Chapter 4: First Fight
1242 Words
Carlos stared at his reflection in the mirror. He stood motionless, gazing at the image before him. His jet-black hair gleamed under the light, and both arms were covered in intricate tattoos. His broad chest, adorned with ink, was barely concealed by the thin black shirt he wore. The shirt seemed incapable of fully containing his muscular frame.
“Hector, you messed everything up!” The door to Carlos's room swung open, revealing a hazel-eyed man he recognized from the ring. Carlos frowned. Did this man just call him Hector?
“Who are you?” Carlos asked, his voice tinged with confusion.
The man looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Are you kidding me? You almost ruined everything today, Hector. What’s going on with you?” he said, disappointment lacing his tone.
Carlos furrowed his brows. “Just answer my question. Who are you?”
The man muttered a curse under his breath before responding, “Javier Hernández. Did you forget who I am? I’m your assistant and best friend.”
“And who am I?” Carlos pressed.
Javier stepped closer, cupping Carlos’s face in his hands. “What’s wrong with you, Hector? Are you drunk? You’re not on drugs, are you?” Javier examined Carlos’s face carefully, searching for any signs of intoxication.
Carlos’s mind raced as he tried to piece together the fragments swirling in his head. Slowly, understanding dawned on him. Could this be Mecta’s doing? But why Héctor? He needed answers.
“You good?” Javier gave Carlos a light slap on the cheek, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“You still haven’t answered me. Who am I?” Carlos repeated firmly.
Javier’s confusion deepened, but he answered nonetheless. “You? You’re Héctor El Diablo Vargas. How could you forget who you are?” Javier’s disbelief was obvious.
Carlos’s head began to pound as Héctor’s memories flooded his mind, each one vivid and overwhelming. It was clear now—somehow, he was in the body of Héctor ‘El Diablo’ Vargas, the second son of a major Mexican cartel known as El Diablo.
Pushing the intrusive memories aside, Carlos focused on something more pressing. “Give me the car keys, wallet, and my phone,” he ordered. Javier hesitated momentarily. “I don’t need to repeat myself, do I, Javier Hernández?”
Javier quickly retrieved the requested items from Carlos’s desk and jacket pocket, handing them over without question.
“I’m leaving,” Carlos muttered. Javier wanted to inquire further but chose to stay silent, watching as Carlos left the room.
***
The Ford Raptor screeched to a halt in front of a flower shop. Carlos hadn’t anticipated being transported to the past. It was 2020—the year he first met Rosita.
Stepping out of the car, Carlos approached the shop with determination. He was certain Rosita would be there. Bursting through the door, he was greeted by panicked screams.
“La Sombra! La Sombra!” Fearful cries erupted as the patrons fled in chaos. Given his current appearance, Carlos wasn’t surprised by their reaction.
He walked to the counter, where a young woman stood frozen with terror. Rosita. Unlike the others, she hadn’t managed to escape. Gripping a box cutter tightly, she glared at him, ready to defend herself. Carlos raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Hey, calm down. Tranquila, bebé,” he said softly, trying to soothe her.
“Who are you?” Rosita demanded, her voice shaking.
“Your husband. Don’t you— f**k—” Carlos caught himself mid-sentence, realizing his mistake. He wasn’t Carlos anymore. He was Héctor. Words escaped him as he saw the fear in Rosita’s tear-filled eyes.
“What do you want?” she asked again, her voice trembling.
Carlos lowered his gaze and took a step back. “Never mind,” he murmured. He backed away slowly, unable to tear his eyes from her. His heart raced, just as it had the first time he fell in love with her.
Turning on his heel, Carlos exited the shop swiftly. Back in the car, he slammed his fists against the steering wheel in frustration. He couldn’t even hold his wife in this way. A string of curses left his lips as he clenched his fists and looked skyward. “Is this a gift or a punishment, Mecta?” he muttered bitterly.
***
“I need you to find someone,” Carlos instructed Javier.
Now fully aware of his power as Hector ‘El Diablo’ Vargas, Carlos was determined to locate Pablo Herrera and end him along with his cartel before the disaster came.
Sitting on the sofa, Carlos faced Javier, who sat across from him. “Tell me who you’re looking for, Jefe?” Javier asked.
Carlos frowned at the title. He wasn’t accustomed to being called Jefe the Spanish word for boss.
“Why are you calling me Jefe?” Carlos questioned.
“I’m supposed to, aren’t I?”
“Just use my name. I’m not used to that,” Carlos replied.
Javier sighed. “Alright, then tell me—who am I looking for?”
“Pablo Herrera, the son of the El Lobo cartel leader. You know him, right?”
Javier’s brows knit together. “Why are you looking for him? Don’t you have a boxing match against him this Saturday?”
“Boxing match? What do you mean?” Carlos asked, confused. Javier tilted his head, studying Carlos.
“Did you hit your head on something? Should I call a doctor? You’re acting strange, Hector. How could you forget that you’re the one who challenged that brat to a fight?” Javier explained.
“Me?” Carlos pointed to himself. “Since when?”
Fragments of Hector’s memories resurfaced. Carlos saw himself—or rather, Hector—challenging Pablo to a match, with the winner taking control of a critical territory.
“Do you remember now? I don’t know what’s going on with you, but make sure you win. Your whole family will be watching,” Javier said, patting Carlos on the shoulder before leaving him alone.
***
Carlos stood in the ring, the roar of the crowd filling his ears. Across from him stood Pablo Herreira, the man who had murdered Rosita and Rodrigo that fateful night. This was Carlos’s chance for revenge.
Javier removed Carlos’s robe. “Albert will kill you if you lose, Hector, so make sure you win,” Javier warned. Whether it was meant as encouragement or pressure, Carlos couldn’t afford to lose.
Pablo stepped closer. “I’m going to kill you tonight, hijo de puta,” he sneered.
Carlos moved forward, unwavering. “Not for twice. I’m going to kill you,” he replied. With Hector’s body and strength, Carlos was confident of his victory. Pablo’s smaller frame made him an easy target.
The first round began. Cheers erupted as the crowd chanted their names. Carlos steadied himself, calculating his moves carefully.
“This time,” Carlos murmured, spotting an opening. He prepared to throw a jab.
Bam!
A powerful punch landed—but not his.
Carlos’s punch had missed, and Pablo seized the opportunity, delivering a hook that sent Carlos staggering. Jab after jab, hook after hook, followed by an uppercut, pummeled him relentlessly.
His body froze. Carlos couldn’t move. Reality hit him hard—he didn’t possess Hecyor’s strength.
“It’s over,” he whispered in despair.
- Writer
