Riyan's POV...
Since that fateful day, a burning, unquenchable thirst for vengeance had taken up residence within me, festering like an open wound that refused to heal.
The memory of my parents' brutal murder at the hands of that sadistic killer still lingered, haunting my every waking moment. The pain and anguish that had ravaged my young heart had morphed into a cold, calculated determination to exact revenge on the monster who had destroyed my family.
Every so often, like a gentle breeze on a sweltering summer day, Furia would materialize beside me, her presence which was covered in black was a comforting balm to my tormented soul.
Her words of wisdom and encouragement would wash over me, tempering my rage and steeling my resolve. In those moments, I felt an unshakeable conviction that I would one day bring the perpetrator to justice, no matter the cost.
As I navigated the treacherous landscape of my adolescence, I concocted a meticulous plan for my future, a roadmap to revenge that would unfold with the precision of a Swiss timepiece.
I would bide my time, waiting patiently until I reached the age of seventeen or eighteen, when my mind and body would be sufficiently honed to carry out the task at hand.
Until then, I would dedicate myself to the pursuit of knowledge, devouring books on criminology, psychology, and forensic science like a starving scholar.
I would study with a fervor, earning top grades in school and absorbing every shred of information that could aid me in my quest for vengeance.
The orphanage became my training ground, each day another step toward my ultimate goal. While other children played and laughed, I observed, analyzed, studied. I learned to read people, to understand their motivations, their weaknesses, their fears.
I delved deep into the twisted minds of serial killers, understanding the motivations that drove them to commit such heinous crimes. I studied their patterns, their methods, their psychological profiles with an intensity that bordered on obsession.
The librarians at the local library came to know me by name, watching with curiosity as this quiet, intense young man devoured book after book on subjects most teenagers wouldn't dare approach.
Criminal psychology. Forensic pathology. Interrogation techniques. Behavioral analysis. I consumed it all, building a mental arsenal that would one day serve my purpose.
At night, when the other orphans slept, I would lie awake, visualizing the moment of confrontation. I would replay scenarios in my mind, considering every variable, every possible outcome. What would I say? How would he react? What methods would ensure he couldn't escape?
Furia appeared during these dark vigils, her shadowy form sitting beside my bed, offering guidance that felt both comforting and disturbing.
"Patience, Riyan," she would whisper, her voice like silk over steel. "Revenge is a dish best served cold. But when the time comes, you must be merciless. He showed your parents no mercy. You must show him none."
Her words echoed in my mind, fueling the cold fire that burned within me.
Years passed. I grew taller, stronger, more focused. My body developed from that of a traumatized child into that of a young man hardened by purpose. I exercised religiously, building strength and endurance. I learned to move silently, to observe without being seen, to blend into crowds.
By the time I turned sixteen, I had begun making contacts in the darker corners of society. The orphanage's location in the seedier part of New Creek provided opportunities most wouldn't recognize. I learned about the black market, about information brokers, about people who could find anyone for the right price.
I took odd jobs, saved every penny, built a network of resources that would prove invaluable when the time came.
At seventeen, I made my first significant contact with the Information Unit of the Black Market. It cost me nearly everything I'd saved, but they promised results. They would track down the killer, monitor his movements, notify me when the opportunity arose.
"He moves around a lot," the broker told me, his face hidden in shadow. "Paranoid type. Never stays in one place long. But everyone makes mistakes eventually. We'll find him."
And so I waited. Patient. Focused. Ready.
My eighteenth birthday came and went without celebration. It was simply another day in my preparation, another day closer to the moment I'd been anticipating for nearly a decade.
Then, six months after my eighteenth birthday, the call came.
"He's in Cinber City," the gravelly voice on the other end informed me. "Arrived three days ago. We've confirmed his identity and location. He's gotten sloppy, comfortable. This is your window."
My heart, which had been beating steadily for years with cold determination, suddenly thundered in my chest. After all this time, after all this preparation, the moment had finally arrived.
I packed light—just the essentials. The syringe containing a carefully measured dose of sedative. A burner phone with pre-programmed numbers. Cash. A change of clothes. And the disguise I'd prepared for this very occasion.
As I boarded the bus to Cinber City, Furia appeared in the empty seat beside me, invisible to everyone but me.
"Are you ready?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of anticipation.
"I've been ready for nine years," I replied quietly, staring out the window at the passing landscape.
"Remember, Riyan," she said, her tone turning serious. "Once you cross this line, there's no going back. You will be forever changed."
"I was forever changed the night they died," I said flatly. "This is just the conclusion of a story that began then."
She said nothing more, but I felt her approval radiating from her shadowy form.
Cinber City loomed before me as the bus pulled into the station—a sprawling metropolis where light and shadow danced in eternal conflict, where the law was more suggestion than rule, where people came to disappear or to make others disappear.
It was the perfect hunting ground.
I checked into a dingy motel under a false name, paying cash for a week's stay though I only needed a day or two. The room was small, musty, with stained wallpaper and a bed that had seen better decades. But it was private, anonymous, and that was all that mattered.
I spent the evening reviewing my plan, checking and rechecking every detail. The sedative dosage—enough to incapacitate but not kill. The extraction point—the abandoned Old Subway tunnel, isolated and forgotten. The hired help from the black market—professionals who asked no questions and left no traces.
And the special place I'd prepared. A location even more isolated than the subway tunnel. A place where screams wouldn't be heard, where justice—my justice—would finally be served.
As night fell over Cinber City, I lay on the lumpy motel bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling, my mind crystal clear despite the magnitude of what tomorrow would bring.
"Tomorrow," I whispered into the darkness. "Tomorrow, Mom and Dad, I'll make him pay for what he did to you. I promise."
Furia's presence filled the room, her approval palpable even without words.
Tomorrow, the wait would finally end.
Tomorrow, vengeance would be mine.
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