispered, his voice cracking. Rosita tried to speak, but the words never came. She died without a sound. Carlos’s grief exploded into uncontrollable sobs. He cursed Pablo over and over.
“Enough with your drama, Carlos. Time to face your death,” Pablo sneered, crouching down in front of him.
Carlos’s eyes blazed with hatred. “I’ll kill you, Pablo,” he swore through gritted teeth.
“Oh really?” Pablo said, mocking him. He grabbed Carlos’s chin roughly, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I’m going to kill you, coward. I’ll make sure you suffer,” Pablo growled.
Pablo’s hand tightened around Carlos’s neck, cutting off his breath. Then, he pulled out a folding knife and pressed it against Carlos’s cheek, dragging the blade slowly across his skin.
Carlos flinched, blood trickling down his face. The sting was sharp, but he fought to stay conscious.
“Does it hurt?” Pablo taunted, a sadistic smile stretching across his face. Without waiting for an answer, Pablo thrust the knife into Carlos’s stomach with brutal force.
Carlos gasped, his hands instinctively trying to stop the blade, but Pablo’s strength overpowered him. The pain was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the rage burning inside him.
Pablo twisted the knife, pulling it out and stabbing again, and again—each thrust deeper than the last. Carlos’s body jerked with each blow, his strength fading.
“Coward,” Pablo spat, pushing Carlos’s limp body to the floor. Blood pooled around him.
Carlos’s head swam. He gasped, his vision blurring. He tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but his voice failed him.
“God, help me,” Carlos muttered, his mind slipping in and out of focus.
He wasn’t religious. Never had been. But at that moment, with death closing in on him, he was desperate.
“God won’t help you, Carlos,” Pablo sneered, stepping toward the door. “You’re nothing but a worthless coward.”
Carlos’s vision flickered, his breath shallow and ragged. Just as his consciousness began to fade, time suddenly stopped.
Everything froze—movement, sound, even the air. In the stillness, Carlos saw him.
A figure stood before him, cloaked in darkness. It was Mecta, the god of destruction.
***
Carlos opened his eyes and found himself in a pitch-black room. A figure sat on a throne not far from him. Carlos squinted, attempting to stand, but his steps were unsteady.
In the distance, the figure sat on a throne adorned with a dragon-shaped design wrapping around it. A large cloak draped over his body. Two guards stood beside him, and the man held a staff with a serpent’s head.
“Am I dead?” Carlos muttered in disbelief. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone blunt, as he pointed a shaky hand at the man on the throne.
“How dare you speak like that! Lower your gaze and show respect!” one of the guards shouted. Carlos had never found himself in a situation like this before. He had never encountered a place with such a dark, oppressive aura anywhere in Mexico.
“Lord Mecta, just throw him into hell now,” the guard muttered.
Carlos frowned. From their conversation, it seemed he was indeed dead. He never imagined his life would end so young.
A deep voice rumbled. “Be polite to my guest. He didn’t come here for punishment. I will reward him for summoning me,” the voice echoed, reverberating through the room.
“A reward?” Carlos asked, his words hanging in the air. “Lord Mecta,” he added, unsure of whom this Mecta truly was. He was simply following the guard’s words. “Before you answer my question, may I ask who you really are?” Carlos inquired, his curiosity growing.
A low chuckle followed, then the deep voice returned. “I am the god of destruction, and you are the one who summoned me,” Mecta’s voice boomed.
“Summoned you? I never—”
Carlos’s words trailed off as a memory surfaced. He remembered calling out to God in his final moments. Could it be that, unknowingly, he had summoned Mecta, the god of destruction?
“It seems you remember now,” Mecta said, his tone calm and almost amused. “Listen, Carlos. I won’t punish you. Instead, I’ll give you a reward. I hope you’ll like it. Now, close your eyes,” Mecta commanded.
Carlos hesitated but slowly began to close his eyes. A buzzing filled his ears, and his vision blurred before gradually fading into darkness.
***
“Jefe! What are you doing? You have to kill him.”
Carlos blinked his eyes. He was in the middle of a boxing ring, the cheers filling the area. “La Simbra! La Simbra!” the chants echoed throughout the space. Carlos froze.
“What’s happening?” Carlos muttered. He looked around. Carlos frowned when he saw someone kneeling in front of him, their face beaten and bruised. The pistol was in Carlos’s hand, his index finger poised to pull the trigger.
“What are you waiting for, Hector? Shoot him now!” someone behind Carlos ordered.
The shouting grew louder. Someone slapped Carlos on the back. A man with black hair and hazel eyes whispered into Carlos’s ear. “It’s time to prove yourself to your father, Hector. You need to act fast,” he whispered.
Hector? Who’s Hector? Questions buzzed in Carlos’s mind. Before he could ask, a gunshot rang out, echoing throughout the area. The man in front of Carlos collapsed as the crowd erupted in cheers.
“Long live El Diablo! Long live El Diablo!”
A middle-aged man stood beside Carlos, his gaze filled with disappointment.
“You useless child,” he muttered, straightening his suit.
- Writer
