The narrow, garbage-lined alleys of the city's worst slum were Marco's training ground. Long before his supernatural physical transformation, he was already a weapon in human form.
Every dawn, before the first light cracked the horizon, Marco would train. Martial arts flowed through his veins like blood - Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai. His body was a precision instrument, honed through relentless discipline. Hours of shadowboxing, weapon training, and endurance exercises transformed him from a street kid into a lethal instrument.
For Marco, power was everything. The hierarchy of the criminal world was simple: the strongest ruled, the weakest survived or died. His boss, Don Rodrigo, saw potential in the young Marco - not just physical strength, but a cold, calculated approach to violence that set him apart.
His first confirmed kill came when he was just 19. A rival gang member who had crossed the syndicate. Marco didn't hesitate. One precise shot from 200 meters, through a crowded street market. Clean. Efficient. No witnesses.
As a sharp shooter, he was exceptional. As a hand-to-hand combatant, he was legendary within the syndicate's ranks. Marco believed in a brutal philosophy: the supreme being was not a spiritual entity, but the one who possessed absolute power. Strength was god. Mercy was weakness.
Countless bodies fell by his hand. Not out of passion or anger, but with the clinical precision of a surgeon. Each mission was a step closer to his ultimate goal - to potentially inherit the leadership of the syndicate.
Don Rodrigo watched Marco's progression with a mixture of pride and calculation. This wasn't just a soldier. This was a potential heir.
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Present Day
The car stopped. Smooth. Silent.
Marco stepped out, his body a coiled spring of potential energy. The transmitter in his ear went silent. A handler approached, presenting a sleek black suitcase.
Inside lay a photo of the target - a middle-aged politician with sharp eyes. Beside it, a custom-made handgun, its metal gleaming under the indirect light.
Marco's hand, scarred and powerful, took the weapon with the same casual precision he had used years ago in the slums. No emotion. No hesitation.
The car pulled away, leaving him alone in front of the nondescript building that would become the site of his next mission.
"Life is such a drag," Marco muttered, his eyes cold and calculating.