ROCKY - Operation Vengeance

When the world stirs awake , Alarm clocks scream in bedrooms, urging men and women into another cycle of existence. Some wake to the scent of coffee, others to the wail of a hungry child. Some rise with purpose, others with dread. The sun doesn’t care. It simply rises, doesn’t care about the hell you’ve passed through.

And then there is Rocky.

No alarm wakes him—only the sharp, punishing hands of an old woman. Elizabeth Collins. A retired woman with no job except reminding her jobless son-in-law what a pathetic waste of flesh he is.

SMACK!!!

A heavy hand landed on his back.

SMACK!!!

Another to his arm.

He sat up fast, shielding his face from the blows. "Ouch—!"

"Get up, you useless lump!" Elizabeth barked. Her voice was rough, seasoned with years of bitterness and disappointment. "A real man is out there making money while you sleep like a dead dog!"

Rocky let out a slow breath, rubbing his sore shoulder. He was used to this. It was his morning alarm, as reliable as the sun. He should’ve been numb to it by now, but some wounds never truly heal.

Elizabeth Collins had two daughters.

The first, Sophia, lived in a mansion, drove a Tesla, and wore designer clothes because she married a rich man. She was Elizabeth’s pride and joy. Proof that she had done something right in life.

The second, Melissa… was Rocky’s wife. A cripple. The unfortunate creature of the Collins family. She had been born with a defect, her legs nothing but useless weights beneath her.

And when the government created a program—one that offered $1000 per week to any man who married a disabled woman—the Collins family saw an opportunity.

They called Rocky. They made an offer.

"Marry Melissa," they said, "and we’ll give you $100 every week. Enough to feed you, clothe you, keep you off the streets."

At the time, Rocky had nothing. No job. No home. No future.A hundred dollars a week sounded like salvation.

So he agreed.

But the money never came.

Not a single cent.

The Collins family kept everything.

Elizabeth’s voice shot through the air like a whip.

“Stop sitting there like a damn idiot and go wash the dishes!”

Rocky nodded, swallowing the words that tried to crawl up his throat. "Yes, ma’am."

He got dressed in a hurry, pulling on a shirt that smelled like dish soap, then rushed to the kitchen before another slap came flying.

The sink was filled with plates—greasy, stained, stacked so high they looked like they were waiting for an earthquake to collapse. Rocky rolled up his sleeves and turned on the tap. This was his life now.

From the kitchen, he heard the front door swing open.

Then came the familiar, heavy voice of Jonathan Collins.

Elizabeth’s husband. A man whose greatest accomplishment in life was marrying a woman louder than him.

“I checked the mail,” Jonathan called out, his voice thick with excitement. “Guess what, Liz?”

Elizabeth, still perched in her chair like a queen in her throne, scoffed. “If it’s another damn bill, don’t waste my time.”

“Better than a bill. Tickets.”

Rocky could hear the rustling of paper as Jonathan walked into the living room. “We’re going to the coronation of the new Emperor of Arumville.”

Elizabeth gasped, the kind of sound she only made when money or status was involved. “No. You’re lying.”

“Swear on my life.”

Elizabeth snatched the ticket from his hands, reading it over. Arumville. Rocky kept his head down, scrubbing a plate. He didn’t care about their stupid royal events. He had more important things to—

Then came the voice from the TV.

"It has been two years since the tragic death of Crown Prince Imperial, the last heir of the Goldberg family. The nation mourned as the entire royal bloodline was wiped out overnight in what experts call the most horrific—"

The words faded.

Rocky’s body stiffened. His breath hitched.

Because suddenly, he wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

He was somewhere else.

A balcony.

It was raining. The world around him was nothing but cold, stormy darkness. His hands gripped the railing, his knuckles white, rainwater dripping from his fingertips.

A faceless figure loomed behind him.

Then—

A sharp, searing pain tore through his stomach.

A knife.

A breath, hot against his ear, whispered—

"Long live the King."

Then a shove.

Rocky felt himself falling—his body weightless, his screams drowned by the thunder—

CRASH!!!

Reality snapped back like a rubber band.

Rocky gasped, his vision clearing just in time to see—

The coffee spilling.

Dark liquid splashed across the table, the cup rolling onto the floor with a sharp

clink!

Elizabeth’s shriek rattled the house.

