Rōnin

Commercial was great, lol. And yes, I still live on the Island!

My entire Mad Villain series in one spot for any persons wanting to listen. I spent quite a bit of time making these, and having fun while doing it too, I hope you enjoy! Episode 1 - Pure Villainy Episode 2 - Devious Dialing Episode 3 - The Burn Zone Episode 4 - The Heist Episode 5 - How to be Evil Episode 6 - The Bright Side Episode 7 - 5th Overall Episode 8 - A Villain's Heart

My Mad Villain series, here is the first episode:

I was going to write this as a DM to @v.2 but I'll make it an article and claim the TPE instead. Writing for the VHL has been challenging and not because of a lack of ideas or passion, but because of a growing pressure to prove that the work I create is truly mine. When I put in the time and effort to write something meaningful, something with real thought and detail, I often find myself facing suspicion. People question whether it was written by me or generated by AI, and that puts me in an impossible position. How do you prove your work when good writing is met with doubt? I care about storytelling. I enjoy building my character’s journey and writing pieces that add to the league’s world. But lately, it feels like the more effort I put in, the more time I spend on voice, pacing, detail, the more I’m expected to justify it. I don’t want to have to defend my writing just because it sounds polished. I understand the need to maintain fairness in the league, but there needs to be space for people who genuinely enjoy writing and are trying to contribute at a high level. I just want to create without the constant need to prove myself. Because when effort is met with suspicion, it discourages creativity altogether. Here are examples of my work prior to AI: The Trial of Knox Booth - This example is from the SHL as I want to share my writing from years ago so it can be reviewed and I can stop having to worry about contributing quality work here. Last time around I made Mad Villain so I wouldn't have to feel that fear, but I would just like to be me, and write a good story.

1. How big will the 100 draft class get? 2. Who will go first overall? 3. What team will end up picking first? 4. What do you think about how scouting works in sim leagues? 5. Do you think all teams will scout you? 6. What should teams look for in a player?

