Riyan's POV
18th May, XYZ Year
He wasn't at the construction site this morning.
The broker had confirmed his routine for three weeks—6:00 AM arrival at the industrial yard on Fifth. I'd staked it out myself. But today the yard was empty of his face, which meant he'd deviated or caught wind of something.
Backup plan: the Starbucks on Merchant Street. Afternoon routine, established for two weeks. 3:56 PM departure. The subway tunnels he used to cut through the city.
Still predictable. Just different timing.
I spent the morning refining the disguise in the motel bathroom.
The yellow t-shirt was size too large, deliberately threadbare at the collar and cuffs. Brown shorts, frayed, with actual dirt worked into the fabric—not stage dirt, but grime from real destitution. I'd practiced looking homeless for six months before coming to Cinber City.
The wig took the most work. Synthetic fibers, treated with ammonia solution and left in a plastic bag for days to develop that specific smell—sweat, filth, the chemical stench of unwashed hair. The knots were deliberate, placed where they'd catch light and look authentic. When I put it on, even I wanted to step away from myself.
Nobody looks at the homeless in Cinber City. They've learned not to.
At 2:30 PM, I was sitting on the concrete outside the Starbucks with a crumpled coffee cup and a cardboard sign I'd made three days ago. Anything helps.
Through the glass, I could see him in his corner booth.
The face was the same. Older, weathered, but the structure hadn't changed. Cruel set to the mouth. Eyes that didn't register human emotion. He was scrolling his phone, coffee beside him, comfortable in the way people get when they've been invisible for too long.
My hands didn't shake. They wouldn't. I'd trained past that response years ago.
He finished at 3:56 PM exactly. Paid his bill. Left a tip. Stood and stretched like a man with nowhere urgent to be.
I let him get half a block ahead before I rose, maintaining the shambling gait of someone malnourished. The disguise sold it—the way my body moved in the oversized clothes, the listless shuffle, the wig falling in front of my face.
He took Merchant Street south into the warehouse district. Turned left on Fifth. The neighborhoods got progressively worse—more boarded windows, more people on corners who didn't look up. Perfect.
Forty-three minutes of following at a distance that never closed, never stretched. Just movement. Just presence.
Then the alley. Behind a dumpster, a service door. Rusted. Half-hidden. He descended without checking for witnesses.
I followed.
The stairs were concrete, worn down the center from decades of footsteps. The air got colder as I descended, carrying that specific smell—mold, stagnant water, concrete dust. The fluorescent lights were mounted in the ceiling at irregular intervals, some flickering, some dark. The darkness between them was total.
I could see him ahead by the time I reached the tunnel floor. Maybe thirty meters. Walking with that same relaxed confidence.
The tunnel was empty. No homeless camps in this section—too exposed, too close to the main lines. No dealers. No witnesses.
Just distance and darkness.
I closed the gap in controlled increments. My breathing was steady. My movement made no sound on the worn concrete.
Twenty meters.
Fifteen.
My hand was already in my pocket, fingers on the syringe. Cool glass. The plunger was marked with a line indicating the correct dose—I'd tested it three times on subjects similar to his weight. Fifteen seconds for the drug to hit his system. Thirty seconds for unconsciousness. Four hours of chemical sleep, minimum.
Ten meters.
I moved fast at the end because it was faster and because there was no point in drawing it out.
My left hand clamped over his mouth from behind—no sound, no warning. The handkerchief I'd prepared muffled reflex. My right hand drove the syringe into his neck, just below the angle of his jaw, and I depressed the plunger in one motion.
He jerked. His hands came up, reaching back.
I was stronger than I looked. The years of deliberate physical conditioning had built muscle under the loose clothes. I held him steady.
"Easy," I said into his ear. My voice sounded like nothing—no inflection, no heat.
His body started losing coordination almost immediately. The drug was fast. His hands, which had clawed at my wrist with actual panic, began to lose pressure. His legs went soft.
I lowered him to the ground and held him there, making sure he was fully under before I released him.
He collapsed onto the tunnel floor, breathing still steady from the drug. Unconscious.
I stood over him for a moment, checking his pulse—present, strong—and then I pulled out the burner phone.
One ring.
"Done," I said.
"Location?"
"Section 7, eastern tunnel, thirty meters from access point 4."
"Fifteen minutes. Payment ready?"
"Yes."
The line went dead.
I looked down at the man on the ground. Nine years from the moment his knife went into my mother's stomach to this moment. Nine years of studying patterns, building contacts, moving money through channels that couldn't be traced.
All of it led here.
Furia materialized beside me, her shadow-form indistinct in the flickering light.
"It's done," I said.
"The hunt is finished," she replied. "Now begins the rest."
I didn't respond. Just waited for the black market cleanup crew and thought about the warehouse waiting in the industrial district. The one I'd prepared two years ago. The one nobody would ever find because it was scheduled for controlled demolition in the spring.
The one where the real work would happen.
READER ENGAGEMENT CORNER
Questions for you, dear readers:
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?
Furia's role - Is she helping or corrupting him? Is she even real, or a manifestation of his fractured psyche?
What comes next? What do you think Riyan has planned for the killer in his warehouse?
Drop your thoughts, theories, and reactions in the comments!
📢 SHOW YOUR SUPPORT! 📢
Enjoying the dark journey into Riyan's past?
⚡ Power Stones - Vote to keep chapters coming! 💎 Golden Tickets - Show premium support! ⭐ Reviews & Ratings - Help others discover this story! 💬 Comments - Your feedback shapes the narrative!
Every bit of support helps bring more chapters to life!
— Lone Raut