Joel Balduin | worst benefactor

Joel drove his beloved custom motorcycle through the city, mindlessly. The vibration of the engine eased his irritation somewhat, but the smoldering feeling of frustration in his chest refused to fade.

Recently, a colleague had been killed in a clash with Easy Player, a biker gang affiliated with the rival Cult Pluto. He knew the boss was furious, vowing revenge with loud, relentless shouts. Joel agreed to retaliate because he was a colleague, despite the fact that the murdered colleague was a drug addict, crazy and unpleasant person, and he had no complaints about his new boss because he was the one chosen by his previous former boos Frank DeMarco.

Still, Joel found the whole situation tedious. Ever since hearing from an underworld doctor that Cult Pluto was likely behind Frank's incarceration—he'd carried a simmering anger with no real outlet.

Easy Player were just a nuisance, but Cult Pluto was something else. There were too many dark rumors, too many shadowy whispers surrounding them.

Tired of his own thoughts, Joel pulled over to the side of the road. He lit a cigarette, the bitter taste grounding him slightly, and glanced across the street. A commotion in a nearby alley caught his attention—shouts, muffled struggles, the unmistakable sounds of men overpowering someone. He scoffed, exhaling smoke through his nose.

"Haha, what an unlucky bitch,"

he muttered, revving his engine, ready to leave the scene behind.

But then something made him pause. His sharp eyes caught a familiar profile among the group—a man from the Easy Player, one of the bastards who'd pissed off his boss just last night. Joel's brow furrowed, a vein throbbing at his temple. The audacity of this guy, parading around someone else's territory without even trying to hide his affiliation.

With an irritated click of his tongue, Joel killed the engine. He dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his boot, and strode toward the alley, his footsteps loud and deliberate against the pavement. The men turned at the sound, their jeers dying in their throats as they met Joel's piercing blue gaze.

"Hey, what are you doing? Stop humping your asses in our territory, you stray dogs,"

He called out, his voice unnervingly calm, a sharp contrast to the fury simmering beneath. The alley's atmosphere shifted instantly, the shadows growing heavier around them. One of the men froze, his eyes wide under Joel's unrelenting stare.

"What are you doing here? Did you think that if he died, we wouldn't mourn? That we wouldn't come for you?"

Joel continued, his tone laced with mockery. The man hesitated, visibly torn between fight and flight. Joel snorted, amused by the indecision.

"Well, I guess I'll call your boss here..."

He let the words hang in the air, watching the fear flicker in the man's eyes. Then, with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, he added,

"Or would you rather be stabbed to death right here in self-defense? Which would you prefer?"

His cheerfully sinister tone only heightened the tension. The Easy Player, unable to withstand the pressure, finally bolted, their footsteps echoing as they fled. Joel stood there, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a familiar, hollow frustration.

"Shit, run away with your tails between your legs, you stray dogs."

He muttered, disgusted by how unsatisfying the encounter had been. His eyes fell on the woman they had left behind. She was crumpled on the ground, either too shocked to move or too beaten to realize her ordeal was over. Joel clicked his tongue, annoyed by her presence.

"Hey, you. Get out of here, too."

He barked, kicking a discarded knife with the tip of his boot. But she didn’t move. Her vacant eyes met his, and for a brief second, something flickered inside him—annoyance, curiosity, maybe both. He tilted his head, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

"... No. It’s a found object,"

he muttered to himself, a malicious grin spreading across his face.

"Well, I'll take you. Maybe you'll make it to heaven before those dogs,"

he sneered and Without waiting for a response, Joel roughly hoisted her over his shoulder. She squirmed weakly, but he paid no mind, his steps steady and practiced as he navigated the narrow backstreets. The faint creak of old metal accompanied them as he climbed the exterior stairs of a dated bar, its sign reading "Preparing."

Reaching the second floor, Joel kicked open the door to his secluded hideout, the smells of alcohol and cigarettes rushing to greet them. He threw the woman onto a battered leather sofa, then collapsed beside her, draping an arm lazily over the backrest. He leaned in, smiled wickedly and whispered.

"Would you rather be bitten by me or found by the others?"

For his own amusement, he grabbed a half-empty bottle from the table, took a swig, then let it drop carelessly to the floor. The liquid pooled slowly, unnoticed, as Joel’s piercing eyes stayed locked on her, a predatory smile curling his lips.