Claim 2

**************************************************************************************whisper************************************************************************************ No one knows where the storm begins, only when it reaches the shore. Before the puck ever dropped, before his skates touched North American ice, Kyzer Söze had already survived more than most men twice his age. Not survived... endured. Silently, unshaken. Like a statue watching the years go by, knowing it would outlast all of them. He was born in Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus. A city where shadows walk like men and the sea speaks in languages older than memory. His father, Kemal Söze, was a name spoken low and carefully, if at all. The kind of man who didn't rule through popularity or speeches. He ruled through fear. Through unbroken stares and decisions made behind closed doors that shaped the course of entire coastlines. And Kyzer was his son. Raised in a fortress carved from stone and wealth, Kyzer did not know childhood as most would. There were no toys. No sleepovers. No scraped knees or backyard soccer. Only lessons that were brutal, cold, and methodical. The villa’s hallways were long and hollow, its walls covered by oil paintings and guarded by men who never smiled. The only voice that cut through that stillness belonged to to his father, Kemal: “You must be strong.” “You must never show fear.” “A man does not cry.” Those weren’t instructions. They were commandments. Etched into Kyzer like stone, and repeated until they were no longer words, but instincts. The only light in his life was his mother, Natalya. A Russian born journalist who had once tried to uncover Kemal’s empire, only to fall into it. Where Kemal was steel, she was flame- fierce, bright, and unpredictable. She spoke to Kyzer like he was a boy, not a legacy. She told him stories. Smuggled books into his room. Sang songs in languages long dead. She reminded him that the world was wide. Then, one morning, she was gone. No goodbye. No funeral. No explanation. Just an empty chair at breakfast. When Kyzer asked where she went, Kemal said nothing. When he asked again- in front of his father’s men... he was told to go to bed. That night, something inside him split. It didn’t break. It simply… folded in on itself. Hardened. From then on, he stopped asking questions. He started watching. The villa was high above the harbor, overlooking the city like a god too tired to interfere. But Kyzer found one window far in the east wing that looked out across a narrow alley to a row of cracked apartment buildings. He would sit there for hours, long after everyone had gone to sleep, watching the lives that spilled out of those balconies. People arguing, laughing, dancing... Living. One night, when he was eight, a television in one of those homes flickered to life. And on it, Kyzer saw something that didn’t belong in his world- ice. White, endless ice. Men flying across it and colliding. Spinning. Fighting for something that didn’t involve guns or titles. Ice hockey. He didn’t know the rules or know the player's names. But it moved him. It felt like madness with discipline, fury with form. It felt free. He asked his father if he could play. Kemal allowed it. Not out of kindness, but control. He bought the best equipment. Hired the best trainers. Bought teams, if necessary. But Kyzer hated the gift. He wanted the struggle. And so, he practiced alone. Longer than the others. Harder. He became a ghost on the ice, quiet, patient, everywhere. By ten, he wasn’t just the best defenseman in the country. He was the only player opponents feared without understanding why. At thirteen, he was scouted by a Canadian prep school. Offered a scholarship. A ticket out. Kemal had the scout killed. The accident made national news. Kyzer said nothing. But he stopped asking for permission after that. Over the next two years, he planned his escape like a soldier planning a coup. He memorized flight paths. Staff rotations. He saved money in a book hollowed out with a knife. And on the night of a major gala at The Golden Mare casino, when every eye was on his father’s empire, Kyzer slipped into the night. He crossed into Turkey by boat. Then a forged passport that got him passage on a plane. When he stepped onto Canadian soil, it was not with fear. He entered the VHLM under his real name. He refused interviews or hype. Let his play speak. And it did. He played like a man who had studied movement for survival. He anticipated passes before they were made. Closed lanes before they existed. Coaches called him ice in human form. Not cold. Just unmelting. Teammates didn’t know much about him. He was respectful and focused. Didn’t smile much, but they trusted him. Now, in the Season 100 VHL Draft, the myth of Kyzer Söze grows. Some call him a ghost. Others a prodigy. Some say he still looks out the window at night. Not out of habit, but out of memory. He doesn’t play for glory. He plays because it’s the only place left where he can be free. And if silence is the language of power, then on the ice, Kyzer speaks fluently. (870 words) **************************************************************************************whisper************************************************************************************

Name: Kyzer Söze Height: 6'5" Weight: 220 lbs Home Town: Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus “He doesn’t celebrate goals. He doesn’t chirp. Hell, I’m not even sure he blinks. But every time you look up… he’s there. Killing plays, momentum, hope. I don’t know where he came from, but I know I don’t want to play against him.” — Anonymous VHL scout, post-U18 Showcase If Bash McMurray @Bushito is a hammer, Kyzer Söze is a scalpel. A mystery on skates, Söze enters the Season 100 VHL Draft with whispers surrounding him, some speak of exile, others of a vanished mother, and a father with more offshore holdings than teeth. What we do know? This kid can play, he's smooth, smart, and ruthless. The kind of defenseman who always seems to be exactly where the puck shouldn't be. A product of an unknown, privately financed academy in the Mediterranean (that may or may not have been run by ex-special forces), Söze has surfaced in North America with poise beyond his years. He doesn’t hit hard, he hits right. Rarely penalized or beaten, and never flustered, he plays the game like he’s reading it from a script only he’s seen. The Pros of Söze 1. Defensive Intelligence: Reads plays like a prophet. Angles, gaps, sticks, he uses them all with ease. He's not the fastest, but you wouldn't know it because he's already there. 2. Composure: You could set him on fire during a penalty kill and he’d still calmly break out the puck. Nothing rattles him. 3. Quiet Leadership: Doesn’t say much in the room, but everyone listens when he does. Leads by example, not ego. Coaches trust him. Teammates lean on him. Media can’t crack him. 4. The Escape Story: Let’s be honest, the narrative is selling itself. An exiled prodigy from a war torn coastline? Hollywood’s already calling baby. The Cons of Kyzer 1. Off-Ice Silence: Kyzer doesn’t talk to media. Barely talks to staff. He’s a mystery wrapped in a North American visa. Teams worry about what they don’t know. 2. Thin Frame: Still growing into his body. Against bruisers like Bash McMurray, he might get steamrolled, assuming they can catch him. 3. Trust Issues: Doesn’t bond easily. Teammates say he’s loyal but distant, like he’s always preparing for the next betrayal. Could be trauma or training. 4. The Name: Let’s be real, Söze isn’t a name. It’s a warning. Rumors swirl about his past. About who trained him. About what he left behind. One GM said, “I don’t know if I’m drafting a defenseman or an assassin.” Final Verdict: You don’t draft Kyzer Söze for the highlight reels. You draft him because this one already knows what it costs to survive. And he’s still skating.

