Chapter 22: Blitzkrieg

(Amelia Bones POV)

The silence in my office was broken only by the rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock. It had been a week since the massacre at the Van Doren estate, a week of sleepless nights spent wrestling with a truth I hadn't dared share with anyone. The leak, the one that led the Death Eaters to the Van Dorens, had come from within the Ministry. And I, Amelia Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement, knew the culprit's name and was unsure on what to do, If I released this to the public there would be some very hard questions I would need to answer.

A sharp rap on the door jolted me back to the present. "Enter."

The door swung open, and Vincent Van Doren walked in. Gone were the school robes, the aura of the Hogwarts prodigy. Muggle clothing – jeans, a black t-shirt - made him seem older. But the calm in his blue eyes, that unsettling, unwavering calm… it hadn't changed. 

"Madam Bones," he said, his voice a quiet rumble, devoid of the grief I'd expected.

"Mr. Van Doren," I replied, gesturing to the chair. 

"Have you found the one responsible?" he asked, his gaze unwavering.

"The investigation is ongoing," I lied not really knowing why, my voice carefully neutral.

His jaw tightened, a flicker of impatience in his eyes. "Ongoing? A week, Madam Bones. My family was slaughtered, their home desecrated. And you talk about an 'ongoing investigation'?"

"This is a complex matter, Mr. Van Doren," I countered. "We are dealing with a supposed betrayal within the Ministry. A matter of utmost delicacy, There are Laws in Place."

"Delicacy?" His voice was low, dangerous. 

He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Tell me, Madam Bones," he said, his voice soft now, almost a caress, "What good are laws when they fail to protect the innocent? What good is justice when it moves at a snail's pace, allowing evil to fester and grow?"

He paused, his words hanging in the air, their weight settling over me like a shroud.

"You lost your brother to the Death Eaters, didn't you?" he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "Edgar. Taken from you before his time. Did the Ministry bring his killers to justice? Did those laws you hold so dear offer any comfort, any solace, for your loss?"

The mention of Edgar, a wound that never truly healed, was like a punch to the gut. I gripped the arms of my chair, my knuckles white. He'd struck a nerve, a raw, exposed nerve.

"Don't presume to understand my grief, Mr. Van Doren," I said, my voice strained.

"I'm not presuming," he countered, his gaze unwavering. "I'm offering an understanding. A shared pain. A desire for true justice. The kind of justice that doesn't wait for committees and inquiries. The kind of justice that cuts deep, that roots out evil, that ensures it can never rise again."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Give me the name, Madam Bones. The name of the one who betrayed you and the ministry. Let me ensure that no one else has to endure the pain we've endured."

I stared at him, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. His words echoed a darkness within me, a thirst for vengeance that I'd tried for years to suppress.

"I can't," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm a Ministry official. I swore an oath to uphold the law."

"The law is flawed, Madam Bones," he said, his voice cold, flat. "It failed your brother. And it will fail countless others if we cling to its hollow promises." He paused, his gaze piercing. "Is that the legacy you want, Amelia? To stand by and watch as history repeats itself?"

His words hit me with the force of a physical blow. I looked at him, at the boy who'd stared down Voldemort, who'd dared to challenge the darkness with a weapon that defied our traditions. And in that moment, I saw a truth I couldn't ignore. He was right.

The old ways, the Ministry's cautious approach, Dumbledore's… hesitation… it wouldn't work anymore. The Death Eaters were a cancer, a spreading darkness that needed to be cut out, eradicated, the head of the hydra was cut off but its body was still flailing about and causing harm.

"Edgar Rowle," I whispered, the name a betrayal on my lips. "Department of Magical Transportation."

Vincent nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Thank you, Amelia," he said. "You've made the right choice."

He rose from his chair, his backpack slung over his shoulder, a shadow falling across the room as he walked towards the door.

And as he reached the threshold, he turned back to me, his blue eyes holding a chilling promise.

"After today the Death Eaters will be no more," he said. "I'll make sure of it."

Then, he was gone. And I was left alone, the silence echoing my own doubt, the file on my desk a testament to a bargain,I threw the file in the trash and burned it, Nobody can know what I had done, I prayed I wouldn't regret it.

