Prologue

Whether you're a pessimist or an optimist, Jet Evangelista's life didn't fall into the category of good or bad; it was a stagnant, unremarkable existence.

Jet's father, a man prone to bipolar mood swings, could vanish into his bedroom for days during depressive episodes. He'd emerge only to eat, use the bathroom, and unleash the occasional "let's make your life miserable" fit of rage.

During his manic phases, he'd toil like a madman. However, lacking talent as both a businessman and a social climber, he couldn't achieve success or build meaningful connections.

In his stable states, when he bothered to take his medications, he transformed into a couch potato. He'd drag himself to work just to escape the judgment and scorn of neighbors and colleagues.

Regardless of his mental condition, Jet's father was a textbook example of an abusive parent.

His sons were eternally disappointing in his eyes.

They never studied hard enough, couldn't maintain discipline, and seemed incapable of showing respect.

And he was ever-present to remind them of their shortcomings.

He'd scold them for the slightest misstep, continuously hammering home that they were merely parasites, leeching off his hard work.

When words failed to suffice or when they fell short of his expectations in terms of grades or chores, his leather belt became their merciless teacher.

Thus, Derek and Carl had to quickly learn how to fend for themselves, as their absent-minded mother practically forgot about them after childbirth. She devoted her life to seeking peace and distance from her spouse's tantrums.

Derek, two years older, desperately tried to protect his younger brother, but his efforts were in vain.

They grew up on tales of heroes defending the weak and upholding justice. Yet, no hero appeared to rescue them.

Every week, they were compelled to attend church to worship a nondescript benevolent god and his son, mankind's savior. But no matter how fervently they prayed or how virtuous they were, miracles remained elusive.

So, they abandoned the notion of heroes and ceased wasting time on prayers; they focused on their studies.

School was their sole refuge, but that sanctuary was shattered by the time they reached middle school.

Within a month, the bullying commenced.

Their tattered clothes and melancholic demeanor made them easy targets. They had become so accustomed to being pushed around and insulted that they scarcely attempted to fight back.

For Derek, this period was the nadir of his futile existence. After enduring it for a month, he knew he couldn't endure any longer, so he sought change.

He anonymously reported his father's abuses to social services via email. Sadly, the overburdened and understaffed social worker made a cursory visit and never returned.

Next, he attempted to end the bullying by reporting their tormentors to a teacher. The teacher, in turn, washed her hands of the matter and reported it to the principal. The principal, reluctant to deal with what he deemed childish pranks, contacted Derek's parents, hoping they would overlook it. At least that part of his wish came true.

However, Derek paid a heavy price for not having the courage to confront his own problems.

"Are you truly so dense that you've learned nothing from me? Never delegate; if you want something done right, do it yourself!"

Never before had Derek felt so powerless and despondent. That night, he wept until exhaustion claimed him. That was his breaking point.

The next day, he woke up with a newfound clarity, unlike anything he'd experienced before. Despair was no longer an option; he needed a plan.

It would take years for Jet Evangelista to realize that something inside him had perished. He could no longer trust, hope, or form any bonds. He was encircled by adversaries, and to survive, Jet needed to learn how to fight back.

Jet Evangelista had an audacious idea; he approached his father with a request to join a local dojo and learn the art of martial combat. To his astonishment, he didn't need to beg or ask twice. His old man welcomed the idea, thrilled that his scrawny, seemingly frail son displayed a newfound interest in becoming a man. There was just one condition: Jet had to commit to a minimum of one year; otherwise, he'd have to foot the bill himself.

Jet didn't just dive into practicing Aikido; he threw himself into it with unwavering determination. Each day, he would rise two hours earlier than the sun to sculpt his muscles through a regimen of push-ups, squats, sit-ups, and breath-stealing runs.

Within a few months, he could effortlessly complete 100 push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and run at least 10 kilometers before heading to school.

Aikido turned out to be the perfect choice for his circumstances. At its core, it emphasized self-defense, but there was ample room for offensive and unconventional tactics.

Through martial arts, Jet unearthed a talent he never knew he possessed. He wasn't exceptionally agile, a fast learner, or blessed with remarkable hand-eye coordination. His gift lay in his uncanny ability to identify the perfect moment to strike a vulnerable point during a block or defensive maneuver.

Even when the sensei delved into sword or tanto arts, Jet consistently grasped the lethal techniques on his first attempt, sometimes even before the sensei completed the practical demonstration.

