(based on my name and my past with a little change🤫)
His story was cruel and sad just like every villain's past.
He born in Hungary In the eighth district. There was a lot of gypsy. Their state was middle they eat every day and go to Kindergarten every day.
Peti was just a wide-eyed little kid when he first learned how to cook—not in some fancy kitchen, but barefoot on the warm sand of the beach. The salty wind tangled his hair, and the crashing waves played like background music while his grandma crouched beside a little fire pit they had built with rocks.
"Now listen, Peti," she said, her wrinkled hands flipping a shrimp skewer with expert grace, "if your octopus gets rubbery, that's a crime worse than stealing cookies before dinner."
Peti giggled, eyes wide. "Worse than when I took your last cinnamon bun?"
His grandma smirked. "Boy, don't remind me of that. I almost cast a thunderstorm on you with my frying pan."
He laughed so hard he fell back on the sand.
Cooking became a bond between them. Whether at home, in the woods, or under a starry sky, his grandma taught him that food wasn't just food—it was a way to bring smiles, to heal pain, and sometimes, to shut people up when they're being annoying.
His favorite dish? Easy. Seafood. Especially shrimp and octopus. There was something about how it smelled, how it sizzled, how it reminded him of peace and happiness. He loved it so much that once, he tried to grill octopus in his bedroom using candles.
It... did not go well.
The smoke alarm screamed. His dad screamed louder.
"Peti! What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to summon Poseidon in your damn room?!"
But Peti just coughed through the smoke, holding up a half-burnt octopus leg like a trophy. "It's... experimental cuisine?"
Needless to say, he was banned from indoor cooking for a while.
From his grandpa, Peti learned something entirely different.
One evening, they sat outside on a bench, watching the sky turn orange as the sun dipped below the horizon. Grandpa lit a cigar, something he always did when he got serious.
"Kid," he said, voice low, "the world's always gonna have war. Used to be swords and guns. Now it's powers, magic, flashy moves. But some things never change—some people fight to protect, others fight just to hurt."
Peti looked up at him, curious. "So... the heroes are the good guys, right?"
Grandpa blew out smoke. "Mostly. Good ones don't kill unless they absolutely have to. They catch the bad ones, lock them up. But even then... evil doesn't sleep. It just changes its mask."
Peti stayed quiet. That sat heavy in his heart.
Meanwhile, there was one person Peti never really listened to—his father.
His dad was strict, cold, always yelling like life was some kind of military bootcamp.
"You need to be strong, Peti! You're a disgrace to this family if you keep acting weak!"
But Peti had heard it all too many times. He'd smile, nod, and walk away.
He didn't hate his dad—no, hate was too strong. But he avoided him. The man's expectations were like heavy chains, and Peti didn't want to carry that weight.
He once said to his sister Aria in the kitchen while flipping shrimp in a pan, "You know what the difference is between Dad and this shrimp?"
She raised a brow. "What?"
"One's cold, hard, and emotionally distant. The other's just frozen."
They burst out laughing so loud, their mom peeked in, confused, holding a laundry basket like a shield.
Peti didn't want to be like his father. He didn't want to live in a constant war inside his head. He just wanted to be happy, cook tasty food, protect the ones he loved, and maybe, one day, become a hero in his own weird, shrimp-flipping way.
Peti lay on the cold floor of his tiny, dimly-lit room, the only light coming from the flickering streetlamp outside his cracked window. His lips were bruised, his ribs ached, and his back was scraped raw. His hoodie was torn, his pockets were empty, and his heart felt even emptier.
He'd been jumped. Again.
This time by people he once called "friends."
They smiled to his face, laughed at his jokes, even shared meals he cooked. And the moment they saw weakness, they turned on him like wolves. Beat him down, stole his phone, his wallet, his trust—then walked away without even looking back.
He lay there for hours, staring at the stained ceiling like it held the answers.
"Is it worth it?" he asked himself quietly. His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. "Is it worth living among people like this? Is this... all humans are?"
Anger twisted in his gut. Not rage. Not fury. Just a deep, burning ache—the kind that made your soul itch for justice.
"They should pay..." he mumbled. "They should pay for what they did."
Then, he sighed. Long, slow. Like he was trying to exhale the pain out of his bones.
"But not by my hand. Not today."
He turned his head slightly and stared at the flickering light, blinking away the sting in his eyes.
"Karma exists, right?" he asked the ceiling like it was a judge. "So... let karma do its job. If not karma, then maybe time. And if time doesn't do it—then maybe I will."
He chuckled bitterly.
