Second Coming Of A Villain

Chapter 9: Tom's Death

Edited By: Bruce Williams

Chapter 9

With a single thought, Maverick pulled up his stats display.

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Name: Maverick Slade

Nickname: The Stormbringer

Class: Special Operations Agent (Counter-Terrorism Expert)

Energy: 0.10%

Attributes:

Strength: 22

Agility: 22

Endurance: 19

Intelligence: 13

Perception: 16

Charisma: 10

Vitality: 11

Skills:

Marksmanship: +5

Tactical Combat: +4

Surveillance: +3

Hand-to-Hand Combat: +10 (Krav Maga)

SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape): +8

CQB (Close Quarters Battle): +5

Abilities:

"Tactical Training" (Passive): +10% damage in CQB situations

"Operational Focus" (Active): +20% accuracy for 5 seconds (Cooldown: 30 seconds)

"Counter-Terrorism Expert" (Passive): +10% resistance to explosive damage

Special Operations Skills:

"Sniper's Eye" (Active): Delivers 200 damage to a single target from up to 500 meters (Cooldown: 60 seconds)

"Flash Bang" (Active): Disorients enemies within a 10-meter radius, reducing accuracy by 50% for 10 seconds (Cooldown: 90 seconds)

---

His gaze lingered on the new section labeled Energy. A sigh escape his mouth.

"Energy, huh...?" he murmured, almost to himself.

This was the confirmation he needed—it was time to hunt, to grow stronger. This world had just plunged into a new age, and he could already anticipate the emergence of power-hungry organizations and rival clans, mirroring his old world’s struggles for supremacy. If he wanted to be at the apex, he’d need to be relentless.

After gathering his thoughts, he looked around for anything useful. Spotting a small fridge tucked in the corner, he quickly seized a few water bottles. He poured one over a towel, dampening it before wrapping it securely over his mouth and nose, protecting himself from any residual contaminants. He continued scanning the room, discovering an empty laptop bag left behind by the previous occupants. Without hesitation, he stuffed it with supplies: the remaining water bottles, a fresh set of clothing he found on the bed, and a lighter he found on the nearby table.

Finally, his hand hovered over a sleek bottle of vodka, recalling the unexpected richness of the taste. His gaze hardened; the bag was heavy enough, and he needed to travel light. Reluctantly, he replaced the bottle in the fridge, sealed the bag, and slipped out of the room, his expression as cold and precise as his movements.

Descending the stairs, his mind raced through potential strategies. The building was quiet, each step echoing faintly as he move himself for the unknown. Then, a sharp, raspy voice called out, breaking the silence.

"Hey! Hey! Janitor, I'm talking to you! Cough! Cough!"

Maverick froze, momentarily caught off guard by the abruptness of human contact. This was the first voice he’d heard in this bleak world.

Maverick turned to face the man and immediately recognized him. Memories flooded his mind—the man was a spoiled, insufferable executive who bulldozed his way through the company, leaving chaos in his wake. In life, the original Maverick had clashed with him many times, barely restraining himself from strangling the life out of this arrogant, entitled parasite.

"Didn’t you hear me calling you? What the hell is going on here? Everything’s shaking like we’re under attack! My mini bar is trashed, the chandelier’s cracked, my TV's smashed to bits! Get over here and fix it! I was watching the game!" The man, Tom Hanks, huffed indignantly, shuffling back towards his room without a second glance. His bloated sense of superiority expected Maverick to follow without question.

When he didn’t hear footsteps behind him, Tom turned, an impatient frown creasing his chubby, self-satisfied face. "Why the hell aren’t you moving? Are you deaf, or just useless?"

Maverick exhaled slowly, suppressing a rising bit of anger. This man, oblivious to the carnage and chaos around them, remained wrapped in his cocoon of entitlement. "I’m a janitor, not a technician," Maverick replied in a measured tone, turning to leave.

Tom sneered, his lip curling with disgust. "What’s the difference? Both are lowly jobs anyway. Fix my TV, or I’ll make sure you’re fired. And trust me, I’ll make sure you never work in this city again."

