No one knows his real name. No one dares ask. In the ruins of the East District's slums, they simply call him Blizzard.
Not because he's cold. Not because he's silent. But because wherever he goes, lives are buried.
Blizzard was born in a rat-infested gutter, behind a run-down pub that sold expired beer and diluted drugs. His mother died in childbirth, and no one claimed the body. The old drunk who found the infant tried to sell him for spare change, but Blizzard bit off his ear. At two years old. That was the first time blood marked his life.
He was raised by the streets. Raised by hunger. Raised by pirated martial arts novels he downloaded off shady forums when he got access to his first broken tablet. He devoured stories of immortal emperors, ruthless assassins, and godly hackers.
And one day he whispered: "If I can't live in a world like theirs, I'll build one beneath this one."
Now, years later, he sits on a torn couch in an abandoned factory turned fortress. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. A dozen monitors glow with stolen data, tracking everything from darknet auctions to federal raid patterns. A kid, no older than ten, lies unconscious in a plastic-wrapped basement room nearby — another unlucky soul about to become profit.
Next to Blizzard's foot lies a rusted briefcase filled with counterfeit bills so real, even ATMs can't tell the difference.
He cracks open a can of cheap soda and logs into his site: MVL — "My Virtual Library".
To the public, it's a pirate's paradise. Thousands of stolen webnovels, locked premium content ripped and uploaded daily. It's a slap in the face to the publishing elite. A shrine to rebellion.
But to those who know the backdoor — MVL is more. A hidden market. A syndicate hub. A godless temple of deals, where children vanish, hackers are born, and addicts pay in souls.
The page refreshes. A message flashes in red:"FBI INTEREST SPIKED — CODE RED."
Blizzard doesn't flinch. He smiles, dragging a cigarette from between his lips.
"Let them come," he murmurs, his voice like a grave's whisper. "I built my empire from nothing. They can't erase what's already infected the system."
His phone buzzes — encrypted call. He answers.
"We got another delivery. Healthy organs. Fresh batch."
Blizzard nods. "Send it. Use the school route. Less police these days."
As the call ends, Blizzard leans back and stares at the ceiling.He's no hero. Never wanted to be.
He's the virus they couldn't quarantine.The shadow under the neon lights.The monster born from poverty, sharpened by fiction, and fed by chaos.
And his story has just begun.