"Or maybe I'll just make shrimp so spicy one day it sends all of them straight to the hell."
He winced. Not from the joke—from the bruises.
Peti rolled onto his side, reaching for the envelope hidden under his mattress. Inside it was every single forint he had managed to scrape together—some from part-time jobs, some from odd favors, some saved by skipping meals.
He didn't even count it. He never did.
Because it always went to his family. His mom, his siblings. Even his ungrateful father. Rent. Groceries. Meds for his brother. Schoolbooks for Aria.
Not a single HUF was spent on himself.
Not even on socks with both pairs matching.
He held the envelope tightly, fingers trembling. He didn't cry—but he wanted to.
"Am I dumb for doing this?" he muttered. "Doormat of the year? Hero? Or just a fool?"
The ceiling didn't answer.
It never did.
Peti sat on the edge of his creaky bed, holding his phone like it was a lifeline. The screen was cracked, the battery barely clinging to life—just like him.
He wanted to be successful. Not rich. Not famous. Just... stable. Respected. Seen.
But dreams don't grow in places like his home. Not when your father is the thunder in every room, the storm that never ends.
"Why don't you ever listen, huh?" his father would yell, slamming his fists on the table. "You think success comes from cooking shrimp and daydreaming?! You were born weak, and now you wanna stay weak?"
Peti never answered. He just lowered his head and let the words wash over him like acid rain.
He had tried. God, he tried. He studied stock exchange basics, watched tutorials, tracked numbers, practiced virtual trades. But it never clicked. It felt like juggling knives with no hands. And instead of guiding him, his father just watched him drown, only to throw him deeper.
Eventually, his father took over everything again. Tried to restart from zero. Again. And again. Each failure was followed by rage.
And Peti? He was the wallet.
Every time he earned a little money from odd jobs, cooking gigs, cleaning gigs—whatever—his father would demand it.
"Give it. Or I swear, I'll make you regret being born."
There were nights when Peti lay in bed, shaking under the covers, hearing the threats echo in his mind.
Torture. Death. Silence.
He gave the money. Not out of fear—but because the fear was normal. Like breathing.
He was never truly alone, though.
He had his siblings. They were his lighthouse in that fog of madness.
Sofie, who always hugged him tightly like he was her hero, even when he felt like trash.
Luca, who would crack jokes just to see him smile, even if they were horrible puns.
Dragica, the one who once snuck him her birthday cake under the table because he didn't get any.
Cristina, the only one who ever texted first: "Are you okay?"
And then... there was the ceiling.
That damn ceiling.
The same stains. The same crack that looked like a lightning bolt. The same tiny spider that never left.
"I swear if that spider's still here next week," Peti mumbled one night, "I'm naming him Karl and giving him my inheritance."
His phone buzzed softly. A message from Cristina:
"Don't give up, big bro. You're stronger than you think."
He smiled, just a little. It hurt, but it was real.
He looked up at the ceiling again, eyes tired but steady.
"Tomorrow's another day, right?" he whispered. "You, me, and Karl. Let's survive one more."
His dad He robbed everything to support them, but sometimes his dad was angry or frustered about something, so he hit his wife or Peti or Peti's sisters.
It was supposed to be a normal day.
Peti sat near the back of the bus, slouched in his seat, headphones in, half-listening to some chill music while his siblings laughed two rows in front of him.
Sofie was arguing with Dragica about which K-pop group had the better choreography. Luca was trying to balance a bottle cap on his nose. Cristina leaned on the window, smiling at their chaos, sending Peti a silly selfie she took with all of them mid-argument.
His dad sat silently in the front. His mom scrolled her phone.
Peti felt—peace. A rare, fragile moment of calm.
Then it happened.
The scream of a truck's horn.
The screech of tires.
Metal kissing metal with a sound that split the sky.
The world turned sideways.
The bus spun violently as if time had stopped and someone was shaking reality like a snow globe.
People screamed.
Glass shattered.
And then—
Silence.
When Peti opened his eyes, he was upside down. The bus had rolled off the side of a mountain road. It had stopped against a tree—barely. The air smelled like oil, blood, and dust.
He coughed. Cried out. "Sofie? Luca? Cristina?!"
No answer.
"DRAGICA?!"
Nothing.
His heart beat so hard it felt like it was punching his ribs from the inside. He crawled over twisted seats, broken bodies, and shattered glass.
He found Cristina first. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't blinking. Her phone was still in her hand. The selfie was still on the screen.
"No... no no no no no..." Peti whispered, his voice breaking.
