Chapter 34. Riyan's Past Life...[5]
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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 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 ripe age of 14 or 15, 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.
I would become an expert in the dark arts of human psychology, delving deep into the twisted minds of serial killers and understanding the motivations that drove them to commit such heinous crimes.
My ultimate goal was to orchestrate the perfect, calculated execution of the sadistic murderer who had shattered my world.
I would be conductor of a symphony of revenge that would culminate in the killer's downfall. The thought sent shivers down my spine, a delicious thrill of anticipation that I savored with every fiber of my being.
....
Time Skip...
Around 8 Years Later,
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's the day, the day I've been waiting for with bated breath, the day I'll unleash a maelstrom of fury upon 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 cryptic whispers and hushed rumors I've managed to extract from the shadowy Information Unit of the Black Market, a clandestine organization notorious for peddling secrets and lies, my quarry should have arrived in the city I currently in – the infamous City of Cinber, a metropolis shrouded in darkness and deceit, one of the main hubs of the Nation's Underworld.
Cinber, a city where the sun never shines bright, where the air reeks of corruption and desperation, and where the very fabric of society seems to be woven from the threads of moral decay.
It's a place where the damned and the depraved roam free, where the rule of law is a distant memory, and where the strong prey on the weak. And yet, it's here, in this urban abyss, that I'll find my nemesis, the monster who has driven me to the brink of madness.
...
I'm clad in a tattered and faded yellow t-shirt, its once-vibrant hue now dulled by the relentless onslaught of time and wear. The fabric is threadbare in places, with tiny holes and snags that whisper tales of countless wash cycles and rough handling.
My rugged shorts, a deep, earthy brown, are equally battered, with frayed hems and a patina of dirt that suggests they've been dragged through the very streets I now inhabit.
But it's not just my clothes that are a testament to my supposed station in life - I had worn a wig, a wild tangle of long, muddy locks, reeks of neglect and desperation.
The strands are matted and knotted, as if they've been ravaged by the elements, and the pungent aroma of stale sweat and dirt wafts up from the synthetic fibers like a noxious cloud.
This, my carefully crafted disguise, is designed to deceive, to blend in with the downtrodden and forgotten souls that haunt the city's streets.
And so, I sit, a picture of abject poverty, on the footpath outside the bustling Starbucks branch in Cinber City, my eyes fixed on the entrance with an intensity that borders on obsession.
My target, a man of discerning taste and refined sensibilities, is currently sipping a latte inside, oblivious to the fact that his every move is being tracked with the precision of a predator stalking its prey.
As the minutes tick by, I wait with bated breath, my senses on high alert, until exactly 15:56, when my quarry emerges from the coffee shop, a look of satisfaction on his face.
And then, with the stealth of a ghost, I rise from my haunches, my eyes locked on his retreating figure as I follow him, my footsteps light, my movements economical, careful not to alert him to my presence.
...
I've been tailing him for what feels like an eternity - 46 minutes to be exact - waiting for the perfect moment to strike. My heart has been racing with anticipation, my senses on high alert as I track his every move.
Finally, we find ourselves in the dimly lit, abandoned Old Subway tunnel, a relic of a bygone era that few dare to venture into since the new Subway system was built.
The air is thick with the scent of decay and neglect, the only sound being the faint hum of a lone, flickering fluorescent light overhead.
As I confirm that we're truly alone, the silence is almost palpable. I can feel the weight of my mission bearing down on me, my palms growing sweaty as I slowly, deliberately close in on my unsuspecting target. My eyes are fixed on the back of his head, my mind racing with the possibilities.
With the stealth of a predator, I creep up behind him, my footsteps muffled by the worn, dusty tiles beneath my feet.
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers closing around the cool, smooth surface of the syringe containing the anesthetic. I can feel my pulse quickening as I prepare to make my move.
In one swift, practiced motion, I inject the contents of the syringe into the vulnerable skin of his neck, the needle glinting in the faint light.
At the same time, I clamp my hand over his mouth, muffling any potential cry of alarm with a crisp, white handkerchief. The fabric is soft against my skin, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated act I'm committing.
The seconds tick by like hours as I wait for the anesthetic to take effect. My grip on his mouth remains firm, my eyes locked on his face as his eyelids begin to droop, his body swaying slightly before crumpling to the ground.
The sound of his unconscious body hitting the tile is a dull thud, a stark reminder of the gravity of my actions.
With my mission accomplished, I swiftly pull out my phone and dial a pre-arranged number, my voice low and urgent as I summon the Some people I hired from Black Market to collect the sedated body and transfer the body to the 'Special' place I have prepared for him.
....
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Next Chapter "35. Riyan's Past Life...[6]"
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