It was an exhilarating yet frustrating revelation. Jet's sole talent seemed to have little practical use. Even if Aikido were a sport with tournaments, hits to the groin, eyes, and trachea were universally prohibited.

For months, Jet continued to train relentlessly while maintaining a low profile at school, all the while plotting his next move.

At the close of the first semester, Jet ceased hiding from the bullies and began responding to their insults with quick-witted retorts he'd discovered online. He made sure never to venture alone to the bathroom or linger without adult witnesses nearby.

It didn't even take a full day for his tormentors to reach their boiling point. And that's when Jet dangled his bait.

"I've had my fill of your nonsense, you bunch of jerks. Meet me in an hour behind the grocery store on Lincoln and 3rd. Or are you too chicken?"

"Since you're courting trouble, I'll gladly oblige your death wish, you imbecile. It'll just be you and the three of us, deal?"

Jet Evangelista nodded without a shred of belief in his expression. As it turned out, his skepticism was entirely justified.

When they ventured into the dimly lit back alley, they brought along two additional companions.

Jet stood waiting, casually leaning against the wall at the alley's dead-end.

"Ah, there you are. I was beginning to worry you'd stand me up."

A burst of laughter erupted from their group. "Apologies for our tardiness. We thought it'd be more fun to invite a few friends to this little shindig."

Jet shrugged, a mischievous grin stretching from ear to ear.

"No problem at all. No matter how much, worthless trash will always be trash. I chose this alley because it's so well-equipped with dumpsters – perfect for accommodating all your friends."

His last remark struck a nerve, and they charged at him recklessly.

"Let's gang up on this guy, boys! Don't let him escape! Let's show him who the real trash is!"

And so, they fell right into his trap. Jet had meticulously prepared the battleground, selecting the perfect spot for the impending confrontation. A dead-end alley to prevent any escape, dim lighting to conceal a tripwire.

The first two foes went down hard on the unforgiving concrete, and those behind them were so preoccupied with avoiding trampling their fallen comrades that they failed to notice the steel pipe hurtling toward them.

They might have arrived in greater numbers, but Jet had come prepared. He wielded the pipe like a sword, striking with precision – head, side of the knee, groin. Only then did he turn his attention to the two who struggled to regain their footing.

As they moaned and writhed on the ground, Jet used a small knife to cut the tripwire. Then, he resumed his assault, relentlessly battering them with the metal pipe, with special attention to their sensitive regions.

Deep within, he knew that what he was doing was morally wrong, but he couldn't have cared less. If the world was inherently unfair, then the only rational course of action was to tilt that unfairness in his favor.

Out came the taser he'd borrowed from his father, and he zapped them until unconsciousness took hold. Next, he stripped them completely, snapping multiple photos and even filming them in compromising positions, as if they were spooning each other. He doused them with a bucket of cold water, sealing the deal.

"Apologies for interrupting your Brokeback Mountain moment, ladies, but I need your attention for a minute."

When the bullies awoke, they were still engulfed in agony, barely aware that they were naked and in each other's embrace. Challenging Jet, who still wielded the steel pipe, was out of the question. They remained silent, listening intently.

"I've put together quite a scrapbook of you, even a short film. Uploaded it to my computer and the cloud. It'd be a real shame if someone, say, me, for instance, were to share it on all the major image hosting sites. You know how they say, the internet never forgets."

Tears welled up in the eyes of the bullies, and they began to plead.

"Think about how awful it would be! Whenever someone Googles your names – be it your grandma, your girlfriends, or even the colleges you were planning to apply to – the first thing they'd see are those photos!"

"Dude, please!" "I don't even know you. I was just doing a favor for a friend!" "It was just a joke, please have mercy!"

The chorus of begging sent shivers down Jet's spine. He felt nauseated by their hypocrisy.

"I have no use for your pitiful excuses! From this day forward, you'll steer clear of me. And you'd better pray nothing happens to me, because the cloud is set to upload those files everywhere if I don't enter the password daily."

Without waiting for their response, Jet turned on his heel and strolled away.

"Oh, I nearly forgot! I tossed your clothes into the dumpsters at random. Can't remember which is which. If you don't want to head home in your birthday suits, I suggest you start digging. Farewell, losers!"

Jet returned home feeling euphoric, almost bursting into song. He'd never felt prouder of himself, and he had an unwarranted sense of confidence that he'd never have to think about those scoundrels again.