You rock! Thank you so much for saying so

Thank you kindly!

Transaction ID: 37020187WB504282A Doubles Week 5 TPE Uncapped

Sometimes, life just piles up too heavy. I hit a point where I had to step away, not just from the site, but from everything. My mind, heart, even my body needed space to breathe. I’d been carrying things I didn’t even realize had weight until they finally caught up with me. So I took that break, unplugged, and reflected. In that time, I made a promise to myself, I would face the parts of me that were lost or bitter. I would heal what I could, and whatever I couldn’t fix, I’d make peace with. And anything that ever meant something to me, I’d leave it better than I found it. The VHL matters to me. It always has. Even when I stepped away, it stayed in the back of my mind, a place where I left behind unfinished business. So now I’m back, not just to play, but to make it right. To show up with a clearer head, stronger heart, and love for the game and community. This isn’t just a return, it’s a new start. It's go time.

1. Why did you recreate? 2. Did it have anything to do with season 100? 3. Do you think any team will be interested in your services? 4. What are your player/career goals? 5. Do you see a fit out there for Kyzer? 6. Will you ever answer these questions in a podcast form?

Player Information Username: Rōnin Player Name: Kyzer Soze Recruited From: Returning Age: 30 Position: D Height: 77 in. Weight: 220 lbs. Birthplace: Cyprus Player Page @VHLM GM

I’ve done a couple media so far alluding to my character/his back story. But great suggestion!

