In Lookism as the MOAB

Doo Lee groaned as the hot water cascaded over his battered body, steam rising from his skin as he stood under the shower. The heat worked its magic, soothing his muscles, while he could almost feel his bones falling back into place. "Thankfully, nothing's broken," he muttered to himself, letting out a tired sigh. He turned off the water, reached for a towel, and began drying himself. His long, black hair clung to his face until he pulled it back, tying it loosely. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom and walked straight to the fridge.

Inside was his trusty bottle of tequila—a massive one, the kind that could probably sedate an elephant. He grabbed it without hesitation. Visiting the hospital wasn't an option every time his body gave out. Instead, when exhaustion or pain became unbearable, he relied on small sips of alcohol to dull the ache. Except today, he wasn't in the mood for moderation.

He grabbed a chair and dragged it to the side of the bed. Two figures were curled up, fast asleep on the mattress. Rachel and Sujin Kim. Doo's lips twisted into a wry smile as he stared at them. Sujin Kim, who was supposed to be dead according to the canon timeline, was very much alive—and it was all because Doo had decided she was simply too adorable to meet such a fate. Rachel, on the other hand, had found refuge in his home because her parents were hospitalized, likely due to overdosing on pure opium cultivated in Cheonliang. The irony wasn't lost on him.

He uncapped the tequila bottle, taking a small sip. The fiery liquid burned down his throat, bringing colour to his cheeks. But it wasn't enough. The pain was far too deep, both physical and mental. With a resigned shrug, Doo tipped the bottle and began chugging it down. He had never drunk this much in one go, but tonight the anguish demanded it.

Doo uncapped the bottle of tequila, its potent aroma hitting his senses immediately. With a slight grimace, he brought it to his lips and took a tentative sip. The liquid burned its way down his throat, igniting a fire in his chest. His face turned red almost instantly, the heat from the alcohol mingling with the natural flush of his battered body.

"This much won't do," he muttered under his breath, the pain gnawing at him like a relentless beast. His muscles ached, his bones felt like they were grinding against each other, and his skin bore the marks of recent battles. The usual remedy of small sips wasn't cutting it tonight. He tilted the bottle higher, letting the fiery liquid flow freely. One gulp turned into another, and before he realized it, he was chugging the entire bottle. The sheer quantity of alcohol he consumed could easily knock out an elephant, but Doo didn't care. The agony was too much to bear, and his body screamed for relief, no matter the cost.

What Doo didn't realize—what he had never realized—was that alcohol did more than numb his pain. It transformed him. The moment the fiery liquid entered his bloodstream, it stirred something dormant deep within him, a primal and uncontrollable rage. This wasn't the Doo Lee who smirked through fights or calculated his moves; this was a beast, a force of nature that sought out chaos and destruction.

Each time he blacked out from drinking, he became something monstrous. A shadow of himself that only surfaced in the haze of intoxication. It wasn't just the physical change—although his body seemed to move with a ferocity and precision he couldn't replicate sober—it was his very essence that shifted.

This darker side didn't just lash out randomly; it sought strength. It craved opponents who could challenge it, foes who could match its raw power. And time after time, this drunken monster found them. Strong men, fearsome warriors, and even the iconic figures of the PTJ Universe—each one met Doo's alter ego in battle and fell to his overwhelming might. The scars on his body were proof of these encounters, yet Doo himself had no memory of them. 

His drunken state unlocked an untamed energy that even he couldn't comprehend. Fights he couldn't possibly have won while sober somehow became effortless under the influence. It wasn't just strength; it was a primal instinct, a predator's unrelenting drive to dominate. And yet, every time, Doo woke with no recollection of his feats, no understanding of the destruction he had wrought. The only clues were his aching body and the fearful whispers of those who had witnessed his rampages. but he just dismissed something as trivial and thought of some sleep walking stuff.

The tequila hit hard and fast. Slumping back in the chair, Doo felt the weight of sleep dragging him under. But just as his eyelids began to close, a loud bang reverberated through the house. He shot up with a groggy curse, stumbling as he grabbed a pair of pants and hastily pulled them on. His chest remained bare, scars from countless battles etched across his skin. Sword slashes, axe cuts, and the faint redness of alcohol painted an intimidating picture.

