The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of the precinct, a relentless percussion mirroring the frantic rhythm of Iraway's pulse. He stood bathed in the weak, flickering light of the interrogation room, the damp chill seeping into his bones, a familiar discomfort that felt oddly comforting. Across from him sat Inspector Diaz, a man whose face was permanently etched with the weariness of a thousand unsolved cases, his eyes narrowed like a hawk's. The air hung heavy with unspoken accusations.
It had been a week since Iraway's return. Three months of intense physical and mental training had honed him into a lean, almost predatory figure. The gentle, almost meek officer who had left was gone, replaced by someone sharper, quieter, yet somehow more menacing. He'd shed the weight of his old life, physically and, he desperately hoped, mentally. But the devil, as the fortune teller had so chillingly prophesied, had indeed returned.
The killing of Councilman Vargas had been swift, precise. A single shot to the heart, clean, efficient – the hallmark of a professional. Vargas, a man whose pockets overflowed with ill-gotten gains and whose hands were stained with the blood of countless innocents, had been a walking embodiment of corruption. Iraway had found him in his opulent penthouse apartment, surrounded by the spoils of his depravity, a cruel parody of success. The methodical nature of the act, the lack of any forced entry, the single, perfectly placed bullet—all spoke of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
The memory flickered through his mind – a phantom touch of cold steel, the satisfying thud of a body hitting the ground. He flinched, pushing the image away, burying it under layers of carefully constructed composure. He was Iraway now, a police officer. He was supposed to be on the side of the law. Yet, a part of him, a deep, primal part, reveled in the act, in the righteous vengeance.
Diaz cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense silence. "Councilman Vargas was a pillar of this community, Iraway. A respected member of society. His murder is a blow to us all." His voice dripped with sarcasm, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air.
Iraway met his gaze, his expression impassive. "A pillar built on sand, Inspector. His reputation was a facade, carefully constructed to hide a mountain of corruption." He spoke calmly, his words measured and precise. He'd spent weeks anticipating this interrogation, rehearsing responses, weaving a narrative that was both true and a carefully crafted lie.
Diaz leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. "Tell me, Iraway. What were you doing three months ago? Where were you?"
The question hit a nerve. Three months ago, he was still grappling with the sheer brutality of his rebirth, still battling the phantom pains of a life he'd left behind, still struggling to tame the raging beast within. Three months ago, he was building the foundation of his new identity, piece by painful piece.
He chose his words carefully. "I was undergoing intensive rehabilitation, Inspector. Physical and mental. I needed time to recover from the trauma I experienced…" He paused, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with implication. He wouldn't mention the nightmares, the flashbacks, the constant, gnawing struggle to control the darkness that threatened to consume him. That was a battle he fought alone.
The interrogation stretched on, a brutal dance of words and silences. Diaz, relentless in his pursuit, pressed him on every detail, every alibi. Iraway deflected, parried, offered carefully constructed truths laced with carefully placed ambiguities. He was a master of deception, a skill honed over years spent in the darkness.
As the night wore on, the relentless rain continued, the city outside a symphony of sirens and distant screams. Iraway felt a grim satisfaction. He had weathered the storm, at least for now. But the calm was deceptive, a fragile truce before the next battle. He knew the hunt for Vargas's killer was far from over. And he knew that somewhere out there, Kiki, the ambitious journalist with her piercing gaze and relentless curiosity, was drawing ever closer to the truth. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that the truth was far more dangerous than anyone could possibly imagine. The murder of Councilman Vargas was just the first drop of blood in a storm that was about to break. The bloodlust he'd so carefully suppressed was stirring again, a dangerous, seductive whisper in the dark recesses of his mind. The White Devil, it seemed, was far from dead. He merely wore a different face, a different uniform. The game had only just begun. And this time, the stakes were far higher.