Chapter 1: The Golden Mare - The Sound of Nothing - Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus – 2003 The world belonged to Kemal Söze, but even he was beginning to question what ownership meant. At forty, he was wealthier than he had ever dared imagine. His empire, once nothing more than a card table, had spread across the Mediterranean. The Golden Mare, the crown jewel of his early conquests, was now just another cog in a machine too vast for any single man to grasp. He no longer merely dealt in cards and cash under dim casino lights. He controlled ports where no customs officer dared ask questions. He owned banks whose ledgers were written in invisible ink. He could unseat a politician with a word or prop up another with a favor. He didn't just operate within the system, he had become the system. And the most valuable currency he traded in was silence. The old men who had once scoffed at him from the corners of smoke filled backrooms were either rotting beneath gravestones or begging for crumbs. The men who had once followed him reluctantly now wore tailored suits and sipped vintage raki on private yachts, wealthier than they had ever dreamed. And those foolish enough to try and take what he had built? Their names were etched only into the sea. Yet, even amid this dominion, something gnawed at him. In the still moments, when the music from the club below softened and the laughter of drunken tourists faded into the night, Kemal would often find himself alone in his study, staring out over the city that had crowned him. Kyrenia, under the glow of the harbor lights, looked serene. But Kemal knew better. He could feel the tension in the stone itself, the weight of every bribe, betrayal, and corpse sunk beneath the waves. And in those rare moments of quiet, when no one dared disturb him, the question surfaced like an unwelcome tide. Was this all there was? The peace he had long worshiped had become something colder, something emptier. Not victory. Not satisfaction. Emptiness. And still, the city below breathed in time with him, heavy, restless, and steeped in ghosts. *** The Söze estate stood on a hill, its sharp lines glaring down at Kyrenia's harbor. The villa's floor to ceiling windows swallowed the horizon during the day, but at night, they turned to dark mirrors, reflecting only the emptiness inside. From the balcony, Kemal could see everything he possessed. The glow of The Golden Mare and the steady crawl of freighters slipping through the harbor. The slow, orchestrated movements of men who didn't know freedom, only loyalty or fear. Every street below belonged to him. And yet, inside these walls, ownership felt hollow. The villa was architectural perfection, all stone, glass, and yet sterile. Cold floors, high ceilings, and the occasional whir of security cameras pivoting in their housings. It was not a home. It was a mausoleum of success. At its center was Natalya. She sat by the window most evenings, a cigarette dangled loosely between two fingers, trailing smoke that curled against the glass like a prisoner trying to escape. She had once been dangerous. A Russian journalist with sharp instincts, and a pen that could slice through men like Kemal with ease. He should have removed her the moment she got too close to his world. In those early days, he'd even rehearsed it: the car accident or overdose. Easy. Clean. But he hadn't. Somewhere between the questions and the threats, he had made the mistake of wanting her. Not just as a conquest. But as someone who might understand him. And now, years later, she was neither adversary nor companion. She was something worse. Miserable. She spoke little, but when she did, it came with the bite of a woman who refused to die quietly. Her eyes were still sharp, searching for the seams in Kemal's carefully built world. On this night, Kemal stood in the doorway, watching her without announcing himself. "Do you still think about leaving?" he asked, voice low. Natalya didn't turn. She took a slow drag from the cigarette and exhaled. "Every day." Kemal's fingers tightened on the edge of the doorway as he stepped inside. "You stay because of him," he said. Natalya finally looked over her shoulder. The city lights caught in the corner of her eyes. "No," she said, voice calm. "I stay for him. There's a difference." Kyzer. The boy who bound them. Kemal didn't reply, but something hardened behind his eyes. Kyzer had been the chain that kept Natalya tethered, the iron in the collar. And though he never said it aloud, Kemal resented the boy for it. Resented how he had changed the power dynamic between them, and resented that Natalya endured this life not out of fear of him, but out of love for someone else. Kemal returned to the balcony, staring down at Kyrenia, watching as it moved like clockwork, unaware or uncaring of the small wars waged in the hills above. Inside the villa, Natalya returned her gaze to the window. Neither of them said another word. But both knew this house had never been a home. And likely never would be. Moments later, the click of small footsteps through the hallway. A young Kyzer appeared, no more than five, pajama clad and rubbing sleep from his eyes. He clutched a worn, stuffed bear, its seams stretched. His voice was small, "Mama?" Natalya's face softened. She crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and immediately crossed the room to kneel before him. He rushed into her arms, burying his face in the safety of her embrace. She whispered in Russian, soothing him, pressing a kiss to his hair. For a moment, there was warmth inside the mausoleum. Kyzer peered past her shoulder at his father, eyes wide and questioning, "Papa?" he asked tentatively. Kemal remained by the window, silhouetted against the city he owned. He didn’t turn. "Go back to bed, Kyzer," he said flatly. The boy flinched but obeyed, pulling away from Natalya with an understanding nod. His small feet padded back down the hall. Natalya rose, her eyes burning. "He's your son," she hissed under her breath. Kemal’s voice was steady, "He will learn." Inside the villa, the silence returned. But neither of them mistook it for peace. *** At eight years old, Kyzer Söze was not like other children. There were no bedtime stories in his world, no soft words to soothe him to sleep. Only