(Vincent POV)

The Ministry corridors buzzed with the usual late afternoon lull. Wizards and witches shuffled through the echoing halls, their conversations a muted hum against the polished marble floors. I leaned against a wall near the Department of Magical Transportation, my backpack slung over my shoulder, a casual observer amidst the bureaucratic throng.

My gaze, however, was fixed on the door marked "Edgar Rowle, Senior Transport Regulator." 

The door opened, and Rowle stepped out, a portly man with thinning hair and a self-satisfied smirk. This was the man. The one who'd handed my grandparents over to the Death Eaters, He was probably one himself.

He adjusted his robes, a flicker of unease crossing his face as he glanced around the corridor. He was nervous. 

He started going down the hallway. I followed as he headed out of the ministry building. He turned a corner, heading towards a deserted alleyway, a shortcut, perhaps.

I was on him in a heartbeat.

A swift kick to the back of his knee sent him crumpling to the ground, a sickening crack echoing in the stillness. He cried out, a muffled sound of surprise and pain, but before he could even hit the floor, my hand clamped over his mouth, silencing him.

"Sleep," I whispered, the word a command, a whisper of magic that seeped into his mind, erasing his fear, his pain, his very consciousness.

He slumped against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed, his breathing slowing.

I glanced around the deserted alleyway. No witnesses. Good.

I scooped Rowle into my arms, his bulk surprisingly heavy, and focused on a destination. A place where no one would disturb us. A place where I could extract the truth.

And then, with a familiar twist of disorientation, a sickening lurch in my gut, we were gone.

(General POV)

The abandoned garage reeked of oil, dust, and decay. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling cast a sickly yellow glow across the cracked concrete floor, illuminating the rusted tools and discarded car parts scattered around the space.

Vincent materialized in the center of the garage, Edgar Rowle still slumped unconscious in his arms. He dumped Rowle onto a rickety chair, the man's head rolling back, his breathing shallow. With a flick of his wand and a muttered incantation, thick ropes materialized, binding Rowle to the chair, tightening around his wrists, ankles, and chest.

Vincent picked up Rowle's wand, and snapped it in two, the sound sharp and final in the silence of the garage. He tossed the broken pieces onto the floor, a dismissive gesture.

Satisfied that Rowle was secure, Vincent cast a quick "Enervate."

Rowle's eyes fluttered open, his gaze blurry at first. Then, recognition dawned, a spark of terror igniting in his eyes as he saw Vincent standing before him, wand raised. He struggled against the ropes, his face contorting with a mix of pain and panic.

"Let me go!" he croaked, his voice hoarse. "You… you can't do this! I'm a Ministry employee! You'll be…"

Vincent cut him off with a backhanded slap, the sound sharp and brutal in the stillness. Rowle's head snapped back, a red welt already forming on his cheek.

"I could use Veritaserum," Vincent said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. "I could use the Imperius. I could just read your mind, extract the truth in a heartbeat. But where's the fun in that?"

"I want you to feel it, Rowle," he said, his gaze cold, unwavering. "Every bit of it. The pain. The fear. The despair."

He raised his wand, the tip glowing faintly in the dim light.

"Crucio."

Rowle's scream ripped through the garage, a raw, agonized sound that echoed off the concrete walls, a testament to the agony that now consumed him. His body contorted, his muscles spasming, his eyes bulging as the curse ripped through him, tearing at his very soul, Good thing they're far away from anyone.

Vincent held the curse for what felt like an eternity, a sadistic symphony of pain that only he could control. Finally, he released it, Rowle collapsing back against the chair, his body trembling, his breathing ragged.

Rowle whimpered, a broken, incoherent sound.

Vincent grabbed a bucket of water, rusty and dented, that had been left abandoned in a corner. He slammed it down on the table before Rowle, the water sloshing over the rim. He forced the man's head back, exposing his throat.

Rowle shook his head, tears streaming down his face.

Vincent,grabbed a rag from his backpack and pressed it over Rowle's face, covering his nose and mouth.

"No… please…" Rowle choked, his body thrashing against the ropes, his eyes wide with terror.

Vincent poured water onto the rag, the fabric soaking it up, clinging to Rowle's face, cutting off his air. He repeated the process again and again, the sound of Rowle's desperate gasps, his muffled screams.

He released the rag, allowing Rowle to gasp for air, his lungs burning, his body wracked with sobs.

"Who asked you to get my address, Rowle?" Vincent asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"The Malfoys!" Rowle choked out, his voice a broken whisper. "Narcissa Malfoy!"

