My head throbs as I reluctantly open my eyes. The remnants of last night's indulgence cling to my senses. It was a familiar ritual, an escapade into the realm of mortal pleasures that held no novelty for someone like me, who had long surpassed the frivolities of ordinary existence. The night unfolded in a blur of reckless abandon, leaving in its wake a satisfaction that surpassed the mere mortal experience.
The lingering scent of alcohol evokes memories from last night. I can't help but recall the numerous bottles I consumed. Surprisingly, I find myself reflecting on the extent to which I indulged in the world of spirits. The sophisticated flavors captivated even me, an elven immortal, leaving me unexpectedly hooked.
As I rise from my bed, the warmth of two human females lingers beside me. Their sleeping faces bear the smirks of satisfaction, reminders of the elven immortals' ability to revel in the pleasures that humans offer. It's a routine, a cycle that my kind is well-acquainted with.
Groaning, I head to the refrigerator to quench my thirst, only to find it devoid of jugs of water and juices. Disbelief etches my face before I decide to close it, scanning the room for an alternative. A lone bottle of water catches my eye on the study table. As my hand reaches for it, a swift motion intercepts mine – one of the girls claims it for herself."I believe time's up!" I interject, snatching the bottle away. An annoyed expression is met with a futile attempt from her to seduce me. I dismiss her, down the water in one go, and discard the bottle, my patience running thin. "I said, leave!" I warn.
Immediately, the two women hastily gather their belongings as I turn my back to them, counting the minutes until their departure. Once they're gone, a moment of peace settles, though the remnants of the night still lay scattered on my living room floor. I gather the discarded clothes and toss them into the laundry basket.
My body still bears the effects of the previous night's intoxication, prompting me to sink into the couch and mindlessly flip through TV channels. The morning air is filled with animated cartoons and childish plots, an unappealing option. Refusing to indulge in such meaningless entertainment, I opt to turn off the television.
Before I can press the off button on the remote, a newscaster interrupts with urgent news. "We interrupt this program for breaking news! The wanted criminal, ex-mercenary of the Triton Corps., Dory Michelson, is still on the loose..."
Figures! The news doesn't surprise me. Thankfully, my true identity, Shayne, remains concealed; only my alias has been exposed. Retrieving the latex face mask used during a recent confrontation, memories of the encounter with Trevor resurface, a stark reminder of the fear I instilled in him.
Upon witnessing the news, I decided to switch off the television. The unfolding scene prompted a moment of reflection. Everything seemed to align with my expectations, and the turn of events failed to surprise me. Now, I find myself pondering whether this setback might pose significant challenges for me in the future.
From the screen earlier, I saw Andre, Troy, and Trevor at the background. Trevor's face he had several bruises and wounds on his face. I didn't imagine him to have sustained wounds from our last encounter. He was punished for failing to dispatch me, serving him right, for it was something that he deserved.
I recently withdrew all the credits I earned during my time with the mercenary group, operating under the alias Dory. To sever ties completely, I meticulously obliterated every trace of his identity. Fake documents, ID cards, and any related items were methodically incinerated. To the best of my knowledge, nothing in my possession now connects me to him.
Despite the stress I endured, my youthful face remained unchanged as I glanced at myself in the mirror. It almost seemed as if time hadn't left its mark on me, defying the usual effects of life's hardships and indulgences. Most humans tend to age more rapidly when exposed to extremes and vices, but comparing a recent picture with one taken years ago showed no discernible difference. It might be attributed to genetics, as they say, but I'm inclined to credit it to my aura.
Noticing a few stray hairs making their appearance on my face, I opted for a quick shave, generously applying a layer of shaving cream beforehand. The invigorating minty fragrance of the cream tickled my senses, offering a refreshing, albeit slightly uncomfortable, sensation. Taking hold of the razor, I skillfully glided it across my skin, achieving a satisfyingly smooth result that pleased my discerning eye. A splash of lukewarm water on my face followed, leaving behind a crisp and invigorating cold sensation.
Post-shave, I reached for my trusty handheld device—a portable marvel equipped with an array of features beyond the mundane capabilities of a typical pocket-sized gadget. Its multitasking prowess encompassed calls, a plethora of applications, and a myriad of unexpected functionalities.
Upon delving into my contacts, I discovered a cascade of missed calls and unfamiliar numbers bombarding my device. Amidst the chaos, a familiar number caught my attention – little Stella.
A wave of homesickness washed over me at the sight of her name in my call logs. The contemplation arose: would a more conventional existence, eschewing the pursuit of bravado for strength, have been a preferable path? The notion of returning to a semblance of normalcy crossed my mind, but the realization dawned that my current course might inflict unforeseen complications upon those I hold dear, particularly those capable of discerning the person behind the Dory mask.
Gazing out of the window in my flat, I found myself in contemplation. "What path do I carve from this point onward?" With the phone still in hand, I decided to dial Stella's number. After three rings, her voicemail greeted me, prompting a shift in plans. Instead of persisting with the call, I resolved to alleviate some stress through a therapeutic stroll to the nearby park.
Prior to departing my flat, a thorough inspection ensued, leaving no detail unchecked. Satisfied with the scrutiny, I secured the main door and stepped into the outside world. The overcast sky loomed overhead, not the most inviting weather for a stroll. In hindsight, consulting the weather forecast might have been prudent, but having committed to the venture, pressing forward seemed the wiser course.
Amidst the cloudy ambiance, thoughts of the Butlers and the CEO's Daughter infiltrated my mind. Their current whereabouts lingered as an enigma. Simon had met a merciless end at the hands of Andre's cohorts, yet the daughter and her butler were conspicuously absent. Were they held captive somewhere, or had they managed an escape?
In retrospect, my concern extended beyond the boundaries of necessity. While I bore the designation of their assigned bodyguard, the harsh reality echoed: in the precarious life of a mercenary, no amount of currency could serve as an adequate trade for one's own survival. To those in power, I was a dispensable pawn, a tool manipulated by invisible strings. Resolute in my decision, I chose not to succumb to their manipulative machinations.
The world lay bare before me, a desolate landscape where allies had morphed into adversaries, leaving me with no sanctuary of friendship. The burning desire for revenge refused to wane; it persisted, fueling my relentless plotting against those who orchestrated this undoing—chief among them, Andre and his cohorts.
The malevolence within me resurfaced at the mere thought of Andre. A sinister grin etched across my face, harboring malicious intent. Empowered with the ability to conquer a platoon of soldiers, I reveled in newfound capabilities that were once inconceivable.
Yet, amidst this surge of power, what remained elusive was the opportune moment. Bloodshed was inevitable, but its timing held the key to aligning with my goals. Undeterred, I clung to my determination, poised to transform my machinations into reality.
Seated on a bench before the beach, lost in contemplation, my handheld device rang unexpectedly. Answering it, a smile crept across my face as the caller initiated a conversation. In the recesses of my mind, the first phase of my plan had concluded, paving the way for the subsequent maneuvers.
Reaching for my credit reader, I allocated half of my hard-earned money amassed under the alias of Dory to a merchant. "It will be delivered in days. Would you like us to send it to your house or a designated drop-off site?" the merchant inquired.
"Please drop it at the address I'll provide," I replied with a grin, satisfaction radiating through every word. The wheels of my intricate design were set in motion, promising a cascade of events to unfold.