commands spoken with the gravity of iron. His father, who had built his empire on blood, did not offer lullabies… only lessons. "You must be strong." "You must never show fear." "A man does not cry." These words had been pressed into Kyzer like a brand, repeated so often they felt etched into his bones. He repeated them in his head even when no one spoke them, as if saying them would somehow hold the walls of the house together. The villa remained a fortress. Nothing softened over the years. If anything, it had grown colder in his mother’s absence. For a year now, Natalya had been gone. No word, no explanation, not even a lie to fill the space she left behind. One morning, she simply wasn't there. Kemal refused to speak of it. The guards were no help. Their eyes would drop whenever Kyzer asked, only Aslan, his father’s chief enforcer, ever acknowledged the absence at all, and even then, it was with a half-hearted shrug and a muttered, "Not your concern, little prince." Kyzer stopped asking, and then he stopped speaking much at all. He moved through the halls like a wraith, invisible to residents of the estate. Guards posted at every corner, always watching but never speaking unless spoken to. Servants who vanished when Kemal entered the room. Men in expensive suits who came and went through the study. Kyzer obeyed because disobedience had no reward. He loved his mother because she had been the only warmth he ever knew. And he feared his father because fear was the first thing Kemal had ever taught him. But when night fell, Kyzer sought something neither of his parents could give him. He sought escape. He would creep from his room, careful to step where the marble didn’t creak, and make his way to the far end of the eastern wing, where an unused sitting room overlooked the harbor. No one went there anymore. The furniture was still covered in the same white sheets that had been draped the day Natalya vanished. Kyzer would push open the heavy curtains just enough to see the city. From the estate’s perch, the harbor glowed like a spilled bag of jewels. The faint clatter of dishes from the tavernas below. The distant strum of a bouzouki or saz. The uneven, drunken laughter of tourists stumbling from cafes into the warm Mediterranean night. Kyzer would sit there, knees pulled to his chest, watching it all. And sometimes, when the night was still enough, he could almost pretend he wasn't trapped. He could almost believe he belonged to that world down there. Almost. Tonight, however, the heavy oak doors of his father’s study were open, spilling light and the sound of conversation into the hallway. Kyzer, curious and cautious, inched forward and peeked into the room from behind a marble column. Kemal sat at the head of a table, surrounded by a half-circle of men, businessmen, soldiers, and sycophants. One of the men noticed him first, nodding toward the boy with a tilt of his glass. Kemal followed the gesture, his eyes landing on his son without warmth. He smirked, "See there? The little prince graces us with his presence. Mute as ever. The boy hasn't said a word in months. Perhaps he thinks that not talking makes him strong." The men chuckled obediently, though none too loudly. Kyzer swallowed, he could have retreated or hidden, but something sharp rose up inside him. He stepped fully into the doorway. "Where is my mama?" he asked. The room went still. Kemal’s smirk vanished. His fingers, which had been tracing the rim of his glass, stopped. For the first time that night, he had nothing to say. The pause that followed was heavier than any words. The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some lowering their eyes to their drinks. Kyzer stood there, staring at his father. Kemal stared back, jaw tight, eyes hard. Then, without answering, he turned his attention back to the papers in front of him. "Go to bed, Kyzer," he said, coldly dismissing both the question and the boy. But Kyzer did not go to bed. Not truly. He returned to his room, stepping silently through the corridors, just as he always had. Yet tonight, the air was colder. The words still echoed in him. Go to bed, Kyzer. He obeyed, but only in part. Instead of curling beneath the sheets, he crossed the room to the window, pulled back the heavy curtains, and climbed onto the ledge. The glass was cold against his forehead, but he welcomed it. It was honest. It was real. From here, the city outside called to him. Lights blinked across the harbor. Distant music floated up from the tavernas. And across the narrow street, life unfolded without him. A family argued over dinner, a child cried and was comforted, a couple danced slowly in the kitchen. Even their struggles felt like a kind of freedom compared to the prison he called home. Then, something new. A battered television came to life. Kyzer blinked, drawn forward instinctively. He had seen the glow from across the street many times, but tonight the screen showed something he'd never witnessed before. A rink. Men on skates sliced across a sheet of blinding white. Kyzer blinked. He had never seen ice before. Not in real life, not in photographs. And now here it was, stretched across the television screen, shining like another world entirely. His breath fogged the window as he pressed closer. The players moved with a speed that stole his breath. Fast. Sharp. Violent. They collided without hesitation, bodies crashing against the boards as the crowd erupted in cheers. The puck darted across the ice, chased by men who seemed to glide more than they skated. It was chaos, and yet it was beautiful. Kyzer sat frozen, his small fingers splayed against the glass. No bribes. No whispered deals. No cold commands about strength and silence. Just motion, speed, and the raw, unpredictable freedom of the ice. He did not understand the rules. He did not know the teams. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time, he was seeing something in motion that could not be controlled. Not even by his father. The game ended too soon. The family across the way turned off the television. The light snapped out, and Kyzer was left staring at his own reflection. But something inside him had shifted. His heart pounded with a strange new ache, one he could not name, but already feared would never leave him. (2184 words)