Dragging himself to the door, he swung it open and was greeted by a sight straight out of a gangster movie. A fleet of black Range Rovers lined the street, their polished exteriors gleaming under the dim lights. Dozens of men in black suits stood in a parade-like formation, their stern faces betraying no emotion.

Doo squinted at them, annoyance clear in his tone 'Now what the fuck is this!'. "You've got the wrong house," he grumbled, his words slightly slurred. He tried to stand tall, exuding his usual aura of confidence, but his body was betraying him. The alcohol had dulled his senses, and he was on the verge of collapsing.

One of the men stepped forward and extended a phone. "Sir You need to take this," he said curtly.

With a grunt, Doo accepted the phone, holding it to his ear. The voice on the other end was deep and gruff, laden with urgency. "Marco... no, Doo Lee. I know this is sudden, but you're in grave danger. You need to leave with the people I've sent immediately."

Doo's frown deepened. "What are you talking about?" he snapped, his irritation barely masked.

The voice continued, unperturbed. "Your brother, Russel... he's dead. Killed. They're targeting everyone connected to the family. The family needs you now."

The words struck like a lightning bolt, unlocking memories Doo had forgotten. His current family—the kind people who had taken him in when he was just a frightened 10-year-old—weren't his real family. His true origins were far darker and traumatic. He remembered shivering under a bench on a cold night, terrified and alone, his young mind scarred by the violent and gruesome things he had witnessed. Those memories was so traumatic that his own mind locked them away , cause the old Doo was a pathetic Whimpey kid.

Doo handed the phone back to the suited man, his hand trembling slightly. His voice was firm, despite the alcohol's hold. "Take the girls too," he said, gesturing toward the sleeping figures on his bed.

Even if he tried to fight them here, winning against all these buff guys is not a possible outcome considering the state he is in right now.

The men nodded in unison, swiftly moving to the bedroom. Doo watched as they carefully picked up Rachel and Sujin, loading them into the back of one of the Range Rovers. Meanwhile, he staggered toward another car, banging his hand against his forehead in a futile attempt to stay awake. His vision blurred, but he managed to climb into the vehicle.

.

.

.

The boy nestled against his mother's lap, his eyes filled with innocent curiosity. "Who is Marco, Mom?" he asked softly, his voice breaking the stillness of the room. The mention of the name caught the attention of the other children, and they all turned their heads, equally curious.

Before the boy's mother could answer, another woman sitting nearby took the opportunity to speak, her voice carrying an air of solemnity. "Other than your dad and Russell…" she began, her gaze distant as if peering into the past. "Your grandfather Marcus had another son, the youngest of his three sons —Marco Escobar. He wasn't born to your grandmother, though. He was the child of an affair Marcus had with a Korean woman. No one knows her name. Not even Marco. And he never asked. He didn't even want to know."

The children exchanged puzzled looks, trying to comprehend the complexity of the revelation. "Why didn't he want to know?" one of them asked tentatively.

The woman shook her head, a faint, bittersweet smile on her lips. "He was… different. Out of all of us, he was the calmest. He was older than me and always treated me like his little sister. Marco was the kind of person who would do anything for his family, no matter what it cost him. He was protective, kind, but also a little… mad in his own way. If he cared about you, there was nothing he wouldn't do."

Her voice softened, and the children leaned in closer, captivated by her words. "But one day, he went with our father somewhere. None of us knew where they were going. And after that, neither of them came back. It was like they vanished into thin air. I begged your father, George, for answers. I thought he'd tell me something, anything, about what happened to them. But all he said was not to look for Marco. He said it was better that way, that at least Marco might escape this… this blood game we're all caught in."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words sinking in. The children sat still, wide-eyed, their imaginations running wild with thoughts of a mysterious uncle they had never met. Thunder rumbled outside, a deep, resonating sound that made the windows tremble slightly. The youngest of the group whimpered and clung tightly to their sibling, startled by the sudden noise.

"And now…" the woman continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "after five years, he's being brought back."

Her words hung in the air like an approaching storm, heavy with foreboding. The elder woman in the corner, who had been quietly observing the conversation, finally spoke, her tone filled with unease. "Mariah," she said, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the younger woman. "I don't know why, but my heart tells me… something is going to happen. Something big."

The children huddled closer, the sound of rain beginning to patter against the windows. Outside, the storm grew, the thunderclaps growing louder, as if echoing the unease that had settled over the family. Inside, the air was thick with tension, a sense of impending change that none of them could shake.