The Malfoys. It wasn't unexpected, perhaps, but the confirmation, the knowledge that those arrogant bastards were behind this…

"Where are they now?" Vincent demanded, his voice a low growl. "The Death Eaters."

"Malfoy Manor," Rowle whimpered. "They're all there… Bellatrix… Rodolphus… Rabastan… They're the ones… They…Escaped Azkaban somehow, They have a meeting there today, If I don't show up they will get suspicious" His voice trailed off, a wave of fresh terror washing over him.

"They… they killed your grandparents," Rowle choked out, his eyes wide with a haunted fear. "Bellatrix… she enjoyed it. Said it was… payback."

Vincent's vision narrowed, He reached into his backpack, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of… something else…

He pulled out a pair of pliers, their steel jaws gleaming in the dim light. He moved towards Rowle, his expression a mask of cold, calculating fury.

"Please… no… I told you everything…just please…" Rowle whimpered, his pleas lost in the echoing silence of the garage.

Vincent said nothing..

And then, the screams began again.

The pliers dug into Rowle's flesh, a symphony of pain that echoed through the abandoned garage. His screams, raw and ragged, were swallowed by the concrete walls.

Rowle thrashed against the ropes, his pleas for mercy choked by sobs. "Kill me! Please, just kill me! I can't… I can't take it anymore!"

Vincent paused, the pliers hovering inches from Rowle's mangled hand, a chilling smile twisting his lips. "Kill you? No, Edgar. You're a much bigger part of my plan. When you told me they would have a meeting today you sparked a plan in my head, so thank you for that."

He tossed the pliers onto the table, the metal clanging against the dented surface. He reached into his backpack, pulling out a thick, leather-bound volume. The cover was worn, the pages brittle with age, the scent of mildew and something… ancient… emanating from its depths. A book of forbidden magic, of rituals whispered in hushed tones, of spells that teetered on the edge of madness.

Vincent flipped through the pages, his gaze scanning the faded ink, the intricate diagrams, the chillingly precise descriptions of rituals designed to warp the very fabric of reality. He stopped, his finger tracing a specific passage. A spell that combined the raw power of Bombarda Maxima with the intricate, unforgiving precision of rune work.

A bomb. A living bomb.

He smiled, a predator baring its teeth.

"You will do great," he murmured, pulling out a wickedly sharp knife from his backpack. Its blade gleamed in the dim light, a promise of pain.

Rowle's eyes widened, his pleas turning into a desperate whimper as Vincent moved toward him, the book held open in one hand, the knife glinting in the other.

"No… please… not that… anything but that…"

His words were lost in the echoing silence of the garage as Vincent pressed the knife against Rowle's chest, right above his heart.

And then, he began to carve.

The runes, intricate patterns of power and pain, flowed from the tip of his blade, etching themselves onto Rowle's flesh. With each stroke, Rowle screamed, his voice a raw, animalistic sound that tore through the garage, a testament to the agony that now consumed him. The air crackled with magic, dark and volatile, as the runes took hold, their power intertwining with Rowle's very essence.

Vincent worked with a chilling precision, his gaze unwavering, his hand steady. The runes pulsed with a sickly green light, a visual echo of the dark magic now coursing through Rowle's veins.

Finally, the last rune was carved, the final stroke of the knife a punctuation mark to Rowle's agonized screams. Vincent stepped back, wiping the blood from his blade, his expression a mask of cold satisfaction.

He gave Rowle a couple of cheerful slaps on the face. "There, there, Edgar," he said, his voice mockingly soothing. "It's almost over. And you'll have a front-row seat."

He raised his wand, its tip glowing with a dangerous intensity.

"Let's test it, shall we?" he murmured, his voice a chilling whisper.

He muttered a series of ritualistic words, arcane syllables that resonated with a power that made the air in the garage crackle and vibrate. The runes on Rowle's chest flared, burning with a searing white light.

Rowle screamed again, his voice a raw, inhuman sound that echoed through the garage, a testament to the agony that now consumed him.

Vincent, ignoring the screams, watched with a detached fascination as the runes pulsed, their light intensifying, the magic within them building towards a crescendo of destruction.

"Good boy, Edgar," Vincent murmured, his voice laced with a chilling amusement. "You're going to do great."