The Golden Mare "Power isn’t taken. It’s given by those who think you work for them." Kyrenia, Northern Cyprus – 1991 Beneath the moonlight, Kyrenia was ancient and electric. Harbor lights burned in reflections across the water, painting the sea with false colors that promised safety. To a tourist, it was perfect, postcard beautiful, the kind of place you told friends you’d found by accident. But the real Kyrenia lived in the places no one photographed. In the backrooms of silence and smoke. The air was so thick with humidity it wasn’t your clothes that clung to your skin, it was the air itself, heavy with sea salt, exhaust, and the faint sweetness of citrus drifting down from the hills. Waves lapped lazily against the worn stone harbor, brushing against a city caught between centuries, conquered by many, owned by none. From the heights of the medieval castle that loomed above, Kyrenia unfolded in winding stairwells and alleyways, its narrow streets threading through it like veins in a long suffering body. By day, it wore its mask well. Tourists wandered sunlit lanes with cameras slung around their necks, sipping Turkish coffee beneath whitewashed buildings trimmed in cobalt blue. Fishing boats bobbed at the marina, and the air buzzed with languages from every corner of Europe. It looked like paradise. But when the sun dipped low, Kyrenia shed its skin. The colors dimmed and the laughter thinned. The truth emerged as weathered, watchful, and wired tight. Northern Cyprus was a country that did not officially exist. A state unrecognized, a dotted line on a map drawn in dispute. And in places like that, men like Kemal Söze didn’t just survive. They thrived. Kemal Söze wasn’t born into power. He built it, brick by bloody brick, in the cracks of a broken nation. His name was rarely spoken aloud, not out of respect, but because those who said it too freely often disappeared. Some believed he came from a line of smugglers. Others swore he had ties to the Turkish deep state. He moved best in fog and controlled ports without ever holding a deed, owning men without putting anything in writing. His reach stretched from Kyrenia’s waterfront to the far side of Nicosia, with lines pulling through Istanbul, Tripoli, and Moscow. Politicians, police chiefs, and judges owed him favors. Those who didn’t, owed him fear. But it wasn’t his wealth that made him dangerous. It was his patience. Kemal never shouted. He never threatened. He let others underestimate him, let them believe he was just another well dressed ghost in the casino crowd. He waited. Always. And when it came time to strike, he did it the only way he knew how... cleanly, and without hesitation. And tonight, he was going to take everything. On the waterfront, vacationers stumbled in drunken cheer, the smell of grilled bass, lemon, and raki drifted on the night air. Sunburned expats made their way to taxis, wallets lighter from a night at The Golden Mare. A Turkish jeweler laughed as he bartered with a French couple, though his eyes never left the sapphire on the woman's finger. They came for the illusion and they never noticed the watchers. Men who didn’t smile. Men who belonged here. Men like Kemal. Kemal passed them all. He had long since learned that you only acknowledged what you could afford to own. This wasn’t a postcard. It was a machine. A place with no flag. No gods. Kemal walked the harbor’s edge with the knowledge that everything here answered to him now. Above, the castle loomed. The Byzantines had claimed it. So had the Venetians. The Ottomans. The British. All had held Kyrenia, and none had kept it. And yet, tonight, it was his. He paused at the edge of the dock and looked down into the dark water, its surface rippling. The sea erased all names in time. That was the truth of power. You could carve an empire into stone. Build a legacy in blood. But the tide always rose without mercy. One day, it would wash everything away. But not tonight. Tonight, Kyrenia belonged to Kemal Söze. And tomorrow, someone else would learn what it meant to kneel in the land of ghosts. *** Inside The Golden Mare Casino, the interior was littered with golden elegance. Chandeliers cast an amber glow, and the air was ripe with the smoke of Cuban cigars and Turkish Samsun tobacco. At the tables, men leaned in close, whispering in Turkish, Greek, Russian, the languages of survivors and dealmakers. Here, in this forgotten corner of the Mediterranean, the law was little more than a rumor. A dealer flipped a king of spades at one of the high stakes tables. A waiter crossed silently across the floor in a black waistcoat, placing silver trays of bread, olives, and meze in front of guests who barely noticed. Across from him, a man exhaled sharply and pushed forward a stack of euros and lira. No one flinched. Money never stayed still in a place like this. But above them, in a private salon, the real game was unfolding... Kemal Söze sat across from his adversary, Alihan Demir, his presence composed. He wore a gray suit tailored so precisely it moved like a second skin. His dark eyes were dangerous not because they stirred, but because they didn’t. His face, clean-shaven, bore no emotion, yet his stillness spoke volumes. Every movement he made, adjusting a cufflink, lifting a glass, was deliberate. He was not the kind of man who demanded attention. He was the kind who made silence louder, the kind who, even in stillness, made others lean in. And tonight, he was staring down the man who had ruled Kyrenia’s underworld for over two decades. For now. The private salon atop The Golden Mare Casino was a room designed to whisper wealth rather than shout it. The walls were draped in deep red Ottoman silk, an antique Persian rug, its edges frayed by age but still magnificent, sprawled beneath their feet. A single brass lamp separated them. Between the men sat two crystal glasses, half-filled with raki that caught the lamplight like water laced with fire. It was the only thing