In the bustling, unforgiving streets of New York City, a thirteen-year-old boy, dark-skinned and dressed in tattered clothes, scavenged for food in overflowing trash bins. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a constant reminder of his harsh reality. "In this world," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, "money and power reign supreme. Those without them suffer." His parents, burdened by debt, had abandoned him, leaving him to fend for himself. Tears welled in his eyes. "If you weren't going to take care of me," he sobbed, "why did you even have me?" A fierce determination ignited within him, fueled by pain and desperation. "If money is power," he vowed, wiping his tears away, "I'm going to climb to the top, no matter what it takes."
Twenty years later, he stood at the pinnacle of his ambition. He wore a crisp white suit, his head shaved clean, a stark contrast to the ragged boy he once was. He was now the leader of one of the world's most powerful criminal organizations, dealing in drugs, extortion, and money lending. He had achieved the top, just as he had promised himself. But he knew the precariousness of his position. Even a slight tremor could bring the whole edifice crashing down.
That tremor came in the form of a betrayal. A young man he had taken off the streets, a boy whose family couldn't repay the debt he had lent them, turned against him. Surrounded by his former protégé and other gang members, he heard the chilling words: "If you hadn't lent them the money, they wouldn't be in debt, and they wouldn't have abandoned their kid." The young man sneered, "You're a fool if you think your parents ever cared about you."
"You're lying," he retorted, a flicker of the hurt child still visible in his eyes.
"Suit yourself," the young man shrugged.
A chilling smile spread across his face. "If you think I'm going to die without a fight," he hissed, "you're fucking stupid." He lunged at his former associates, a knife flashing in his hand. Gunfire erupted, bullets tearing into his flesh, but he didn't stop. He moved with a frenzied rage, a whirlwind of violence, cutting down several gang members. They cried out, calling him a demon. He laughed maniacally, even as more bullets ripped into him, until finally, he collapsed, his white suit now a crimson mess.
As he lay dying, he thought to himself, I knew this might happen one day. Those at the top can always fall. He looked up, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky. "If there's a God out there," he rasped, "fuck you." He wasn't afraid of death; he had taken too many lives himself to claim any righteousness. But the question lingered: What happens after? Rebirth? Heaven? Hell? Or just… nothingness? His eyes closed, and the world faded to black.
The gang members, shaken by the sheer ferocity of his last stand, whispered amongst themselves, "He wasn't human. He killed half the men we brought. How could one man do that?"
In the instant of his death, his consciousness found itself adrift in a dark, empty void. "So," he thought, "it's just darkness." But then, a faint light appeared in the distance, growing brighter with each passing moment. He felt himself drawn towards it, rushing through the void until a blinding flash of light engulfed him.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself cradled in the arms of a dark-skinned woman with long, pointy ears and flowing hair. He was utterly bewildered. Did I just meet a black female God? he thought. He tried to speak, to ask who she was, but only a baby's cry escaped his lips. He looked down at his own hands and saw tiny, infant fingers. I'm a baby? he realized, shock and confusion warring within him.