Riyan's POV...
18th May, XYZ Year...
As I stand at the precipice of vengeance, my heart pounds with an unrelenting ferocity, like a blacksmith's hammer forging an unyielding resolve.
Today is the day. The day I've been waiting for with bated breath for nine long years. The day I'll finally confront the sadistic killer who has haunted my every waking moment. The anticipation is palpable, a living, breathing entity that courses through my veins like liquid fire.
According to the information I received last night from the Black Market's Intelligence Unit, my quarry has established a routine in Cinber City. Every afternoon, he visits the same Starbucks on Merchant Street, orders the same drink, sits in the same corner booth for exactly forty-five minutes.
Predictable. Comfortable. Careless.
Cinber City—the infamous metropolis shrouded in darkness and deceit, one of the main hubs of the Nation's Underworld. A city where the sun never seems to shine quite right, where shadows linger too long, and where people who want to disappear can do so with remarkable ease.
It's a place where the damned and the depraved roam free, where the rule of law is more theater than reality, and where those with enough money or violence at their disposal can operate with impunity.
And yet, it's here, in this urban abyss, that I'll find my nemesis. The monster who transformed me from an innocent child into this cold, calculated instrument of retribution.
The irony isn't lost on me—he came here thinking himself safe in the shadows, never realizing that I'd learned to navigate darkness far deeper than any city could provide.
I spent the morning preparing my disguise with meticulous care. Every detail matters when stalking prey as dangerous as this.
I'm clad in a tattered and faded yellow t-shirt, its once-vibrant hue now dulled by intentional wear. The fabric is threadbare in strategic places, with small holes and stains that tell a story of poverty and neglect.
My rugged shorts, a deep, earthy brown, are equally distressed, with frayed hems and a patina of carefully applied dirt that suggests days spent on the streets.
But my masterpiece is the wig—a wild tangle of long, muddy locks that reeks of authenticity. I spent weeks preparing it, treating the synthetic fibers with various substances to achieve that perfect combination of grime, sweat, and desperation.
The strands are matted and knotted in precisely the right places, and the pungent aroma that wafts from it is convincing enough to make people turn away in disgust.
This carefully crafted disguise transforms me into one of Cinber City's countless homeless youth—invisible, pitied, and most importantly, dismissed. People don't look at the homeless. They look through them, past them, anywhere but at them.
It's the perfect camouflage for a hunter stalking dangerous prey.
I position myself on the footpath outside the Starbucks on Merchant Street at exactly 2:30 PM, settling into the role of a young vagrant seeking handouts. My eyes, however, are anything but aimless.
Through the large glass windows, I can see him clearly.
Even after nine years, I recognize him instantly. That face—older now, more weathered, but still carrying that same cruel set to the mouth, that same cold calculation in the eyes—is seared into my memory with perfect clarity.
He's sitting in his usual corner booth, sipping what appears to be a latte, scrolling through his phone with the casual ease of someone who believes himself safe, anonymous, beyond the reach of consequences.
How wrong he is.
My fingers curl into fists as memories threaten to overwhelm me—Mom's screams, Dad's futile struggle, the blood, the helplessness. But I force the emotions down, locking them away in the cold place inside me that Furia helped me create.
Emotion is the enemy of execution. I need to be ice, not fire.
At exactly 3:56 PM, like clockwork, he emerges from the coffee shop, a look of satisfaction on his face. He's grown confident in his routine, comfortable in his assumed safety.
Fatal mistakes, both.
With the practiced ease of someone who's spent years observing human behavior, I rise from my position, careful to maintain the shambling gait of someone weakened by hunger and hardship. I keep my distance—not so close that he'd notice, not so far that I'd lose him in the city's twisted streets.
He walks with purpose, taking familiar turns through neighborhoods that grow progressively seedier. Perfect. The deeper into Cinber's underbelly we go, the less likely anyone will interfere or even care what happens.
Forty-six minutes of careful tracking leads us exactly where my intelligence suggested it would—to the old, abandoned subway tunnel system. When Cinber City built its new, modern transit system fifteen years ago, they simply sealed off the old tunnels rather than demolishing them.