between them now. Not trust or loyalty. Just glass, alcohol, and a history soaked in blood. Alihan looked worn. The kind of tired that came not from age, but from the erosion of living too long without fear. His once imposing frame had softened, his black hair receded, and his mustache had surrendered to white. Yet what had truly aged him were his eyes, dulled by time and compromises, and by knowing he’d become too comfortable in a world that demanded hunger. Still, he managed a grin, showing off gold capped teeth as he swirled his glass. His rings clicked against the crystal as he watched Kemal the way one might watch a blade in someone else's hand. "Tell me, Kemal," Alihan began, his Istanbul accent thick and rough, "What does a man want, in the end?" Kemal didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for his glass, every movement unhurried. He sipped the raki. The flower burned cold in his throat. His suit, cut to perfection in Milan, clung to his shoulders like armor. Understated cufflinks caught the light but there were no logos or crests. Just undeniable wealth. Kemal set the glass down, gently, and looked across the table. "To be remembered," he said simply. Alihan chuckled, the sound dry and knowing. He tapped his ring against the glass in a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt like a heartbeat about to fail. "No," he said, shaking his head. "A man wants to own something no one can take from him. His own corner of the world." There it was. The test. Kemal knew it well. He’d spent years in Alihan’s shadow, wearing the mask of the loyal protégé. Silent when others spoke. Observing when others postured. Letting the old man believe he was just another clever student of the trade. But patience was a blade, and tonight, it would draw blood. Kemal's gaze didn’t waver. "Is that what you want, Alihan?" he asked, voice like velvet over steel. "To own something no one can take from you?" Alihan's grin twitched. His fingers tapped the table twice, delicate but unmistakable. A signal. A relic of the old world, when his word meant life or death. "I already do," he said slowly. Kemal picked up his glass again but didn’t drink. Instead, he turned it slightly, watching the liquid catch the light. Then he placed it back down, "Not anymore." The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The air grew heavier. Then, without ceremony, the door opened. Three men stepped in. Their presence spoke volumes. They had once answered to Alihan. Now, they belonged to Kemal. Below them, the casino carried on. Laughter, dice, the rustle of chips. But up here, everything was still. Alihan didn’t turn to look. He didn’t need to. His eyes stayed on Kemal as he slowly exhaled, then ran his tongue across his teeth. "You know what I admire about you, Kemal?" he said, calm but tight. "You never ask for permission." He raised his glass again, swirling it, the liquid inside trembling with the motion. "But I wonder… Are you ready for the weight of this chair? It’s heavier than it looks." Kemal leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table, "I’ve been carrying it for years." There was a pause... tense, brittle. Alihan laughed, brittle and bone-dry, "I should’ve had you killed six months ago." *** By dawn, Alihan Demir was gone. There was no spectacle, no bloodstained floors, no screams echoing through The Golden Mare. That was not Kemal Söze's way. Alihan had been escorted from the private salon with the same courtesy he had once commanded in life. Two of Kemal’s men flanked him without a word. No one in the casino turned to look. The silence was part of the theater, and a choreography of erasure. Outside, the city had fell into the stillness between night and morning. The humidity had softened, and a Mercedes idled at the curb, its windows tinted to keep the world out. Alihan entered without resistance. There was no struggle. No final insult. He simply buttoned his coat, adjusted his collar, and stepped into the back seat as though it were a carriage bound for another meeting. He knew where they were taking him. The road wound south, away from the city, up into the cliffs that framed the edge of Kyrenia like a crown. Below, the sea shone in silver ribbons, vast and endless. Alihan sat in silence, the leather of the seat groaning beneath him. The driver said nothing. Neither did the two men beside him. Finally, Alihan spoke, "He was always going to do it this way," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Like pulling a thorn." He laughed once, bitterly. "You know, there was a time I thought he might actually ask for my blessing. Thought maybe he had that much sentiment left in him." No one answered. The car turned off the road onto a gravel path that led to the cliff’s edge, a stretch of land known only to fishermen and men who didn’t need to be found. The sea beat gently against the rocks below as they stepped out. The air was cooler here, touched with wind. The moon hung low over the water, bright and indifferent. Alihan looked out at the horizon, hands tucked behind his back. "It’s beautiful," he said. "I never looked at it long enough." The wind tugged at his coat. Behind him, one of the men stepped forward. No ceremony. A single suppressed shot. Alihan staggered once, like a man trying to remember a step in an old dance, then crumpled to his knees and pitched forward. No cries. No final words. Just the slap of his body against the stone. The men moved quickly. His pockets were emptied, his coat removed. No rings or wallet, no trace left behind. His body was dragged to the edge and tipped without pause. The sea took him as it had taken kings, warriors, and forgotten sailors. The Mediterranean did not mourn. Kemal believed in many things. Elegance, order, patience. Mess was not one of them. Alihan would not be buried, as that would suggest legacy. The Mediterranean had consumed greater men, and it would do so again. Chapter 2: The Sound of Nothing (2079 words)

