Vendetta

Minds at War

POV: Jordi El Wey

I step into the bathroom, and the steam envelops me, a brief respite from the cold reality outside. The water cascades over my shoulders, hot and relentless, washing away the grime and the memories of the previous day. I let it beat down on me, feeling the tension in my muscles ease. My mind, however, remains sharp and alert, already dissecting the events of yesterday.

As I lather the soap across my chest, I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. The scars, both visible and invisible, are reminders of the battles I've fought, the secrets I've uncovered. I rinse off, watching the suds swirl down the drain, carrying away the residue of the past.

Stepping out, I grab a towel and dry off, the cool air biting at my damp skin. I wrap the towel around my waist and move to the bedroom, where my clothes are laid out. Today, I opt for my usual attire—a black shirt that clings to my frame, highlighting the hard lines of muscle and the strength beneath. It's a deliberate choice; the uniform can wait. I button it up slowly, each movement precise and measured, the fabric smooth and familiar against my skin.

Sliding into a pair of dark jeans, I fasten my belt, the buckle clicking into place with a sense of finality. I reach for my watch, a gift from a time long past, and strap it on, feeling its reassuring weight on my wrist. I glance at the clock. It's time.

I head out, my boots echoing on the wooden floor, and grab my keys from the table. The streets of Salem are eerily quiet this morning, shrouded in a thick mist that clings to the ground like a shroud. The old town has never looked more haunted, shadows creeping out from every corner, whispers of the past lingering in the air.

I slide into my car, the leather seat cold against my back, and start the engine. The low rumble is a comforting sound, a promise of power and control. I ease out of the driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel, and head towards the Whitemore mansion. The streets are almost deserted, only a few souls brave enough to venture out in the early hours. They move quickly, heads down, avoiding eye contact. It's as if the very air is thick with fear and suspicion.

As I drive through the mist-covered streets, my thoughts drift to Walter Whitemore. His murder is a seismic event in this town. Whitemore wasn't just a businessman; he was the linchpin holding together the fragile balance of power in Salem. With his death, that balance has been shattered. The undercurrents of tension and fear that have always existed here are now bubbling to the surface.

Whitemore's death will change everything in Salem. The power vacuum it creates will lead to chaos, and every faction in this town will be scrambling to fill it. I know the whispers of curses and dark magic will only grow louder. Superstitions that have always lingered in the shadows will come to the forefront, feeding on the fear and uncertainty.

The mist parts as my car slices through it, the headlights casting long, ghostly beams on the cobblestone streets. The town's old buildings loom on either side, their dark windows staring back at me like empty eyes. Even in the daylight, Salem feels like it's perpetually caught in twilight, a place where the past and present collide in a never-ending dance of shadows.

I drive past the familiar landmarks—the old church with its crumbling steeple, the library that's seen better days, and finally, the wrought-iron gates of the Whitemore mansion. I park the car and step out, taking a moment to breathe in the heavy, cold air. The mansion stands tall and foreboding, its grandeur marred by the tragedy that unfolded within its walls.

As I approach the entrance, I can't shake the feeling that today will be different. The pieces of this puzzle are starting to come together, and I need to stay one step ahead. The weight of the badge in my pocket is a constant reminder of the responsibility I carry, the duty to uncover the truth, no matter how deep the shadows may go.