AUTHOR'S NOTE: I do not own Winx Club. I wrote this story a few years ago in Spanish, but, since some of you have asked for an English version, I've decided to translate it. Therefore, I promise to update as soon as possible, though it could take me some time to upload a new chapter. Anyway, I hope you like it!
Friday, dead of night. The bright lights of Dominus, one of Gardenia's night clubs, conceal the moon. The place is packed with sweating youngsters dancing to the rhythm of some techno song.
The atmosphere is different outside. Despite the cries of the drunks who argue with the brawny doorman, there is a strange calm, one of those that come right before a raging storm.
Leaning against the wall, a man dressed in black examines the scene carefully. His body blends in the dark like another shadow, waiting like so many times before. Once again, he's had that sinking feeling that something horrible was about to happen. He ventures an anxious glance at his watch, but it's only three in the morning and he cannot still see any trace of a crime.
He doesn't dare think he's made a mistake. His intuition never lies, so he keeps waiting patiently, though nothing happens. He then decides to leave when the clock strikes half past three.
The man walks the empty streets expectantly. Something about the surroundings of a famous club being empty on a Friday night makes him suspicious. No people, no cars, not even noise.
His mind screams suddenly. He runs back to the club.
The door is locked from the inside and there are no windows, so he looks for another way to get in. Rusty metallic stairs end at the flat roof. He climbs them with rehearsed ability and opens a trap door located on the floor.
Dominus smells of alcohol and cigarettes, of excess and desire. When the annoying smoke of the lights fades away his blood runs cold. Bodies are scattered all around the place, as if they were broken puppets. The silence speaks of death, and becomes deafening.
He is late for the first time in forever.
And oh, he is not alone. Noticing a presence behind, he turns around just in time to avoid a fist. His leg aims successfully for the stranger's stomach, leaving him lying helplessly on the floor.
"Who hired you?"
A low growl is the answer. It is highly probable that the man who is currently struggling beneath his boot belongs to a mob.
He is tempted to repeat the question when something collides painfully with his head. Someone is about to shoot him with a gun. Desert Eagle, 1979. The headache is beginning to take its toll and he is outnumbered.
Unable to fight back, a rain of fists and kicks falls over him. Another man comes to help his partners and they take him out of the club.
After a dreadful car ride, he finds himself left to die in some piece of waste ground. He tries to stand up, but his wounds don't let him. Feeling sick and swollen, he sees a needle mark on his left forearm. The have drugged him.
His hands touch the ground desperately in search of something sharp. He picks a shred of glass and cuts neatly across the mark, wrapping his new wound tightly with the remains of his black t-shirt.
His consciousness is slipping and his ears ring with white noise. Making a last effort, he draws five numbers on his arm using the glass.
The world turns pitch black.