Maverick paused, momentarily stunned at this man’s sheer ignorance. Had he not noticed the isolated silence, the smell of death thickening the air? Did he not realize the apocalypse had begun? Maverick turned back, his voice laced with a chilling calm. "Fine," he said with a dark smile, "I’ll ‘fix’ it for you."

Tom gave a smug nod, strutting back to his room with his nose in the air, entirely oblivious. As they entered the room, Tom scoffed, looking up at the flickering lights. "What are those incompetent technicians doing? The power’s a mess, and this smell—ugh, it’s vile! Is that you, janitor? I..."

Before he could finish, Maverick’s hand shot out, gripping Tom’s greasy hair and yanking him backward. The man's shriek filled the room, a high, panicked sound like a pig to the slaughter.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Tom gasped, wriggling and struggling against Maverick’s iron grip.

Maverick leaned close to his ear, his voice a venomous whisper. "I’m doing what the original Maverick should’ve done. A man who fought wars shouldn’t have had to put up with a maggot like you. Consider yourself lucky—I’m saving you from the nightmare that’s about to consume this world. With your flabby frame, you wouldn’t have lasted anyway."

Tom’s face twisted with rage, his ego refusing to crumble. "Do you know who I am?! I’ll ruin your life, I’ll—!"

Before he could finish, Maverick slammed his head into the wall with a sickening thud. Tom’s vision swam as pain exploded through his skull, but Maverick wasn’t done. Again and again, he smashed Tom’s head into the unforgiving wall, each impact splattering fresh streaks of blood, staining the wallpaper in a gruesome pattern. Bones cracked, flesh tore, and Tom’s mouth became a broken, bloody mess.

"You filthy bastard! I’ll make you pay for this, I’ll ruin your miserable life! I’ll curse your pathetic mother—"

Maverick froze, his gaze narrowing with deadly intensity.

Seeing this reaction, Tom sneered, emboldened, and kept going. "You heard me! Kneel down and beg, or I’ll make sure your mother’s a drug-addicted whore! Release me, or I’ll make your family dea—"

His words ended in a choking gurgle as a blade pressed deep against his throat, severing his arrogant sneer into a gash of raw terror. His eyes widened as the realization hit—a hot, thick stream of blood poured down his throat, soaking his expensive pajamas as he clawed desperately at his neck, trying to stem the flow.

Eyes bulging, he turned his gaze one last time towards Maverick, reaching out in silent, desperate plea.

Maverick grinned, a cold, dark amusement glittering in his eyes as he watched Tom’s life ebb away. "Never speak of my mother again," he whispered, savoring every second as the man’s movements slowed, his desperate gasps fading into silence.

Tom’s face was frozen in a mask of indignation, eyes wide with disbelief as he clung to the last threads of life. Anger burned within him, an unyielding resentment. How could he die here, now, with so many ambitions unfulfilled, dreams yet unrealized? He was young, powerful, untouchable—or so he had believed. His mind still reeled with plans, future triumphs, a life he thought was guaranteed.

But death is a cruel and final truth.

His body gave one last shudder, the hatred etched into his expression softening into emptiness as death finally claimed him. He slumped heavily to the floor, blood pooling in dark, spreading rivulets around his limp form, painting the sterile floor in morbid strokes. Maverick watched for a moment, indifferent, then turned to his system display. Nothing. No surge of energy, no notification. He sighed—perhaps killing humans wouldn’t grant him energy, or perhaps Tom had simply been too insignificant.

With detached efficiency, he wiped the blood from his blade using the rich man’s fine clothes, leaving dark smears across the pristine fabric. Maverick turned and walked to the elevator, pressing the call button. To his relief, it whirred to life—the backup generator was still running, unaffected by the chaos outside. He let out a breath, grateful for a moment of convenience amid this apocalypse.

But then, a low, guttural sound echoed behind him.

He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he saw the impossible. Tom’s body twitched, his once-dead fingers curling and clawing at the ground. From his sliced throat came a deep, rasping growl, wet and raw, the sound gurgling through the blood pooling beneath him.