He lowered his wand, his gaze hardening, his smile a predator's promise.

"Imperio."

(Draco Malfoy POV - Malfoy Manor)

The golden flames in the fireplace cast flickering shadows across my room. I stared into the flames, the anger, the resentment, churning within me like a cauldron about to boil over.

This year. This bloody, cursed year.

It had all gone wrong. Starting with that… that mudblood, Van Doren. He'd slithered his way into Slytherin House, a serpent in a stolen skin, and before I could even blink, he'd taken over. Top marks in every subject. Defeating me in that stupid Dueling Club years ago. Even humiliating Warrington and his cronies. He was a bloody anomaly, a stain on the pureblood legacy of our House.

And then, the Triwizard Tournament. The bloody Goblet chooses him, along with that insufferable Potter. Watching them both compete, Van Doren always a step ahead, always in control… it was like a festering wound, a constant reminder of my own inadequacy.

And Daphne… Daphne Greengrass, the most beautiful, the most sought-after witch in our year… choosing him. HIM! A mudblood. What was she thinking?

But the worst, the unforgivable crime, the wound that bled a raw, unending fury, was my father. Dead. Murdered by Van Doren in that blasted graveyard, along with those other… incompetents.

Mother had told me what happened at the graveyard.

I'd seen it myself – Van Doren fighting with the Dark Lord, he standing on the Quidditch pitch, Voldemort beside him, the gun spitting fire and death, the Dark Lord's body crumpling to the ground.

It was a nightmare, a grotesque spectacle that had shattered the foundations of my world. My father, a powerful wizard, a loyal servant of the Dark Lord… gone. And the one responsible, the one who'd dared to defy our traditions, our legacy, our very blood… he was a mudblood. An arrogant, ruthless, insufferable mudblood.

I hated him. With every fiber of my being, I hated Vincent Van Doren.

Aunt Bellatrix, driven mad by grief and years of imprisonment in Azkaban, had escaped a few days after news of the Dark Lord's death reached her. She'd arrived at the Manor a whirlwind of fury, her screams echoing through the halls, her thirst for vengeance a palpable force. She wanted to go after Van Doren herself, to tear him limb from limb, to make him suffer for what he'd done.

But Mother had a different plan. Fenrir Greyback and his pack had been sent to Hogwarts, to kill Van Doren, But even those savage beasts had failed. Van Doren, the monster, had slaughtered them all.

Then, Mother, her grief a cold, hard knot in her chest, had orchestrated the final act of retribution. The attack on the Van Doren Estate. They'd timed it perfectly, striking while Van Doren was on the Hogwarts Express, returning to his family. A message. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

The image of the headline in the Daily Prophet – "Dark Lord Slayer Family Killed, Retribution?" – sent a shiver of grim satisfaction down my spine. They'd paid. They'd all paid. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.s. 

He needed to die. To suffer. To understand the pain he'd inflicted on us.

A sharp rap on my door startled me. "Draco? It's Mother. We need to talk."

I rose from my chair.

We gathered in the drawing-room at least 20 or more of us, a somber tableau beneath the watchful gaze of the Malfoy ancestors. Among us Aunt Bellatrix paced restlessly, her dark eyes blazing with a manic energy, the Scar of the Dark Mark on her arm a stark reminder of her loyalty, her thirst for vengeance. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, their faces gaunt, their expressions grim, stood flanking her like silent sentinels. Nott Senior sat slumped in an armchair, his gaze distant, his face etched with a weariness that spoke of countless battles fought and lost

I could see that Rowle wasn't here yet, he had been a crucial part of my mother plan as he provided us with the location of van dorne's home.

My mother, her usual composure strained, sat at the head of the table, her gaze fixed on the silver teapot, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns embossed on its surface. Nagini, Voldemort's monstrous snake, slithered around the room, her scales glinting in the candlelight, her presence a chilling reminder of the power we'd lost.

We weren't that many. The graveyard… that night.

And now, we had to decide what to do next.

There was a sudden, insistent pounding on the front door.

The pounding on the door echoed through the drawing-room, each thud a hammer blow against the silence that had settled over us. I watched as Mother rose from her chair.

But before anyone could move, I was already halfway to the door.

I flung the door open, the words of greeting dying on my lips as a wave of nausea rolled over me.

