Young Master's PoV: Woke Up As A Villain In A Game One Day

Vince blinked.

All of a sudden, the temple was gone.

Instead of an ancient inner sanctum, he was now standing in the middle of a modest living room that smelled faintly of buttered popcorn.

In front of him was a cozy red couch.

And on that familiar couch, Vince Cleverly saw his eight-year-old self curled up between his parents and twin siblings — one brother and one sister, both four years younger than him.

A projector whirred softly overhead, playing a recent comedy hit by the actor their whole family adored on the screen before them.

His little brother leaned against their father's side, giggling through a mouthful of popcorn.

His sister clutched her stuffed rabbit tight — its ears so worn they looked ready to fall off, yet she refused to buy a new one.

The younger Vince kicked his legs restlessly against the couch, trying too hard to look more grown-up than he was.

Their mother got up and returned with a tray balanced on her arm, carrying more popcorn, a few cups of soda, and the little chocolate bars his father had bought from the corner shop.

She placed the tray on the center table, then leaned down to kiss the top of Vince's head before settling beside them, her gentle laughter mingling with theirs as the movie rolled on.

This was their tradition.

Every Friday night, once their father's law practice closed for the week, they'd make popcorn, set up a blanket fort in front of the couch, and play one movie chosen by lottery.

Sometimes they argued over which film won, but they always ended up laughing together anyway.

It was just a silly ritual. Simple movie nights that made life feel steady and safe.

It was… everything.

Vince would give up every damn penny he had if it meant returning to those nights just one more time.

Because those were the nights when nothing felt wrong with the world.

And for a moment, Vince almost forgot himself.

He almost wanted to sit down on that couch.

He almost wanted to squeeze himself between his mother and father, and pretend the rest of his life had never happened.

But then… his father's phone rang.

The man pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and an uncomfortable shadow crossed his face. He hesitated for a long second, then answered.

Vince remembered it clearly now, though at the time, as a child, it had meant nothing to him.

It was just a phone call. His father was a lawyer, a damn good one at that. He received hundreds of calls a day.

This one wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

It should've been just a small interruption to their movie night.

But standing here now, older and sharper and experienced, Vince knew this was the night everything began to unravel.

That call was the first loose thread.

It lasted less than a minute. His father slipped the phone back into his pocket and tried to sit back down with them.

He tried to laugh again — but there was a shaky look of fear in his eyes now. It was the look of a man who knew he'd lose everything soon but was too powerless to stop the inevitable.

And Vince knew why.

His father had started gambling a year earlier.

At first, it was harmless — just small bets, only on occasion.

But then he started winning.

And when he won, he thought he could win big.

He told himself he could pay off the mortgage in one go, maybe even set aside a fund for a prestigious academy if one of his three children ever Awakened.

And for a while, it worked.

He did win big.

But instead of stopping, instead of walking away with his fortune… he let himself get addicted.

He kept gambling and the wine started turning into losses. The losses stacked into mountains. He borrowed money to pay them off.

And then, like a fool, he gambled that borrowed money too.

His own goddamn father — that supposedly sharp lawyer who had always taught Vince the importance of wit and caution — was the one who drowned them all.

That phone call had been from a loan shark with ties to the local cartel. He was calling to tell Vince's father that the last of the money he borrowed to gamble was gone.

His father had nothing left now.

Vince's stomach twisted in revulsion from just watching it all again.

He wanted to slap his father.

He wanted to shake him and scream — "You, of all people, should've known better! You were supposed to protect us!"

But his younger self only laughed at the movie, too little to understand anything.

•••

After that night, some changes began to creep into their lives. Just small things at first that were barely noticeable on their own.

For instance, breakfast wasn't as good as before.

His mother's pancakes were thinner, the eggs fewer, the butter spread out carefully so it would last.

Vince remembered wondering why the plates looked emptier, why his mother smiled but her hands trembled whenever she set the food down.

That winter, their New Year's feast was nothing more than a few cupcakes and leftover stew.

His parents told them, "Simple meals sometimes make the best memories."

Vince had almost believed it then. Almost.

But then came the nights his parents started fighting. They'd raise their voices at each other and hurl muffled but sharp insults.

He remembered pressing a pillow over his head at bedtime, trying to block the sounds, trying to protect his little brother and sister as they cried beside him.

The warm little home he knew began to feel darker and colder with each passing day.