“You idiot! You worthless piece of garbage! You can’t even carry a damn cup properly?”

Rocky barely heard her. His heartbeat was pounding too loud, his breath too shaky. His hands—he looked down—they were trembling.

The vision.

What the hell was that?

Elizabeth shot up from her seat, pointing a finger at him like a loaded gun.

“You’re just as useless as your crippled wife!"

Elizabeth’s rage crackled in the air like a storm waiting to strike.

“You just wait,” she spat, her glare burning into Rocky. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Then, with a huff, she spun on her heel and stomped off, muttering curses under her breath as she disappeared into her room.

Rocky stood frozen.

Jonathan was still there, lingering in the parlor. The old man didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him—just shifted slightly, then walked away like Rocky was nothing but an invisible stain on the floor.

Rocky exhaled. His temples throbbed.

It was happening again.

These visions—flashes of another life, another world—had been plaguing him for years. Doctors called it stress. Some sort of trauma-induced hallucination. "Take your medication, get some rest," they always said, like that was supposed to fix anything.

But this... this was different. The visions were becoming clearer, sharper. Too real.

He needed his pills.

Rocky forced his legs to move, climbing the creaky stairs up to his tiny room. The smallest space in the house—barely big enough for a bed and a chair.

He rummaged through the nightstand. Empty.

Shit.

The headache was clawing at his skull now, twisting behind his eyes like a knife. The pain made his vision blur, the room tilting around him.

From across the hall, Elizabeth’s voice rang out like a gunshot.

“Go and check on Melissa, you useless thing!”

Rocky shut his eyes. Forced a breath. Then, dragging himself upright, he crossed the hall and pushed open Melissa’s door.

The stench hit him first.

Dark. Dusty. The air thick with something rotten—like damp clothes and stale sweat.

Melissa lay curled up on the bed, thin and motionless, her frail body swallowed by ragged sheets.

She turned her head slightly as he entered, her eyes dull and distant.

They stared at each other. A silent war of indifference.

"Morning," Rocky muttered.

She said nothing.

He walked to the window, pried it open. A gust of fresh air rushed in, pushing back the thick suffocation of the room.

Melissa still didn’t speak, but Rocky could feel the resentment radiating from her. She hated him. Thought he was just here for the money—money that never came.

She didn’t know the truth.

And he had no reason to tell her.

With a quiet sigh, he moved toward her bed. “Come on,” he said, voice flat.

She didn’t resist as he lifted her. She was light. Too light. A bundle of bones barely held together.

He carried her to the bathroom, set her down gently. Cleaned her up. Changed her dress. The same routine, every damn day.

When he finally placed her back on the bed, she rolled away from him, shutting her eyes.

Rocky exhaled. He turned to leave—

Then he saw it.

Elizabeth’s purse.

And her phone.

They were lying on the bedside table, right next to Melissa.

Rocky hesitated. His headache was getting worse, his vision starting to blur again. He needed those pills.

It was a risk. A dangerous one.

But he had no choice.

Slowly, he reached for the purse. Fingers trembling. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs as he pulled out a few bills. Just enough.

Melissa didn’t move.

Rocky shoved the money into his pocket and slipped out of the room.

The pharmacy was a short walk away. The air outside felt lighter, freer.

He paid the $40. Took the pills right there.

Relief was instant. The pressure in his skull eased, the nausea in his gut fading. His vision cleared.

He hurried back home.

As soon as he stepped inside, he heard it.

Elizabeth’s voice—**screaming.**

His stomach dropped.

What now?

Rocky rushed into the living room.

And then—

His breath caught.

Melissa.

She was on the floor, her frail body curled beneath Elizabeth’s towering figure.

Elizabeth’s face was twisted with fury, her hands clenched into fists. “You **thief!**” she spat. “Where’s my money?! Where did you put it?!”

Melissa said nothing.

Elizabeth grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her up roughly. “You won’t talk? You want to test me today? I’ll make you suffer—”

Money.

Rocky’s heart pounded.

He was the one who took it.

Not Melissa.

So why—why wasn’t she saying anything?

Elizabeth raised her hand to strike—

Melissa turned her head. Looked at Rocky.

And then—

“I took it,” she whispered.

Rocky’s chest tightened.

What?

She knew the truth. She knew.

And yet—she was taking the blame.

Why?