"Man is something that shall be overcome"
Vincent was raised in a poor Italian immigrant household in Brooklyn, New York. His father, Jacob, was a butcher who worked at a small rented butcher shop to make ends meet, while his mother, Eleanor, sold flowers right outside their storefront. Despite their financial struggles, Vincent lived a cheerful life as a child. His mother always kept a smile on her face while selling flowers and conversing with the customers, which brought Vincent a strange comfort. It reassured him that his mother loved her work. His father, too, would impart lessons to him, often reciting, "What is great in man that he is a bridge and not a goal." Jacob emphasized that humans are meant to evolve and strive toward higher ideals, never settling for being an end point. Vincent never fully understood his father's obsession with quoting philosophers, but he always looked forward to those moments.
Jacob frequently mentioned that before coming to America to pursue the American Dream, he had worked as an apprentice to a well-known butcher in Naples. The butcher shop was owned by Eleanor's father, a powerful businessman known throughout the streets of Naples, Sicily, and Genoa. Vincent was always curious to learn more about his family's roots or why his parents had left Italy, but neither his philosophical father nor his loving mother ever provided him with a clear answer. Despite this, Vincent loved spending time with his family.
In addition to his close-knit family, Vincent made many friends by the time he was nine. He spent nearly every day playing in the park with the other children. Despite their modest income, Vincent's parents ensured that all his needs and wants were met, determined to raise their son as a proud American, just like the other kids Vincent spent so much time with.
At the age of ten, Vincent, as usual, came home just as the sun was beginning to set. "Mama, I'm home!" he called out, announcing his arrival. "I saw the shop was closed early. Is Papa here too, Ma?" he asked. A voice that Vincent didn't recognize replied from inside the house, "Oh, your father's here, kid." Confused yet curious, Vincent rushed inside and found his mother tied up and hanging upside down from a hook, one typically found in slaughterhouses. His father, Jacob, was being choked by a tall, strange man dressed entirely in black.
Vincent froze, his body unable to move as another man, similarly dressed in black, approached and sliced his mother in half with his father's butcher knife. The man smirked coldly and said, "Man is the cruelest animal, kid." Vincent stood motionless, drenched in his mother's blood, staring in horror at the gruesome scene. Her lower body remained suspended by the hook, swaying back and forth, spraying blood in all directions, while her upper body lay grotesquely on the ground near his feet. Vincent couldn't find the words to speak. His innocent mind couldn't comprehend why anyone would kill his ever-smiling, sweet mother.
Desperate for answers, Vincent shifted his gaze toward his father, searching for some sign of what was happening. Jacob, gasping for breath as his life slipped away, looked at his son with pained eyes. He could barely summon enough strength to speak, but when he did, his voice was a mere whisper: "RUN."
As Vincent watched his father's life being choked out of him, standing in the pool of his mother's blood, only one thought occupied his mind—his father's last words. So, he ran. He ran from the killers, ran from the life he had known, ran from everything. He ran, overwhelmed by an unimaginable horror, with only the need to survive pushing him forward. He had just witnessed something no child should ever witness. And all he could do was… RUN.
Sudden lightening illuminated the darkened room and shook Vincent out of his reverie
"Run. Yes... I need to run." Vincent muttered to himself as he stared down at the lifeless body of Emily Denvers. "I don't even know this woman. I should leave... Yes, Vincent, leave her alone. Run."
He retraced his steps, moving farther away from the body. With each step, Emily's form grew smaller in his perspective, but it felt as if her unblinking eyes were still fixed on him, silently demanding something. He paused, uncertainty creeping into his mind. Should he do the same thing he did when he saw his parents die?
Maybe I could've helped them... Maybe they would still be alive... Maybe I should've been the one to die instead of Mama and Papa.
Those thoughts had haunted Vincent ever since that dreadful evening. The weight of guilt and regret pressed heavily on his chest, reminding him that as a child, he was powerless to save his parents. Or perhaps, I was a coward, he whispered to himself.
At that moment, something shifted within him. A quiet resolve began to take root. Slowly, Vincent turned and walked back toward Emily's lifeless body. Crouching down beside her, he donned a pair of gloves, gently closing her eyes with his fingers. "I will find the son of a bitch who did this to you, Miss Emily," he said softly, his voice steady. "That is my answer to the 'why' of my reason to live now. Emily Denvers, I will remember you."
Standing up, Vincent took a moment to compose himself before reaching for his burner phone. He dialed 911, reporting the body at the Denvers estate anonymously, then calmly hung up. He made sure to destroy any trace of his presence, wiping away all evidence cauced by him before slipping quietly out of the house.
As Vincent walked down the alley, his mind lingered on memories of his mother's sweet smile, his father's proud face, and Emily's flustered expression. He took a deep, steadying breath, the weight of his new purpose settling over him like a cloak.
"Kyle Denvers, you son of a bitch" Vincent muttered under his breath. "Let's start with you."