Chapter 2 The encounter

As Connor left the bar, feeling tipsy but steady, he planned to go home for the night. Still processing everything that had happened, it all felt like a dream. Walking through the dimly lit streets, the rain had reduced to a fine drizzle, casting a misty veil over the city. His mind was a swirl of emotions-grief, anger, and a deep-seated need for answers.

He noticed two men harassing a young lady in an alleyway. Normally, he might have walked away, but tonight was different. The sorrow and anger from Jim's death gnawed at him, seeking an outlet. The men were trying to get her phone number, their voices slurred and aggressive.

"Dame tu número, preciosa," one thug demanded, his voice thick with arrogance. ("Give me your number, beautiful.")

"Déjame en paz," the woman snapped back, her voice shaking but firm. "No tengo nada que ver contigo." ("Leave me alone. I have nothing to do with you.")

The second thug laughed, a sinister sound. "Vamos, chica, solo es un número. No seas difícil." ("Come on, girl, it's just a number. Don't be difficult.")

The woman's eyes flashed with defiance. "Vete al diablo," she spat, crossing her arms defiantly. ("Go to hell.")

As Connor passed by, one of the thugs spat out at him in Spanish, "Hey, mierda profunda, ¿esto parece asunto tuyo?" ("Hey, deep shit, does this look like your business?")

Connor, with a stern but drunken look, gave the thug a hard stare. "You've got a death wish, huh?" the second thug sneered, turning their full attention to Connor.

"Leave me alone, boys. I'm in no mood for this tonight," Connor slurred, trying to keep his composure.

"Come here, tonto!" the first thug said, grabbing Connor by the collar. ("Come here, fool!") Connor responded with a smirk, "You shouldn't have done that."

The thugs began to laugh, but their laughter was cut short when Connor delivered a swift punch to the stomach of the first man. A fight ensued, but the men were no match for Connor. His drunken state did little to hinder his combat skills. He moved with lethal grace, each punch and kick precise and powerful.

"¡Mierda!" one of the thugs cursed as Connor's fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground. ("Shit!")

The lady, now free, ran back into the bar to call for help. Lisa came rushing out and called out to Connor.

"Stop! Connor, that's enough!"

Her voice cut through the fog of his rage, and he paused. The thugs lay on the ground, groaning in pain.

"Gracias," the woman said to Lisa, her voice trembling with relief. "No sabía qué más hacer." ("Thank you. I didn't know what else to do.")

"Está bien," Lisa replied, her eyes on Connor. "Ve adentro, estarás a salvo allí." ("It's okay. Go inside, you'll be safe there.")

Connor stood up and straightened his clothes, breathing heavily.

"Go home, Connor. We can't have you sleeping in a cell tonight," Lisa said firmly.

Connor nodded, the adrenaline beginning to wear off. He began his journey home. The encounter had given him a brief release, a way to channel his pent-up anger. As he walked, he heard the distant wail of sirens. He shrugged it off and continued home, eager to find solace in his bed.

Back at his apartment, Connor removed his wet clothes and collapsed onto his bed. Sleep came quickly but was restless, filled with fragmented dreams of Jim, the fight, and a shadowy figure that seemed to haunt him. He awoke the next morning with a pounding headache, the events of the previous night still vivid in his mind.

The shadows of the fight lingered as he tried to piece together what had happened. The woman's face was blurry in his memory, but her fear palpable. He wondered if she was okay, if she had made it home safely. The thought gnawed at him as he stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee.

Connor's mind drifted back to Jim. He could almost hear his foster father's voice, the steady reassurance that had always been there to guide him. But now, those memories were tainted by the image of Jim's tortured body, the life drained from him in such a cruel manner.

The coffee pot hissed and sputtered, bringing him back to the present. He poured himself a cup and sat at the small kitchen table, staring into the dark liquid. The fight had been a distraction, but it hadn't dulled the pain of losing Jim. Nothing could.

He took a long sip, the bitterness a welcome distraction. He knew he couldn't keep drifting like this. Jim's death demanded justice, and Connor was determined to find it. He would track down every lead, confront every suspect, and avenge the man who had saved him from a life of darkness.

As the sun began to rise, casting a pale light over the city, Connor finished his coffee and set the cup down with a determined clink. He had a promise to keep, and he wouldn't rest until he had answers. With a heavy heart but a resolute mind, he began to plan his next move.

Just as he was about to leave the apartment, he wanted to pick up something to eat and he realised that he ran out of his waffle mix, remembering that he needed to go to the grocery store. The thought of mundane tasks seemed almost surreal in the midst of his grief and anger, but he needed to keep himself grounded. With a sigh, he grabbed his keys and headed out the door, ready to face whatever came next.