The Castaway Supreme

Chapter 1: The Blood on the Concrete

The smell of burnt onions and cheap grease filled the small kitchen. Marcus wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his dirty sleeve. He picked up a heavy sponge and started scrubbing a greasy frying pan. His hands were rough, covered in dark scars and thick calluses. 

Marcus did not know where those scars came from. He did not know his real age, his real name, or where he belonged. Two years ago, he woke up beside a trash can in the muddy alley behind this diner. He had no memories at all. His mind was a black hole.

An old man named Peter found him shaking in the cold rain. Peter did not call the police or throw him away. Instead, Peter brought him inside, gave him a bowl of hot soup, and called him Marcus. Since that day, Marcus worked in the kitchen to pay Peter back.

Marcus was a man of few words. He spent his days washing dishes, chopping vegetables, and carrying heavy bags of rice. He was tall and broad, but he always kept his head down. The people in the neighborhood called him the quiet beggar. 

Marcus did not care about the names. He only cared about protecting Peter and Peter’s nineteen-year-old daughter, Clara. They were his only family.

“Marcus. Can you bring out the fresh onions from the storage room?”

Clara’s sweet voice cut through the loud noise of the kitchen. She walked in, carrying a tray of dirty plates. She was wiping off a thin layer of flour from her cheek. Clara was a beautiful girl with a kind heart. She always gave Marcus an extra piece of meat during dinner when her father was not looking.

Marcus nodded quickly. “I will get them right now, Clara.” His voice was deep and low, like rocks rolling in a river.

He walked toward the small storage room at the back of the kitchen. But before his hand could touch the doorknob, a loud crash echoed from the front dining area. It sounded like a heavy wooden table breaking into pieces.

Clara screamed, dropping the dirty plates. The ceramic shattered all over the floor.

Marcus stopped moving. His body grew tight. He felt a strange, familiar feeling in his chest, like an alarm bell ringing inside his head.

Outside in the dining room, a loud, angry voice boomed.

“Where is my money, old man. You think you can hide from me.”

Marcus walked out of the kitchen slowly, keeping his body close to the wall. He looked into the dining room.

Three large men stood in the center of the small restaurant. The man in the middle wore a shiny leather jacket and a thick gold chain around his neck. His face was ugly, with a long scar running down his cheek. 

This was Kane, the most brutal loan shark in the slum district. His two thugs stood behind him, holding thick wooden clubs and heavy iron pipes.

Peter, Clara’s father, was trembling behind the wooden counter. His face was completely white, and his hands shook violently.

“Mr. Kane, please,” Peter begged, his voice cracking with fear. “I paid you three hundred dollars last week. That was all the money we made from the diner. Please give me two more weeks.”

Kane laughed loudly. It was a cruel, nasty sound. He walked over to another table and kicked it hard with his heavy boot. The table flipped over, crashing against the wall.

“Three hundred dollars. Are you playing with me, old man. The interest went up. You owe me five thousand dollars now.”

“Five thousand dollars.” Peter gasped, clutching his chest. “That is impossible. I only borrowed one thousand dollars for my wife’s medicine last year. I have paid you back double already.”

Kane stepped closer to the counter. He slammed his fist down on the cash register.

“I say you owe me five thousand, so you owe me five thousand. If you cannot pay, I will take this diner today. And if you still complain, I will break your old legs.”

Clara rushed out of the kitchen, running straight to her father’s side. She held Peter’s shaking arm and looked at Kane with angry eyes.

“You are a thief. We will call the police. You cannot just take our business.”

Kane’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits. He looked at Clara from her head to her toes. A nasty smile spread across his face.

“Call the police. Go ahead. The police in this area eat from my hand. But since you have a beautiful face, girl, maybe we can make a deal. If you come with me tonight, I can forget about your father’s debt for a month.”

“Get away from my daughter.” Peter yelled. He tried to push Clara behind him, but he was too weak.

Kane did not care. He reached out with his big, dirty hand. He grabbed Clara tightly by her long hair, pulling her forward. Clara screamed in pain, her tears flowing instantly down her cheeks. She struggled, but Kane’s grip was like iron.

“Let go of her.” Clara cried out, trying to scratch his arm.

Marcus stood by the kitchen door. When he saw Kane touch Clara’s hair, something deep inside his brain snapped. A hot, burning rage exploded in his chest. His breathing became heavy. The quiet, gentle beggar vanished.

Marcus walked out of the shadows. His steps were heavy and solid. He did not look like a beggar anymore. He looked like a wild beast coming out of a dark cave.

“Let her go.” Marcus said. His voice was not loud, but it was so cold that the temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Kane stopped laughing. He turned his head and looked at Marcus. He saw Marcus’s old, torn clothes and his dirty apron. He let out a loud scoff.

“Who the hell is this big trash. Is this your secret protector, old man.”

One of the thugs, a bald man with an iron pipe, stepped forward. He glared at Marcus.

“Hey beggar. Go back to the kitchen and wash your dishes before I crack your skull open.”

Marcus did not stop walking. He kept his eyes locked on Kane’s hand, which was still holding Clara’s hair. He took another step forward.

“I will not say it again,” Marcus whispered. “Let. Her. Go.”

“You are looking for death.” The bald thug roared.

The thug raised the heavy iron pipe high above his head. He lunged forward, swinging the pipe down with all his strength. He aimed straight for Marcus’s head, wanting to end his life in one blow.

Clara screamed. “Marcus. Move.”

But Marcus did not try to run away. He did not even lift his arms to cover his face. He stood there like a stone statue.

The heavy iron pipe crashed directly against the side of Marcus’s head with a loud, sickening thud.

The force of the blow was terrible. Marcus stumbled backward two steps. A bright red line of blood immediately burst from his temple, flowing quickly down his cheek, over his jaw, and dripping onto his dirty apron.

Peter covered his eyes in horror. Clara wept loudly, believing Marcus was dead.

The bald thug laughed, raising the pipe again.

“See. He is just a stupid, weak beggar.”

Marcus stood still, his head lowered. The warm blood covered the left side of his face. But inside his mind, the terrible pain did not break him. Instead, the heavy blow cracked the thick, dark wall that had locked his memories for two long years. 

Inside his head, a loud explosion occurred. Images of grand mansions, private armies, and endless stacks of gold flashed in his mind.

Marcus opened his eyes. The dull, empty look in his eyes was completely gone. His vision became perfectly clear, sharper than a razor blade. His eyes turned completely icy, filled with a terrifying, deadly coldness.

The bald thug did not notice the change. He swung the iron pipe down toward Marcus’s face for the second time, aiming to finish him off.

Marcus did not blink. He did not move his body away. He simply reached out his bare right hand with lightning speed.

With a loud metallic echo, Marcus caught the swinging iron pipe mid air with his bare fingers, stopping the heavy strike completely dead.