Edgar Rowle stumbled across the threshold, his body a mangled mess. Blood seeped through the tattered remnants of his robes, staining the pristine white marble of the foyer a gruesome crimson. His face was covered by blood and I couldn't really see his eyes.

"Help… please…" he choked out, his voice a ragged whisper.

Rowle, raced towards where the others were gathered, his hand reaching out, his fingers grasping at their robes

"… help me…"

The others rose from their seats forming almost a full circle around him, their faces a mix of shock and disgust as they took in the sight of Rowle's mangled form. Aunt Bellatrix recoiled, a hiss of disdain escaping her lips.

Mother went closer to Rowle.

"What the hell happened, Rowle?" Mother demanded, her voice sharp with anger. 

But Rowle wasn't listening. his head was hanging low.

And then, he started laughing. A high-pitched, hysterical laughter that echoed off the walls.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

I glanced at the others, their faces a mixture of shock and confusion.

"Edgar?" Mother asked, her voice tight.

He did not answer, on the way his body was trembling, on the unnatural glow that was beginning to emanate from beneath his tattered robes.

He looked up and I could see that his eyes were different, almost gray.

And then a bright light and something sent me flying, everything went dark.

________________________________________________

Pain. A searing, all-consuming pain that lanced through my body, pulling me from the blessed oblivion of unconsciousness. I groaned, my head throbbing, my ears ringing with a high-pitched whine that made my teeth ache. My vision swam, blurry shadows and light that refused to form into anything recognizable.

I tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced me back down, a sharp, agonizing pain shooting through my leg. I lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, my mind struggling to catch up with my body, the remnants of the dream, of Rowle's chilling laughter, clinging to me like cobwebs.

And then, my vision cleared.

What I saw sent a scream, a raw, primal sound of horror, tearing from my throat.

The drawing-room, once a sanctuary of elegance and tradition, was now a charnel house. A massacre painted in blood and bone and shattered stone.

The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh, a cloying sweetness that mingled with the dust and the coppery tang of blood.

Rowle was gone. Vanished. As if he'd never been.

The others…

Aunt Bellatrix was sprawled against a wall, her body twisted at an unnatural angle, her once-proud face contorted in a mask of agony. Blood pooled beneath her, staining her dark robes a gruesome crimson. Rodolphus and Rabastan lay crumpled near the shattered remains of the fireplace, their limbs twisted, their bodies… broken.

Nott Senior…

I averted my gaze, unable to stomach the sight of what remained of the man.

And then, I remembered.

Mother.

"Mother!" I screamed, the name a desperate plea, a terrified whisper against the backdrop of the carnage.

I tried to scramble to my feet, but my leg buckled beneath me, a fresh wave of pain shooting through me, making me cry out. I looked down, my stomach churning as I saw the bone protruding from my calf, a jagged, white splinter against the crimson stain of my blood.

I crawled, dragging myself across the debris-strewn floor, ignoring the pain, the nausea, the bile that rose in my throat.

"Mother!"

I reached the spot where she'd been sitting, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

And then, I saw it.

Her… her torso…

It was all that remained. A mangled, blood-soaked mass of flesh and bone, the lower half of her body… gone. Vanished. As if some monstrous beast had ripped her in two, leaving behind only a grotesque testament to its savagery.

I tried to crawl towards her, towards what remained of my… mother. But my broken leg screamed in protest, the pain, forcing me back down onto the cold, hard floor.

I vomited, my stomach emptying itself onto the bloodstained carpet, the acidic tang of bile mingling with the stench of death. And then, I cried. Loud, racking sobs that shook my body, tears streaming down my face, mingling with the blood and the grime.

How? How could this have happened? 

And then, I heard it.

Footsteps.

Heavy, measured footsteps echoing through the shattered silence of the manor.

I looked up, my vision blurred by tears and terror, and saw a figure silhouetted against the light streaming in from the broken front door.

It was a masked figure.

And it was coming towards me.

(Vincent POV)

I saw Draco Malfoy lay sprawled amidst the carnage, a broken, whimpering mess. Tears streamed down his pale face, mixing with the blood and vomit that stained his clothes. His gaze, wide with a mix of horror and accusation,I stepped over the shattered remains of marble statues and glass.

The scene before me, devastation, spoke of a violence that had ripped through this bastion of pureblood arrogance, I need to act quick.

"You… you who the hell are you!" Malfoy choked out, his voice a ragged whisper. 