Just so it’s clear I think Garsh is a really nice person. I’m just dealing with some brutal depression in life and I find stuff like this really hard on my mental health. Last night I ended up having a few drinks for the first time in years to try and numb the pain, and I just need to surround myself with positivity. Do things I love. This sort of stuff bums me out and makes me feel worse. I was already hanging on by a string. Best to move on. Take care everyone!

Take care.

I wish I could be a good sport and laugh at this, but it haunts me instead. It's been so many years of seeing it again and again, it just makes me feel sad whenever someone posts it because when I wrote what I wrote I did it with the right intentions. For that to be used as laughing material over and over again to me it just feels like I'm being bullied (even though in a way I know it's not, it's just how it feels). Pleasure for all of you, pain for me.

Mad Villain’s offensive struggles this season have been a head scratcher, especially given his talent and past performance. With only 4 goals, 13 assists, and 17 points in 38 games, it’s clear he’s having a tough time putting up numbers for the Las Vegas Aces. A lot of factors could be at play here, but one potential reason could be the increased presence of higher TPE players in the VHLM this season. With a surge of top end talent across the league, Mad Villain might be facing stiffer competition, making it harder for him to dominate as he has in the past. It’s not uncommon for young players to have to adjust to a stronger, faster league filled with highly skilled players. On the other hand, it’s worth questioning whether the build could be part of the problem. I’ve never built a center before, so there’s a learning curve here, and maybe I’ve misallocated points or prioritized the wrong skills. Centers have to be versatile, covering faceoffs, playmaking, and defensive responsibilities, and balancing these traits could be where I’m missing the mark. Flying somewhat blind with this build, it’s possible Mad Villain lacks a focus that fits the team's style or his own strengths. I may need to recalibrate his attributes, focusing more on his scoring or playmaking, to get his offensive game back on track. Either way, some adjustments are definitely needed if we want to see Mad Villain lighting up the scoreboard again.