BLUE EYED VENGEANCE

Rain fell in a steady rhythm, each drop a mournful beat upon the umbrellas that shielded the gathered mourners. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet earth and the quiet sorrow of those who had come to pay their respects.

Connor Matthews stood at a distance, his gaze fixed on the freshly dug grave. He wasn't a man of crowds or formalities, but for Jim, he had to be here. Jim Matthews-his foster father, the man who had saved him from a life of violence and darkness-now lay beneath the sodden ground. The thought sent a pang through Connor's chest, tightening his jaw in silent grief.

The ceremony seemed to blur around him, words of condolences murmured, the rustle of coats and umbrellas, the distant sound of rain tapping against the gravestones. Connor's eyes remained fixed, his expression numb as he struggled to process the finality of it all.

He glanced around, noticing the familiar faces-Lisa, Jim's lifelong friend and owner of their favorite bar, stood with a somber expression, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Chicki, Jim's partner in the force, stood not far off, his usual stoic demeanor softened by the weight of loss. Connor felt a tug of guilt for ignoring Chicki at first, but today, his thoughts were consumed by the man who had been more than just a mentor.

As the ceremony drew to a close and the mourners began to disperse, Connor remained rooted to the spot, unwilling to leave Jim's side. Rain soaked through his clothes, but he hardly noticed. His mind raced with memories-Jim's laughter over a pint, the lessons learned on the streets, the unwavering support even when Connor had stumbled.

Finally, with a heavy heart, Connor took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached out, fingertips brushing the cold, wet stone of the headstone. "I'll find out who did this, Jim," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the patter of rain. "I promise."

As Connor turned to leave, Chicki approached, his expression a mixture of sorrow and guilt. "Connor," he began, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm so sorry. I... I should have been there. I should have protected him."

Connor's blue eyes, usually so clear and determined, were clouded with a storm of emotions. He fixed Chicki with a hard stare. "It's your fault," he said sharply, the words cutting through the rain-soaked air. "You were his partner. You should have had his back. You failed him."

Chicki recoiled as if struck, his face paling. "I... I know, Connor. I know. And I'll never forgive myself for that."

Connor turned away, his fists clenched at his sides. "Just leave me alone," he muttered, his voice barely more than a growl. "I don't need your apologies. I need answers."

For a long moment, Chicki stood there, the rain washing over him, mingling with his tears. Finally, with a nod of resignation, he stepped back, giving Connor the space he so desperately craved.

Connor watched the last of the mourners drift away, their figures disappearing into the mist. The cemetery was quiet now, the only sound the relentless patter of rain on stone and soil. He stood there for what felt like hours, his mind a whirl of grief and anger, before finally tearing his gaze away from Jim's grave.

His clothes were soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, but he felt numb to the cold. Every step away from the grave felt like a betrayal, but he knew he couldn't stay forever. With one last, lingering look at the headstone, he turned and walked away, the weight of his promise heavy on his shoulders.

The walk through the rain was long and silent, the drops easing to a drizzle as he reached the familiar streets. He kept his head down, the memories of Jim's home flashing through his mind-once a place of warmth and safety, now a crime scene marked by violence and loss. Jim hadn't just been killed; he had been tortured. The brutality of it gnawed at Connor's insides, fueling his need for answers.

Connor didn't head back to his apartment. Instead, he made his way to the bar that had been a second home to both him and Jim. The dim lights and the low hum of conversation were a stark contrast to the cold, wet night outside. He pushed open the door, the warmth inside wrapping around him like a blanket, but it did little to thaw the ice in his veins.

Lisa looked up from behind the bar, her expression softening when she saw him. She gave a small nod, understanding without words, and poured him a drink. Connor took the glass and found a corner table, away from the few patrons scattered around. He sat down heavily, staring into the amber liquid, his thoughts a turbulent storm.

He took a long sip, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the pain in his heart. He could hear Jim's voice in his mind, 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 door to the bar opened, and Connor glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the man who entered. John Finly, an average-looking cop with a low-cut hairstyle, entered the bar and made his way over. He had always seemed like a decent guy, someone who blended into the background without much fuss. Connor's jaw tightened as John took a seat next to him.

"Connor," John greeted cautiously. "Mind if I join you?"

Connor's stare was icy. "What do you want, John?"

John raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Just wanted to pay my respects. Jim was a good man."

"He was more than that," Connor snapped. "And you weren't there for him."

John sighed, taking a seat across from Connor despite the lack of invitation. "Look, I know you're hurting. We all are."

Connor leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "I don't believe Jim was just robbed. It makes no sense."

John's eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "Connor, you need to shrug that feeling of doubt. Don't go down that path, nothing good ever comes from it."

Connor's eyes darkened. "Don't tell me what to do. I owe Jim everything. And I will find out who did this."

The tension between them was palpable, but John eventually stood, giving a nod of reluctant respect. "Take care, Connor. And think about what I said."

As John walked away, Connor finished his drink, the fire inside him stoked to a blazing inferno. He would find out who was responsible for Jim's death. And he would make them pay.

With a determined set to his jaw, Connor stood and made his way to the bar, placing his empty glass on the counter. Lisa gave him a look of concern, but he shook his head. "I need to get some air," he said, his voice rough.

Lisa nodded, understanding. "Be careful out there, Connor."

He gave her a brief, tight smile before stepping back into the night. The rain had stopped, but the air was still thick with moisture. Connor pulled his jacket tighter around him and walked with purpose, the promise he had made to Jim echoing in his mind.

He wouldn't rest until he had answers. And he wouldn't let anyone stand in his way.