Now they serve as a forgotten network beneath the city, used only by those who prefer to operate outside the law's gaze.
The entrance he uses is a service door hidden behind a dumpster in an alley that even the city's desperate homeless avoid. As he descends into the darkness, I follow at a measured distance, my footsteps silent on the worn concrete stairs.
The tunnel system is dimly lit by sporadic, flickering fluorescent lights that create more shadows than illumination. The air is thick with the scent of decay and stagnant water. The only sounds are the distant drip of water and the faint hum of electrical systems somewhere in the depths.
It's been nine minutes since we entered the tunnels. My reconnaissance from yesterday confirmed that this particular section is completely isolated—no homeless camps, no drug dens, no witnesses.
Just perfect, isolated darkness.
I can see him ahead, perhaps thirty meters distant, walking with the confidence of someone who's traveled this route many times before. Whatever business brings him down here, it's made him comfortable, complacent.
His final mistake.
I close the distance with practiced stealth, my breathing controlled, my movements fluid and silent. Years of preparation have led to this moment, and my body moves with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers closing around the syringe containing the carefully measured dose of sedative. The cool glass is reassuring against my palm. I've tested the dosage three times on subjects of similar build—it will incapacitate within fifteen seconds, render him unconscious within thirty, with effects lasting approximately four hours.
More than enough time for what comes next.
Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten.
My heart pounds, but my hands are steady. This is what I've trained for. This is what every moment of the last nine years has been building toward.
Five meters.
I strike with the speed and precision of a viper. My left hand clamps over his mouth from behind, the crisp white handkerchief I prepared muffling any cry of alarm. Simultaneously, my right hand drives the syringe into the vulnerable skin of his neck, depressing the plunger in one smooth motion.
He jerks in surprise, his body tensing, hands reaching up to grab at me. But I'm ready for his resistance. I'm stronger than I look, years of preparation having built my body into something far more capable than my disguise suggests.
"Shhhh," I whisper into his ear, my voice cold, devoid of emotion. "It's almost over. Just let it take you."
I feel his struggles beginning to weaken as the sedative floods his system. His hands, which had been clawing at mine with desperate strength, begin to lose coordination. His body sways, weight beginning to slump against me.
Fifteen seconds. His movements become sluggish, uncoordinated.
Twenty seconds. His knees buckle, and I lower him carefully to the ground, maintaining my hold.
Thirty seconds. His eyes roll back, consciousness fading into chemical darkness.
I hold him for another full minute, ensuring the sedative has taken complete effect, before finally releasing my grip and letting him collapse fully onto the tunnel floor.
For a long moment, I simply stand there, looking down at the unconscious form of the man who murdered my parents. Nine years of waiting, planning, preparing—and here he is, helpless at my feet.
The cold satisfaction that fills me is unlike anything I've ever experienced.
I pull out my burner phone and dial the pre-arranged number. It rings once before a gruff voice answers.
"Done," I say simply.
"Location?"
"Section 7, eastern tunnel, thirty meters from access point 4."
"Fifteen minutes. Have the payment ready."
The line goes dead.
I look down at the killer once more, and a cold smile crosses my face.
"Nine years," I whisper to his unconscious form. "Nine years I've waited for this moment. But don't worry—we're just getting started. The real justice comes next."
Furia's presence manifests beside me, her shadowy form radiating approval.
"Well done, Riyan," she whispers. "Now the true work begins."
I nod, my smile widening.
Now, the true work begins.
**READER ENGAGEMENT CORNER**
**Questions for you, dear readers:**
1. **How far is too far?** Is Riyan justified in his quest for vengeance, or has he crossed a moral line that can't be uncrossed?
2. **Furia's role** - Is she helping or corrupting him? Is she even real, or a manifestation of his fractured psyche?
3. **What comes next?** What do you think Riyan has planned for the killer in his "special place"?
Drop your thoughts, theories, and reactions in the comments!
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