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[color=gray][b][i]YEAR ONE — HOMECOMING[/i][/b][/color][/center]
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[INDENT][b]GRANT CITY, SUNDAY, 11:00 PM[/b][/INDENT]
Whatever name you call Grant City, it is a symbol of moral deterioration and the darkness that comes from within. I’ve known it well— I’m a product of it. But I won’t let it go on; I [i]can’t[/i] let it go on, not any longer. 

The criminal element that controls Grant City is a union of crime families that have been in control since the earliest twentieth century. Though the union itself had not been declared until around 1972 when my grandfather, Kevan Lothry, collaborated with his rivals Mikhail Graoroski, Stephan Dubois, and Antonio Zerilli to create a landscape where they could split the city into four territories— to not waste time with pointless bloodshed with the FBI and GCPD on their heels. In a story about organized crime the writer would let you believe that the greed of the other families would eventually turn and the “good guys” would infiltrate their organization from the inside. However this wasn’t a gangster movie. This was real life. That was the reality I came from— I was born into the Lothry Crime Family.

[i][color=gray]Born into sin.[/color][/i]

The thought of my life as a pawn underneath this union of crime families, this [i]syndicate of crime[/i]… it angers me. In the past the evil pull of the devil would make me blind as I turned into a savage. I terrorized, intimidated, enforced, and hurt people… I [i]killed[/i] without a second thought. I was a tool of evil and as that tool I thought I was living up to my father’s legacy and could become like him. But I didn't realize what being like him really was back then and I see now that all of it was a delusion; a delusion I did not see until it was too late. I wish that I could’ve seen god’s warnings— I wish I could’ve seen the devil’s shadow.

[b][color=gray]“Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made.”[/color] [/b]

My voice is almost a whisper. I had half-a-decade or more for introspection, reflection, and prayer. But now was not the time for those things— god had led me to the Georgian monastery that had prepared me for my journey and gave me the skills to bring retribution to the unholy and the wicked. 

[i][color=gray]My family’s sins must be corrected.[/color][/i]

I am crouched on the top of a crane, brows narrowed as I look down as Daniel McHugh’s men began to unload crates from the cargo ship that is docked— The Fair Lady. 

My destination here is not random and I am not foolish. When I first arrived back in Grant City I decided exactly how I was going to about this most holy mission; because even saints are not immune to bullets. But I needed to make my enemies think I am. I returned to Grant City several weeks ago under the assumed name of Ioane Jandieri, a Georgian name I created to go under the radar as I do not need a celebrity’s homecoming— I needed people to believe I was a [i]ghost[/i]. 

The supplies, cash, and motif I needed were not in front of me; I did not have a state-of-the-art base of operations and I did not have endless supply of money to create one. While the money I gained from the drug-dealing street gangs was one made from the devil’s whims it was not unable to be cleaned in the eyes of god. I took the money to a church, prayed for his blessing, and got to work— and now I stand in black-tattered cloth that I engineered myself. Not bad for someone who was perceived as an idiotic thug. The motif is that of a shadow, a reaper— an angel of [i]judgement[/i]. 

This place… this port. It is important to the syndicate. It will be judged.

I have come to this port in all of its familiarity to face the sinful drones of Daniel McHugh who are ready to start sorting their operation. An operation that has gone on for many generations. In short, the McHugh’s have been involved with the importing and exporting of drugs for over thirty years— everything from crack to marijuana have been goods that they have gotten their sinful hands on and have peddled it to whoever they could get entranced on it. They were the middleman from the syndicate to the dealers and were vital. It is here in the shadows of the night that I remember Daniel McHugh and his boys; it is here that they remember that god is watching.

That god is [i]angry[/i].

I reach for a smoke grenade on the side of my utility belt. In an instant smoke engulfs the men below. They scream in surprise.

They scream again.

I can hear the sounds of ricocheting bullets as I begin an onslaught of unrelenting grapples. I can hear the sound of this man’s bones breaking before I throw him to the concrete below. Their vision is blinded, but they cannot see their enemy— they cannot see because they have been led astray and blinded to the devil’s hand on their shoulder. It is saddening to know that in another life these men could’ve been good given the right opportunity. They could’ve opened their eyes like I have. But now… it is too late. I drop another grenade as I move to the next one before the smoke has even begun to clear.

[b]“WHERE IS HE?! HELP!”[/b]

[color=gray][b]“Every living substance that I have made will I destroy.”[/b][/color] I growl underneath my mask.

Another scream as I break his arm.

[color=gray][i]For the wrongdoer will be paid back for the wrong he has done, and there is no partiality.[/i][/color]

There is only pain.

There is only judgement.

There is only [i]god.[/i]