Then Luca. Dragica. Sofie.
All still. All quiet.
He shook them. Screamed. Begged. His voice cracked and died in his throat.
By the time the medics arrived, Peti was just sitting there, surrounded by their bodies, cradling Cristina in his lap. His hands were covered in blood, but he didn't notice.
He barely even noticed when they pulled him away.
---
Later...
He sat in the hospital waiting room, knees pulled to his chest, rocking slightly. His mother sobbed in a chair nearby. His father was silent—stone-faced.
Only three survived.
Him.
His mom.
And the man who ruined everything—his father.
And for the first time in years, Peti cried. Really cried. Not quiet tears. Loud, broken, raw cries. His body shook with it.
"I should've sat closer to them... I should've stopped the truck... I should've—"
He couldn't finish.
There were no more words. Just a void where his siblings used to be.
The only ones who ever truly loved him.
Gone.
It was buried in his phone's gallery, between old memes and random screenshots.
A photo titled "XmasChaos2023.jpg".
Peti's thumb hovered over it every night. Sometimes he'd scroll past it. Sometimes he'd tap it—hesitating—then swipe away before it fully opened.
But tonight, he tapped it. And this time, he didn't look away.
There it was.
His siblings around the Christmas tree, lights glowing warm gold. Sofie was in a ridiculous reindeer onesie, pulling Dragica into a half-headlock for stealing her chocolate. Cristina wore a crooked Santa hat and held up a badly wrapped gift, laughing her signature snort-laugh. Luca photobombed in the background, wearing tinsel like a crown and throwing up peace signs with both hands.
And there was Peti in the center—half-smiling, cheeks stuffed with food, caught mid-bite.
He stared at that frozen moment.
He remembered the laughter. Not fake or forced, but real. Loud. Full of life.
He remembered Cristina's voice:
"Peti, you look like a hamster in that photo!"
"Shut up," he'd laughed back. "Hamsters are cute."
Now the only sound in the room was the quiet buzz of the ceiling light. Even the spider—Karl—was gone.
Tears welled up.
His throat tightened.
His jaw clenched.
But he didn't cry. Not fully.
Just one tear. Two. Sliding down his cheek as he whispered, "I miss you guys."
He pressed the screen to his chest like it could bring them back. Like the warmth in the photo would transfer to his ribs.
Then, through his blurry eyes, he laughed—softly, painfully.
"Luca, you really looked like a dork with that tinsel crown..."
The laugh faded.
All that was left was silence. And a photo that hurt more every time he looked at it, but he couldn't bring himself to delete.
Because if he did... it would feel like erasing them.
Quarantine had been hell for Peti.
Alone with his thoughts, his trauma, and the silence of an empty house. The only sound was the fridge humming and his memories screaming.
He had gained 10 kilograms—junk food, no energy, no motivation. His body softened. His spirit dulled.
"You're getting fat, Peti," his dad spat once. "No wonder nobody wants you."
He laughed it off. Quietly. But inside, it cut.
He remembered the girl he dated at 12—if it even counted as dating. She left before the month even ended. No goodbye. Just a ghost.
Then came the fake friends—leeches pretending to care, using him for money, help, answers, attention. And when he needed them?
Gone.
Every time he trusted someone, they stabbed him with a smile.
But at 16, something in him snapped.
He began training. Hard. He ran at dawn, even when his lungs burned. He punched trees until his knuckles bled. He meditated beneath the cold shower to discipline his mind.
And then it started—his gift. A flicker of light, a burst of space—teleportation. Only one second needed.
One second, and he was gone.
He trained it until he could use it in fights, during dodges, or just to escape the world for a bit.
He didn't need anyone.
But on his 17th birthday—when he had no cake, no candles, no "happy birthday" from anyone—he got a black letter.
It was in a black envelope with no return address. The paper's side was old, burnt slightly. The writing was in black ink.
The Letter:
> Peti.
We know who you are. We know what they did to you.
We saw the crash. We saw the betrayal.
We watched you train. We felt your pain.
You have potential—great potential. That one-second teleport? We could make it instant.
You want wealth? Power? Revenge?
Join us.
We offer more than friendship. We offer family.
Rules are simple:
No pets.
No leaving.
No betrayal.
No contact with heroes.
Meet our messenger at the airport in America. A cloaked, nameless figure will escort you.
Sign below.
From:
The Villain Team
We don't save the world. We make it ours.
Peti stared at the paper for a long time.
He didn't hesitate.
He signed.
Not because he wanted to be evil...(lie)
But because the world already treated him like a villain.
