Page 5 of Dark Angel

After they killed Savannah, something else inside of me ruptured. Life now holds one purpose and one purpose only: find and kill the men responsible for the rape and murder of my fiancée. Men who rape innocent children.

In the aftermath of her brutal end, that crack irrevocably altered who I was. In the weeks following her death, my focus narrowed. The doctor in me retreated, replaced by a man hell-bent on retribution. Each day became a hunt, each name crossed off the list a grim milestone. My path was dark and blood-soaked, a precipitous slide that nearly cost me everything, until celestial forces intervened. An offer from the Tribunal—redemption for service—pulled me back from the edge, transforming me from mere mortal to something more. An avenger with a heavenly edge.

Now, the hunt is different, but the mission remains the same. The bloodlust has been replaced by a different kind of warfare, one that unfolds in the shadows of the digital world. We find these human stains and, with surgical precision, dismantle their lives. Financial ruin, social isolation—it's a long, drawn-out unraveling that leaves them with nothing. In this line of work, erasing someone's digital footprint is far more brutal than any physical act of violence. The slow exquisite mind fuck I’ve perfected makes them suffer in a way no physical torture can.

In this relentless pursuit, a quest that's washed away whatever innocence I once clung to, I find myself mired in "The Game." It's a dark underside to southwestern Ontario's polished exterior. The notion of "The True North, strong and free," feels like a farce when you're wading through this filth. Canada may boast a lot of good, but its evils are cavernous.

Sasha, my partner in this, relishes the more brutal aspects of our work. Her penchant for sadism is, in a way, its own weapon. Yet it's rarely necessary. When we strip these criminals of their financial and personal identity, they usually self-destruct, crumbling under the weight of their sudden irrelevance. A poetic sort of justice.

The object of our current focus is a woman, a twist that neither shocks nor deters me. Together with Sasha and our covert team, we've navigated the maze of this operation, tearing through its layers until one name surfaces again and again: Viper. He's the linchpin, and his downfall will be the domino that triggers the rest. Word on the Net says he’s pissed, which is good. Emotion clouds judgment, a weakness I intend to exploit.

Is this what I live for? It's a jarring thought that disrupts the focused stream of my mission. No, this isn't living; it's survival. It's walking a fine line between an ambiguous moral code and a form of justice only the desperate could rationalize. But desperate or not, it's the line I walk, each step carefully measured, each decision a testament to the man I've become.

I lean closer to the screen, zeroing in on Destiny's every move. She's hard to read—taking her sweet time like she's looking for something specific. A mix of curiosity, fear, and some weird x-factor whizzes through the link we've got, as if her brain's flipping through a bunch of options. It's disconcerting, to say the least. It triggers something deep in me, a feeling I can't remember having for a long time. But hey, I'm a pro at pushing away emotions. The way she moves reminds me of my cat—elegant but always on edge. That unsettling feeling in my gut kicks up again. I quickly lock it up and turn back to Destiny's image on the screen.

No hits on facial recognition, just an old Facebook account. So, she's a mystery. How did she even end up in this situation? She doesn't look naive, and she definitely doesn't look like an easy target.

I grab my hair and tip my head back, staring at the ceiling. Why the hell should I care? She's an informant, maybe even bait, and that's it. My usual concern for women in her situation is pretty straightforward: help them get the resources they need to move on. But the first time our eyes locked? That moment's burned into my brain. It wasn't just irritation at this assignment. It was something more. I saw the child she's never had the chance to be, hidden behind walls she built for self-preservation. And something else struck me deeper, as if she sees me on a cellular level. Again, I acknowledge it's unsettling. I find myself wanting more—her thoughts, her trust, her everything, given freely. I smack my forehead, trying to shake off these thoughts that are way out of character for me. Get your act together, Jaden.

Pulling myself back to the task at hand, I'm still puzzled by Destiny. She doesn't act like the women I've dealt with in similar situations. She hugged herself for a while after Sasha left then attacked her food as if she hadn't eaten in days. Her slow movements suggest she's in pain—cracked ribs, probably. But from what I can tell, no broken bones, just a lot of bruises and cuts.

She's a wildcard, not fitting any molds, and that makes her interesting. And, for reasons I don't fully understand yet, increasingly hard to ignore.

Her movements trace a captivating ballet across the monitor, a dance somewhere between grace and vigilance. Suddenly, the unbidden fantasy of Destiny in a gym—her body pressed against the mat, sweaty and defiant—surfaces. What kind of boxer would she turn out to be? Would she play the mind games I revel in? Float like a butterfly, sting when least expected. No knockout is planned for her, not now. The image of her, small and vulnerable under me, makes me go rock hard. A drawn-out sigh escapes as I make a subtle adjustment to my junk, tearing my eyes away to answer a slew of emails. The woman needs time to adjust, I rationalize, but one eye keeps straying back to the screen. You're dodging, a quiet voice accuses. No, I vehemently deny, I'm not.