He trailed off, his words dissolving into a sob.

I reached him, his gaze never leaving my masked face, a flicker of primal fear finally breaking through the mask of aristocratic disdain that usually clung to him like a second skin.

He lunged, his hands reaching out, grasping at me with a desperate fury. I sidestepped his clumsy attack with ease, my expression unchanging. He was as pathetic as he was predictable.

He tried to scramble back, but I was faster. My boot came down hard on his broken leg, the sickening crunch of bone against leather echoing in the sudden silence.

He screamed, his face contorting with agony.

I knelt beside him, pulling a knife from my belt.

He whimpered, a pathetic sound that was lost in the hiss of my blade as it plunged into his skull, ending his misery, his hatred, his very existence.

I rose, wiping the blood from my blade onto his clothes. The silence that followed seemed to amplify the carnage that surrounded me.

The runes… that spell… it had been more effective than I'd anticipated. I'd expected a few survivors, a chance to fight some of them, to savor their fear. But the blast… the raw power… it had obliterated them.

I moved through the drawing-room, my gaze sweeping over the mangled bodies. Bellatrix…her limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Rodolphus and Rabastan… nothing but charred, smoking husks.

Nott Senior… well, I'd probably done Theo a favor, ending the old bastard's reign of terror. The man had been a blight on his son's life, a toxic presence that had choked the boy's spirit.

My gaze fell on Nagini, Voldemort's monstrous snake, lying on the floor near the shattered remains of the fireplace. Her scales were scorched, her body mangled, her once-menacing eyes dull and lifeless. I stepped closer, just to be sure.

"So much for the invincible Dark Lord" I murmured, severing the snake's head with a swift stroke of my blade.

A soft cough, a rattling sound that echoed through the silence, made me freeze.

Bellatrix.

She was still alive. Barely. Her body was broken, her spine twisted at a grotesque angle, her limbs contorted. But her eyes… those dark, mad eyes… they were still burning with a fierce, unyielding hatred.

I knelt beside her, her gaze locking onto mine, a venomous hiss escaping her lips.

"You… you filthy… You'll… you'll pay…"

I met her gaze, my expression unchanging. "You hate Muggles so much, Bellatrix? Fine. I'll send you off the Muggle way."

I pulled a lighter from my pocket, a simple, disposable lighter purchased from a Muggle petrol station, reached into my backpack and pulled a can of lighter fluid. I started showering her with lighter fluid when it was enough I flicked the lighter open, the flame a tiny spark.

"Burn, Witch, Burn," I whispered, tossing the lighter onto the pool of blood and lighter fluid that was spreading beneath her broken body.

The flames caught quickly, greedily consuming the blood, the fabric of her robes, her flesh. Her screams, a symphony of agony and rage, filled the drawing-room as the fire took hold.

Then, I turned my attention to the remaining bodies. I dragged them into a pile near the center of the room using the levitation charm on what remained of their clothes.

 Incendio.

The flames roared to life, engulfing the bodies, consuming the flesh, the bone, the very memories of those who'd sought to destroy me.

I walked through the Manor, setting fire to every room, every portrait, every symbol of their twisted legacy. 

As I stepped out of the burning Manor, the night air cool against my skin, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. My grandparents were avenged. The Death Eaters were gone. The wizarding world would have to find a new bogeyman to fear.

I apparated back to the alleyway next to my apartment, checked for anyone around and removed my mask, and then proceeded to walk into the building.

Entering my apartment I went straight into the shower and put my clothes in the washer, after I was done with the shower and got into a new set of clothes I went into the living room.

There was a piano there, I had played the piano on my previous life, and on this life my grandparents had asked me to pick and instrument and that they would find a tutor, It was funny when the tutor called me a "prodigy" and a "natural" as I was "learning" to play.

During the summer breaks, I used to play at the old piano my grandparents had in the living room, they were my audience.

Sitting down in front of the piano I started playing a song that I loved from my previous life, from 2018 it was called Berceuse des amants solitaires by Stefano Tore.

As I kept playing I was remembering all the steps that had led me to this point, how bloody it had become by the end of it.

The war was over.

My war, anyway.

And I had won, I had paid for it, my own hubris and arrogance got some innocent people killed, I will make sure their deaths mean something.

I will change this world. Sometimes, you have to destroy something in order to build something better.