Scene: "One-Way Ticket to Darkness"
Peti sat in front of the old dusty monitor at the internet café. He hadn't been there in months—ever since he stopped caring about life.
But tonight? He was burning with purpose.
He checked his bank account.
Balance: 347,000 HUF.
Every forint saved from years of sacrifice. From skipping meals. From giving up fun. From lying to himself that things would get better.
He sighed. "All for you... and you gave me nothing back," he mumbled to the screen. His dad had taken so much from him—money, time, his will to care. But this... this one thing was Peti's choice.
He typed in the airline's site.
Destination: America.
One-way ticket.
Price: 339,000 HUF.
He clicked "Buy."
No hesitation. Just a final breath before change.
"If the government won't help us..."
He clenched his jaw.
"Then I'll help myself."
He stood in the mirror the night before leaving—his shirt tight around his stomach, arms soft. He poked at the weight he'd gained. He didn't hate it anymore.
"No worries," he said to his reflection. "I'll turn this into muscle. Villain muscle."
He smirked, practicing one of those cool anime poses—then instantly cringed and laughed.
"Okay, maybe not that one..."
But his eyes stayed serious.
The room was a mess.
Clothes scattered, books half-stuffed into a duffel bag, the sound of zippers zipping and unzipping constantly—Peti was panicking, packing for his villain journey like it was the end of the world.
And in the middle of the bed, like a queen on a silk throne, lay Poci.
Her fur, a beautiful mix of orange, black, and white, glowed under the dusty ceiling light. She stretched, yawned dramatically, and blinked at Peti like she had no idea the world was about to change.
"You think I'm gonna leave you behind?" Peti said, raising an eyebrow.
Poci meowed once. Loud. Bossy.
"Yeah yeah, calm down, Belly." He smiled at her name's meaning. "Poci"—because she used to sleep on his belly as a kitten.
He held up her little carrier.
She stared at it like it was a personal insult.
"Listen, I know I was a crappy cat dad. I yelled at you when I had anxiety, I ignored you sometimes when you wanted cuddles, and I even called you fat... which, let's be honest, was true—"
Poci slapped him across the face with her tail.
"Okay! Fair. You were thick. Not fat. Big boned."
He bent down, gently lifting her into his arms. She meowed softly this time, her voice calmer... forgiving.
He looked into her golden eyes.
"But this time, I'll treat you like a goddess. Like Bastet from the ancient pyramids. You'll have salmon. Chicken. A throne. I promise."
He kissed the top of her furry little head.
She sneezed in his face.
"Alright, I deserve that."
He placed her into the carrier—this time with a warm towel, her favorite toy, and a tiny note that read:
> "VIP Passenger: Poci the Divine."
Peti looked around one last time at his messy room—walls that had seen too many silent breakdowns, a bed that felt more like a prison, and windows that showed him a world that never wanted to understand him.
He took a deep breath, slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed Poci's carrier...
And stepped out the door.
This time, he wasn't going alone.
At the Airport
The airport was cold and grey. Peti's breath fogged in the air. His hands were sweaty as he clutched his cheap suitcase—the handle wrapped with duct tape.
A tall man in a cloak waited by the gate, holding a sign that read one word:
"Peti."
No face. No name. Just a silent nod.
Peti swallowed hard.
"You the guy from the... group?"
The man nodded.
"Nice," Peti muttered, half-nervous, half-excited. "Do we get free snacks?"
No response.
"Okay. Tough crowd..."
The man started walking. Peti followed.
This was it.
No more waiting. No more begging. No more hoping someone would save him.
If the world wanted a villain...
Then Peti would become one.
And not just any villain—a legend.
Scene: "Welcome to the Meadow of Mayhem"
The road trip to the base had been long, but Peti didn't sleep a second. His eyes were glued to the window like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.
Bright billboards. Flashy casinos. Clubs buzzing with neon. America was chaos, glitter, and sin all mixed into one concrete jungle.
And Peti loved it.
In the back seat, Poci was calm—for once. She lay in her carrier with her favorite dry food, licking her paw like she already owned the car.
"You comfy back there, goddess?" Peti whispered.
Poci blinked slowly. Approval granted.
Suddenly, the car turned off the highway, taking a dusty side road that led into... nothing.
Just a quiet, empty meadow. Grass waving in the wind. No buildings, no towers—just nature.
"Uh... I think we got scammed," Peti mumbled, gripping Poci's carrier.
But then the driver, still silent and wearing pitch-black sunglasses, pressed a button on