The city lights blurred through the rain-streaked window of his cramped apartment, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the flickering neon signs outside. Iraway sat hunched over a chipped mug, the lukewarm coffee long since cold, its bitterness mirroring the taste in his mouth. Sleep had evaded him again, another night consumed by the relentless assault of his memories. They weren't memories in the conventional sense; more like fragmented shards of glass, sharp and jagged, reflecting glimpses of a life he both desperately wanted to forget and couldn't quite escape.
It started subtly, a whisper in the darkness. A glint of polished steel, the cold weight of a firearm, the metallic tang of blood. Then, the images intensified, exploding into a visceral maelstrom of violence. He saw himself, or rather, him, the White Devil, a phantom figure moving through the city's underbelly, a specter of death draped in shadows. He saw faces, twisted in agony, their eyes wide with a terror that echoed in the hollow spaces of his own being. He saw the precision of his movements, the cold efficiency of his methods. The satisfaction, the sickening thrill of the kill, pulsed through him, a phantom limb, a ghost of sensation that left him shivering in the chill of his new life.
One particular nightmare recurred with unsettling frequency. He was standing on a rain-slicked rooftop, the city sprawling beneath him like a concrete beast. The air hung heavy with the scent of ozone and fear. A woman's scream, sharp and piercing, sliced through the night, followed by a sickening thud. He couldn't see her face, only the scarlet stain spreading across the asphalt. But he felt it, the sickeningly familiar weight of his actions, the cold indifference that had once been his shield. He felt the phantom weight of the weapon in his hand, the recoil jarring through him, and his mind would scream against the overwhelming images. He would awaken, heart hammering, drenched in a cold sweat, the taste of ashes clinging to his tongue.
These weren't simply nightmares; they were echoes, reverberations of a life he'd left behind, a past that clung to him like a second skin. The police force, with its rigid structure and predictable routines, offered little solace. He found himself adrift, a man caught between two worlds, unable to fully inhabit either. The mundane tasks of patrolling the streets, filing reports, and attending endless meetings felt like a cruel joke, a pathetic parody of his former existence. Yet, even this mundane existence was a facade, hiding the chaos brewing beneath the surface.
During the day, Iraway functioned as a diligent, if somewhat withdrawn, officer. He was meticulous, almost frighteningly so, his observations keen, his deduction sharp, a stark contrast to his previous incompetence. His superiors were baffled by the transformation, seeing the serious and dedicated officer instead of the previously inept and careless one. He had undergone an almost supernatural change. His physical training was rigorous, pushing his body to its limits, a desperate attempt to purge the darkness that threatened to consume him. He ran, he lifted weights, he sparred, the sweat cleansing the insidious tendrils of his past. It was self-punishment, a form of atonement, a way to prove to himself, and perhaps to the ghosts that haunted him, that he was no longer the White Devil. But the ghosts never truly left, always lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to reclaim their dominion.
The whispers grew louder, more insistent. Fragments of conversations, snatches of code words, the chilling sounds of a struggle. He found himself drawn to crime scenes, his intuition sharper than any forensic specialist. His ability to read people, to anticipate their next move, was uncanny, an instinctive understanding honed by years spent in the darkness. Sometimes, he would find himself staring at a perpetrator, recognizing a pattern, a subtle detail that the other officers overlooked, a gesture, a look that revealed a deeper darkness. In these moments, the lines blurred, the memories intensified. The phantom weight of the gun reappeared, pressing into his palm.
The city, unaware of the silent battle raging within him, continued its relentless pace. The sirens wailed, the streets pulsed with a frantic energy, a chaotic symphony of life and death. Iraway walked through it all, a silent observer, a ghost in the machine. He was both a protector and a predator, a man walking a razor's edge, constantly teetering on the brink of chaos. He was a force of nature, a storm waiting to break.
One evening, the flashbacks came with particular intensity. He saw a face, a young woman, her eyes wide with terror, her face contorted in a silent scream. He recognized the location—a dilapidated warehouse on the city's outskirts, a place he'd visited in his past life, a place stained with the blood of his victims. The memory was fragmented, but a chilling detail remained: a distinctive scar on the woman's neck, a thin, crescent moon of flesh marred by a ruthless blade. It was a mark he recognized, a cruel signature of a killer. The killer he used to be. Or rather, the killer he was beginning to feel himself becoming.
The memory hit him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling, his breath ragged. He stumbled back, his hand instinctively reaching for the emptiness where his weapon should have been. The cold steel was absent, but the bloodlust, the primal urge to kill, burned within him. It was a stark reminder of the constant battle he fought within himself. The battle to retain his humanity, to suppress the monster lurking within, to reconcile the man he was with the man he aspired to become. He had traded one kind of darkness for another. The darkness of a hitman's existence for the darkness of a city teeming with corruption and violence that mirrored and fueled the darkness within his very soul.
He spent the next few days in a state of agitated restlessness. He reread his old case files, his eyes scanning for any similar instances. He pored over police reports, seeking patterns, connections. The whisper of the past, the chilling fragments of memory, had become a driving force, an obsession. He was haunted by the image of the woman, the crescent moon scar a brand seared into his mind. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that the killer was still out there, and that sooner or later, they would meet again.
His investigations led him to a seedy nightclub, known for its illicit activities and shady clientele. He blended in, observing, his instincts taking over. He noticed a man lurking in the shadows, his eyes cold and calculating, his movements deliberate. The man's demeanor was familiar. Too familiar. There was a subtle twitch in his left eye, a nervous tic that Iraway recognized. He'd seen it before, in the mirror, in the fragmented echoes of his past life. This man was more than just a criminal; he was a reflection, a twisted mirror image of himself.
As he followed the man from the club, into the city's underbelly, Iraway found himself being pulled back into the darkness of his past, a darkness that threatened to engulf him completely. The struggle within him intensified, the battle between the man he was and the man he was becoming reached a fever pitch. The night was closing in, the rain was falling heavily, and the ghosts of the past were no longer just whispers. They were screaming. The reborn White Devil was slowly returning. And the city, oblivious to the storm brewing within its shadows, awaited its judgment.