Page 2 of Once A Villain

Only the Sovereign’s highest ranks can issue a Bond, and the tasks are always personal vendettas—deadly. Those who agree to a Bond name their reward—if they survive. Money. Power. Rank. But failure? It’s a one-way ticket to hell. The Sovereign won’t save you.

Conrad called me for one reason. My name’s enough to make even the most hardened killers piss themselves. They whisper it like a ghost story—The Reaper. But I’m no ghost; I’m their worst fucking nightmare. I’ve got two ways of dealing death: you’re either dead before you know I’m there, or you’ll wish for death long before I hand it to you. Both bring a special kind of thrill.

“Please.” The bastard’s voice cracks, snapping me back. He’s sobbing, blood- soaked, his face a shattered mess. “I have a family,” he chokes out, desperation thick in his voice. “Please, don’t do this.”

I fucking love it. Weak men beg. They cry, they grovel—pathetic.

I grab the pliers, slow and deliberate, savoring his useless cries for mercy. I’m not just a killer—I’m a monster, and I thrive on it.

His body jerks, muscles locking in agony as the restraints bite into his skin. He’s just another traitor who thought he could cross the Sovereign and live. He’ll die like the others, his corpse rotting in a ditch, forgotten, another notch on my kill list.

I wait for that moment—the one where the light fades from his eyes. That’s when I know it’s over. Death is currency, and I cash in every time. No remorse, no hesitation.

As I leave the warehouse, the city hums outside, oblivious to the monster prowling its veins. I glide through alleys, unseen, unstoppable. Death is my shadow, always with me, always near.

This is my world—the only one I know. There’s no right or wrong here. Just survival. Just death. And I’m its most loyal servant.

The crowd roars as I wait backstage. My heart pounds, skin slick with a sheen of sweat.

“You’re up, Rory,” the stagehand calls. I nod and take a deep breath, steadying my nerves. No matter how often I’ve done this, the pre-show jitters never fade.

“Showtime,” I whisper to myself.

As I step onto the stage, the music hits—a high-pitched electric guitar wail and a thumping bassline. The crowd erupts. My body moves intuitively to the rhythm. Flashing lights bathe the stage in a neon glow as the aerial silk, a long red fabric ribbon, descends from the ceiling.

I grasp the silk, its smooth texture cool against my skin, and begin to climb. The fabric wraps around my legs as I arch my back, curving seductively. The audience cheers.

I feel alive. Free. The music pulses, the lights dazzle, and my body dangles dangerously from the silk. My movements are slow, sensual.

The lights dim to a dull red glow. Gasps ripple through the crowd as I spin, the silk tightening around my legs. Arms outstretched, I grip the fabric firmly between my thighs.

The music crescendos, heat rising in me as I spin faster, the silk cocooning my body. Lights blur. The crowd fades. All that matters is the silk, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the raw power surging in me.

As the music peaks, I let go and drop. Gasps fill the room, exhilaration flooding me as I plummet.

I land on my feet, knees bent, arms extended. The music fades, and the stage erupts in blinding white light, signaling the arrival of the other performers. It’s the last dance, and we leave it all on the stage like we’ve got nothing left to lose.

When the final strains of music fade, the lights dim, and the curtain falls. I exhale deeply, releasing the tension of the performance as relief washes over me. Another show completed.

Adrenaline still thrums in my veins, leaving me breathless and drenched in sweat as we exit the stage. But soon, it fades into a bone-deep exhaustion weighing on my limbs.

“Rory! I thought I told you to skip the drop this time!” Dominic’s exasperated voice cuts through the post-performance haze. I roll my eyes, turning to face the lead choreographer.

“You know I can’t resist, Dom. It’s all part of the show,” I retort with a causal shrug.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.”

“That’s what makes it exciting.” Flashing him a mischievous grin, I continue toward my dressing room.

I am a Sovereign Servant; I took a vow to serve the Sovereign world. The Sovereigns vow their very souls to a life of violence and death. Servants, we vow our bodies, bound to serve the Sovereigns in whatever capacity they deem fit. They are our masters, and we are their slaves. It’s fucked up, but it’s the life we’ve chosen—the life my father chose for me.

I am a Siren, a coveted group of Servants that are talented dancers and entertainers. A Siren’s purpose is to entertain, seduce, and please the Sovereign. Dad, a high-ranking Sovereign, groomed me for this life, for this destiny. I was always going to be a Servant—I had no other choice.

Since I turned eighteen, I’ve been gracing Sovereign stages. The thrill—the pulse of danger and excitement—never dulls. I live for that adrenaline rush, the exhilaration of soaring through the air, and the intoxicating freedom that comes with each show. Stepping into my dressing room, I shut out the chaos out.

Exhaustion drags me into the plush chair before the vanity. Sighing, I sink into the soft cushions, closing my eyes to block out the harsh glare of the mirror lights.

“Rory, are you coming to the club tonight?” Lana, another Siren, pokes her head in.

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