The uniform felt alien, a stiff, starched carapace that chafed against his skin. Iraway, or rather, Officer Iraway, as the name tag stubbornly insisted, felt like a puppet in ill-fitting clothes. His hands, once deft at disarming explosives and wielding silenced weapons, now fumbled with the clumsy radio, the plastic casing cold and unfamiliar under his touch. Three months. Three months he'd spent in a self-imposed exile, a brutal regime of physical and mental conditioning aimed at purging the White Devil and forging a new identity. But the ghost of his past clung to him like a persistent shadow, a chilling reminder of the man he once was.
His new life was a stark contrast to his old one. Gone were the tailored suits, the expensive cars, the opulent suites of five-star hotels. Instead, there was the cramped, sparsely furnished apartment, the cheap, synthetic fabric of his uniform, and the harsh reality of a meager police officer's salary. His apartment was a testament to his minimalist approach to life – a single bed, a small desk, a worn chair. The walls, bereft of any decoration, echoed the emptiness he felt inside. The only personal item he allowed himself was a single, worn photograph hidden in a drawer, a picture of a woman with eyes as blue as the summer sky – a woman who was gone from his life, forever lost to the shadows of his past.
The physical transformation had been brutal. He'd spent countless hours in the gym, pushing his body to its limits, trying to shed the honed physique of the assassin and build the more robust frame of a police officer. The rigorous training had left him with muscles aching with a constant, dull throb, a stark reminder of the transformation his body had undergone. He'd developed a leaner, broader physique, but the lean, lethal grace of the White Devil still lingered beneath the surface, coiled and ready to spring.
His personality had undergone an equally dramatic shift. The cold calculation, the ruthless efficiency, the icy detachment of the White Devil were gone, replaced by a quiet seriousness that bordered on stoicism. He had become almost painfully shy, his words sparse, his gaze seldom meeting anyone's directly. He spent most of his time observing, his sharp mind absorbing the subtle details that often escaped the notice of his colleagues, details that had been crucial to his success as a hitman, and that now held a disconcerting relevance to his new occupation.
But the internal struggle was relentless. The instincts, honed over years of murder and mayhem, still pulsed beneath the surface. The scent of blood, once a familiar comfort, now triggered a visceral reaction, a primal urge he fought to suppress. The urge to kill, to eliminate, to control, was a constant companion, a venomous serpent coiled within his heart. He'd spent three months battling it, but he knew this battle was a life-long campaign.
His first few weeks on the force were a humbling experience. The paperwork was tedious, the bureaucracy infuriating, and the mundane nature of the work was soul-crushing. He was expected to deal with petty thefts, domestic disputes, and traffic violations—a far cry from the high-stakes world of international assassinations he had once inhabited. He found himself inexplicably frustrated by the incompetence of some of his colleagues, their lack of focus and attention to detail a jarring contrast to his own hyper-awareness. Their flippant attitude towards their duties was a stark reminder of the corruption he knew existed within the system – a rot he was slowly starting to unravel.
His superiors, too, were a source of frustration. He found himself constantly battling their apathy, their reluctance to pursue seemingly inconsequential leads that he instinctively knew held importance. The frustration gnawed at him, fueling the violent impulses he desperately tried to contain. It wasn't that he yearned for the adrenaline rush of his former life; it was the sheer incompetence, the injustice, the way criminals slipped through the net, that stoked his anger and fueled his old, savage instincts.
One night, during a routine patrol, he stumbled upon a break-in in progress. Two young thugs, barely out of their teens, were ransacking a small jewelry store. His training took over instinctively. In a split second, he found himself moving with a speed and precision that surprised even himself. Before he knew it, the two criminals were subdued and handcuffed, their faces pale with terror. It was over before his fellow officers arrived on the scene, the whole thing happening almost in a blur of motion. The adrenaline surge that followed was familiar, terrifyingly so. It was the rush of the hunt, the satisfaction of the kill—an emotion he'd thought he'd suppressed, but one that had resurfaced, stark and powerful.
Later, back at the station, staring at the reflection in the cold glass of the water dispenser, he saw something disturbing. In his eyes, he recognized a flash of that cold, ruthless killer; the White Devil was still there, merely dormant, biding his time. This was a wake-up call. This wasn't just a change in occupation; it was a battle for his very soul. The transformation was far from complete; the new identity was fragile, and the old instincts were relentless.
The following weeks brought more encounters with criminality—street brawls, domestic violence cases, and a disturbing pattern of vandalism targeting small businesses. Each incident seemed to test the boundaries of his self-control, the rage simmering beneath the surface like a volcano ready to erupt. He'd find himself staring at a suspect, calculating the best way to neutralize him, the most effective method of inflicting pain—a deadly choreography running through his mind, a macabre ballet of violence. He would force himself to stop, to focus on his new role, on the procedures and protocols that governed his new life. He focused on the paperwork, the reports, the bureaucratic hurdles he had to overcome. He even started keeping a detailed journal, pouring his thoughts and frustrations onto paper, trying to make sense of the internal war raging within him.
He observed the patterns of criminality, the underlying corruption, the careless indifference of those in authority. The subtle clues, the overlooked details, they all felt familiar. It was the same skill set he had honed as a hitman, now twisted and turned to serve a different purpose. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing, a predator dressed in the uniform of the law.
One evening, while patrolling a particularly notorious part of the city, he saw a group of men forcing a young woman into a van. His blood ran cold. The White Devil screamed to be unleashed. He had a split second to make a decision; to call for backup or act on his own. He hesitated, a dangerous pause in a situation that demanded immediate action. But even as he debated, his feet moved independently, his body propelled by instinct. He slammed into the group, his movements precise, calculated, deadly. The men were taken down swiftly and efficiently. The woman was saved, shaking and terrified, but safe.
But that was only a temporary reprieve from the chaos within him. He realized his transformation wasn't just a change in career, a costume; it was about wrestling with his soul. The old instincts were still powerful, always present. In the quiet of his apartment, he often found himself practicing combat techniques, his movements fluid and deadly, the ghost of the White Devil dancing in the shadows. He continued his physical training, pushing his body to the limits, not just to maintain physical fitness, but also to channel the raw energy that threatened to consume him.
He knew the darkness was always there, ready to return. The conflict between the officer and the assassin, the new identity and the old instincts, would be a life-long struggle. He was a man torn in two, walking a tightrope between redemption and damnation, constantly battling the demons of his past, and the terrifying power of his present. His new life was a gamble, a desperate attempt to atone for his sins; but the old instincts were a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked within him, a darkness that threatened to consume him, at any moment. The rebirth was far from complete, the shadows still held him captive, and the true reckoning was yet to come.