Instead of taking the well-trodden path—the one where Destiny would be safely delivered to the rehab facility sponsored by our black-ops funds—I veer off in a different direction. I bring her into my personal space, a domain hitherto untouched by the chaos I combat. The finances to set her up with a year's rent and a job aren't an issue. The ill-gotten gains we recover from the human traffickers more than pays for the recovery, treatment and of the Harmony Hills Treatment facility. But money isn’t an issue as I've amassed enough, not through my own business sense—I have none—but thanks to Sasha and Steve who steer the ship. The minutiae? That’s for the accountant.

I catch myself. What's so different this time that she’s here, in my sanctuary? I almost sigh but catch it, turning again to the monitor. There’s something about her that gnaws at me, like a pebble stuck in my shoe.

Her next move captures me entirely. I’m riveted as she combs through every nook and cranny of the suite. I pretend not to care, yet I’m glued to her every action. She paces, stops, and seemingly debates whether to open that door and step into the corridor. Instead, she leaves it closed and folds into herself.

What is she searching for? Bugs? I discard the thought. She's not from a world where hidden cameras are a given. And yet, her fingers trace every object as though reading Braille, gleaning stories from inanimate things. She pivots, eyes scanning her environment one last time, and then her gaze pauses … as if she's looking through the lens, straight into my core.

In that fleeting exchange, something perilous stirs within me—a tremor in the fortress I’ve built around my emotions. It’s as if not just the digital screen but years of meticulously constructed defenses lie between us. Yet, her eyes seem to recognize something in me that I’ve long denied. This is the impasse, a tantalizing blend of allure and vulnerability I never wanted to confront. I'm caught in the gravity of an unspoken question: What's the next move in this mysterious game we're unwillingly cast into?

My attention is cemented to the screen, grappling with a reality that's stubbornly testing my technological invincibility. She found them, every hidden eye, as if she could sense the gaze that follows her. Her disappearance into the bathroom leaves a void, an absence that stirs an uncomfortable feeling in my gut until she reemerges with a gaze so piercing, it nearly fractures the lens.

Faces don't lie, at least not to me. I've honed a skill, a craft that's become my shield in a world rife with illusion. And there it is—a fleeting crack in her armor, a slight contraction of brow, a tautening of her lips shrouding a core of pure, undiluted fear.

She stands swathed in a Turkish towel that all but engulfs her, leveling her gaze at the camera, at me. Our eyes lock in a silent duel, time elongating like taffy pulled taut. What is she looking for? What chasms of my psyche is she probing? I shake off the disquieting thought; that's terrain better left unexplored.

A sigh escapes her lips, a releasing of pent-up tension, as she sheds the towel and slowly submerges into the water. The steam rises, tendrils beckoning like the fingers of temptation. My body rebels, a surge of unwanted desire rippling through me. I muzzle the urge, framing it as sterile observation. But my inner voice scoffs, disdainful of the lie.

She scrubs at her bruises like she's trying to wash away more than just dirt, wincing but not letting up. It’s as if she's ridding herself of filth that goes way beyond just getting clean. As her hands roam to her torso, my gaze tightens. The canvas of her skin is marred, a gruesome tapestry of her recent past. My scrutiny narrows on her breast, where a grotesque bruise defiles her left areola. A tempest churns within me—retribution looms on the horizon.

This is more than mere observation; it's a plunge into a chaotic pool of conflicting sensations and unsolicited yearnings. As I sit here, the boundaries blur—between protector and intruder, between control and frailty. It's a precipice that threatens to consume me, prompting a soul-searching reckoning about the precarious tightrope I'm walking. And it's an epiphany that startles, compelling me to ponder the fragile line that separates power from vulnerability.

Destiny's bathing ritual comes to an end as she settles into the water. Her sigh is like the soft murmur of a distant brook. My junk does a back flip, but I stamp it out, almost wincing at the effort.

The bathroom window offers a crafted view of a tranquil Japanese garden, flanked by sentinel trees. It's enchanted many—like Sasha and Steve. But Destiny hardly glances its way. Instead, she methodically explores the lineup of grooming products on the marble counter. It's a meticulous act that I can't help but appreciate, sort of mirroring my own habits. A bit OCD, maybe?

She picks a bottle of unscented lotion and applies it with focused intent. Every movement screams of a decision, of a plan coming to life.

Destiny moves to the dressing room. Contrary to my weirdly baseless expectations of her choosing something delicate, she opts for athletic wear that breathes a resilient aura. I need to check myself; my assumptions are getting ahead of me.

Now that she’s clean and clothed, she doesn't scout the area for escape routes as I half-expected. Instead, she sits down in an easy chair and looks straight into the camera—into me—as if asking, "What's the next move?" She's an intriguing bundle of contrasts: sometimes elegant, sometimes twitchy, but now perfectly still. We're in a visual standoff.

I can't shake this weird feeling in my gut—like I'm connected to her on a level that's more than just basic instinct. She shouldn't know I'm watching, but she gives a compelling performance of someone who does. It throws me off, leaves me unsettled. She's a mix of everything unpredictable and fascinating, a challenge to my senses and thoughts. I'm on the edge, a thin line between clarity and an unsettling ambiguity.

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