Then the changes grew bigger.

His father started staying out longer, coming home with the stink of whiskey on his breath and a shortness in his temper that hadn't been there before.

It was bad. So bad. His father would flip out, get angry, and start throwing things at the smallest inconvenience.

His mother stopped smiling as much. Her gentle laughter — the laughter that once filled their home — began to sound forced, like she had to drag it out of herself just to keep them from breaking.

The situation only deteriorated from there.

His father's debts kept piling higher until they had to sell the house, sell the car, and move into a cramped one-bedroom apartment that always felt damp and suffocating.

To pay them back, his father started working for the cartel, representing their cases and becoming a full-fledged mob lawyer.

But, like the fate of most mob lawyers, his license was soon revoked and he ended up getting disbarred.

That was when his mother began disappearing at night.

She returned in the early mornings, her perfume replaced with the sour stench of someone else's cologne.

Her skin carried bruises she tried to hide with long sleeves. His father never asked. When she walked past him, he never looked.

Back then, Vince hadn't known. But as he grew, he realized the truth.

She had been forced into the cartel leader's bed to settle her husband's debts.

She had been forced to sell herself.

That was the breaking point for their family.

After that, his father drank constantly.

When the money he made from his crooked work wasn't enough, he gambled again.

His mother slipped further away each day. She was physically present, but her mind had already gone somewhere else.

Until finally, the cartel leader hooked her on drugs — and then she stopped being present at all.

Vince saw all those memories play out before him.

He saw his younger self, that little boy holding his siblings close when their mother didn't come home, when their father raged, when the food ran out.

He saw himself crying with them, hiding his face so they wouldn't notice.

And then, as if life wasn't cruel enough already, his father — the man who used to lift Vince onto his shoulders — began to brutally beat him.

At first, the beatings were rare. A slap when his father was drunk. A shove after losing too much money. An angry fist when the children asked too many questions.

But slowly, it became routine.

Vince remembered the sting of the belt as it struck him like a whip, the way his younger self clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, refusing to cry even as welts rose on his back.

He remembered the way his father looked like a broken man lashing out because he could no longer control the crumbling ruins of his own life.

And when the belt no longer satisfied him, his father started pressing burning cigarettes into Vince's arm.

He remembered thrashing and begging and screaming for his father to stop. He remembered the smell of scorched skin that stayed with him long after.

Watching that whole scene unfold in front of him again, Vince's jaw locked tight. He glanced down at his arm.

Even today, he could still see those faint burn marks his father left him with.

They had faded with time… but they weren't gone. He pulled his sleeve down and covered them, though the ghost of the pain lingered.

But the pain did not end with him.

His younger brother soon began to take the blows too. He was small and fragile — too fragile. The beatings left him coughing, curled in corners, too afraid to make a sound.

His sister was next. A girl who had once laughed like sunlight now sobbed herself hoarse through the nights.

The sight of it made Vince's chest tighten until he couldn't breathe.

He saw his younger self trying to stand tall, trying to shield them both, though he was only a boy himself.

And then one night, his father went too far. Vince watched as the man grabbed his little brother by the arm and dragged him toward the door.

"I can sell him!" his father bellowed, eyes bloodshot, spittle flying from his lips. "He'd be worth something! One less mouth to feed!"

The younger Vince lunged forward, fighting with all the strength of a desperate child. He clawed, he bit, he punched with tiny fists, screaming for his father to let go.

His brother, barely five years old, kicked and wailed until finally the old man released him with a shove, sending him sprawling across the floor.

Vince ran to his mother, begging her to help.

But she… said nothing.

She sat slumped in the corner, eyes half-lidded and glassy, her pupils no more than pinpoints.

He shook her, cried into her shoulder, called her name again and again… but she still didn't answer.

Her body tipped sideways, collapsing onto the cushions like a puppet with its strings cut.

Only then did Vince notice her lips had turned blue and her skin was pale as chalk.

…She had overdosed.

Vince remembered screaming until his throat burned raw. His brother and sister screamed with him, clinging to one another in terror.

Their father just stood there, swaying drunkenly, until the neighbors finally heard the commotion and called the police.

The sound of sirens and flashing lights filled the room.

Men in uniform rushed inside and quickly assessed the situation.

His father was cuffed on the spot.

His mother's dead body was carried away in a bag.

And the children — all three of them — were handed over to child services.

Thrown into the foster care system.