Home sweet Home II

A barrage of black vehicles pulled up in front of a massive white mansion, its pristine exterior glowing under the pale moonlight. The doors opened in sync, and Doo Lee stepped out, stretching his limbs before slumping against the nearest car for support. His body ached, and his head throbbed, but the sharp sting of the cool night air helped him focus. Fishing through his pocket, he found a crumpled cigarette and brought it to his lips, his hands trembling slightly.

Before he could fumble for a lighter, the man standing beside him, an imposing figure in a suit, offered one silently. The small flame illuminated Doo's face, his features rugged and weary, yet carrying an undeniable edge. Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke fill his lungs, the heat shocking him into a semblance of alertness. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke spiral into the night.

Turning his gaze to the car next to him, he saw Rachel and Sujin stepping out. Both girls looked visibly shaken, their eyes darting around nervously. The aura of the mansion was suffocating, as if the very walls carried the weight of a thousand secrets. The sheer size and grandeur of the place were intimidating enough, but it was the oppressive silence that sent shivers down their spines.

Doo approached them, his footsteps deliberate. His usually casual demeanor was gone, replaced by something raw and unfiltered, courtesy of the alcohol coursing through his veins. He stopped in front of Rachel, his large hands cupping her face gently yet firmly. His piercing gaze bore into hers, and his voice, though slightly slurred, carried an intensity that made her freeze.

Doo leaned in, his lips crashing onto hers with an intensity that left her stunned. The kiss was rough, almost primal, his desperation and frustration spilling out as his grip tightened. Her glasses slipped off, clattering to the floor as his mouth moved hungrily against hers. When he pulled back, her lips were bruised, a thin line of blood marking the intensity of the moment. His dark eyes bore into hers as he growled, "I always wanted to do that." His voice was low, gravelly, and filled with a mix of emotions she couldn't decipher.

Before she could respond, they were ushered into the mansion, the oppressive atmosphere making the air feel heavier with each step. The grand doors opened to reveal a sprawling dining room, the centerpiece of which was a massive, ornate table that dominated the space. At the head of the table sat a man whose face bore a striking resemblance to Doo. The resemblance was undeniable, but this man's features were weathered, his gray-streaked hair and sunken eyes telling a story of years spent battling demons both external and internal.

Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, mingling with the stale scent of whiskey. The table was littered with half-empty bottles, burnt-out cigars, and ash scattered like debris after a storm. The man, clearly under the influence, leaned back in his chair , signaling doo to sit while the girls where taken upstairs

Marco, on the verge of passing out, felt the heat of his cigarette nearing its end. He inhaled what little was left before flicking it into an ashtray. His movements were sluggish, his mind dulled by the alcohol coursing through his veins. The man across from him began speaking, his voice low and gravelly, punctuated by the occasional slur.

"Marco… Russel… drugs… mafia…"

The words echoed faintly in Marco's ears, like a distorted recording on an old tape. His gaze wandered around the room as the man spoke, the meaning behind the words slipping past him entirely. For a moment, Marco thought about his cigarette again and regretted not bringing another. He tried to focus, but the only thing grounding him was the throbbing in his temples and the faint memory of someone calling him "Marco."

Stars and fireworks danced around the man standing nearby, who seemed to be waiting for Marco to react. His serious demeanor only made Marco feel more detached. He squinted, his face appearing annoyed and focused, but in truth, he had no idea what was going on. Aside from a brief flash of recognition at the name "Marco," his mind was blank, a void of forgotten identities and misplaced memories.

"They've finally decided to show their true colors," the man said, his voice growing louder, tinged with anger. "All of them. Every single one of those worthless snakes betrayed our family. We controlled everything, Marco. Eighty-five percent of the drug trade. Illegal gold trading. It was ours. But now? They want it all."

Marco shifted uncomfortably in his chair, muttering a vague "mmm" in response, though he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to.

"They took Russel." The man's voice cracked, his grief briefly surfacing before it was drowned in rage. "Demanded the gold mines, and I gave them. I gave them everything they wanted just to keep the peace. And what did they do? They killed Russel. As a warning."

The man slammed his fist on the table, rattling the glasses and plates that sat abandoned across its surface. Marco blinked at the noise, his tired mind struggling to process the gravity of what he was hearing.

"Now," the man continued, his voice lowering to a near growl, "there's nothing left for them to take. All they want now is to wipe out the Escobar bloodline. Every last one of us."

Marco's head tilted slightly, his cigarette dangling between his fingers as he muttered, "Gold… D. Roger's dogs…" It was all he managed to pick up, a nonsensical string of words that spilled out before he could stop himself.

The man furrowed his brow in confusion, glancing at Marco like he had just spoken in another language. "What?"

The man at the head of the table exhaled a plume of smoke, his gaze unwavering as he studied Doo—or rather, Marco Escobar, the name now being thrown around like a weight he couldn't shake. His voice was gravelly, laced with exhaustion and something unspoken, as he finally broke the silence.

"We're trapped here, Marco. It's either them or us." His tone was resolute, almost final, as if he'd already resigned himself to the bloodshed that was to come. "Going back to Mexico is not an option. Not now. I'll handle them, but I can't lose you too."

Doo leaned back in his chair, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers as his vision swirled. The words reached his ears, but his body didn't respond, his mind too clouded to process the weight of what was being said. The man standing before him—his brother—stepped forward, taking the burnt-out cigarette from his fingers and lighting another for him, the flame briefly illuminating the tired lines etched into his face.

"I know why you ran," his brother said quietly, his voice softer now, almost regretful. "What you saw… it was too much for you. Hell, it would've been too much for anyone. I wanted you to have a normal life. I really did." His eyes searched Doo's face, looking for some sign of acknowledgment, but found nothing but a blank, exhausted stare.

"But blood is blood," his brother continued, his voice growing heavier with emotion. "And no matter how far you run, it calls you back. That's why you keep finding people to fight, isn't it? It's in your veins, Marco. The violence, the chaos—it's who you are."

Doo didn't respond, his silence deafening. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol dulling his senses or the sheer weight of the situation that left him paralyzed. His brother sighed, running a hand through his graying hair, the fatigue of years spent in the shadows evident in the gesture.

"Your sister is upstairs," he said finally, his tone softer, almost hesitant. "She's waiting. She's been waiting for you

Hearing his brother's words, Doo—or Marco, as he was still struggling to accept—rose slowly from the chair. His movements were deliberate, almost fragile, as though he was balancing on a razor's edge. He steadied himself against the chair for a moment, his head swimming from the alcohol and the flood of memories threatening to break through the fog. With a sharp inhale, he began his climb up the staircase.

Each step was heavy, his legs feeling like lead, but he pushed forward, one hand grazing the wall for support. The ornate wooden banister creaked faintly beneath his grip. Behind him, his brother watched, his smirk faint but genuine. His gaze trailed over Marco's back, taking in the scars that marred his flesh—each one a testament to battles fought, victories claimed, and pain endured. They told a story that no words could, a story of survival, chaos, and a life carved out of fire and steel.

As Marco reached the midpoint of the staircase, his brother took another drag from his cigar, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. Through the haze of smoke, he murmured to himself, his voice carrying a mix of pride and relief.

"If he's around, maybe I can finally take some weight off my shoulders," he thought, the smirk on his face growing slightly. "Who can I trust more than my own blood? "

He turned his gaze to the large window overlooking the estate grounds. The rain had started to fall, droplets streaking down the glass as thunder rumbled faintly in the distance. The storm outside mirrored the storm brewing within the mansion—a clash of pasts, secrets, and the inevitable violence that seemed to follow the Escobar name.