The Aventador v3 opening
Because there are so many ways I can begin this story.
This is the third version of the opening, the first being the one written in Scrivener and the second one handwritten and still have to be typed.
There is a legend of a white blur bringing death to the houses it visits. They call it the Phantom, the invisible avenger, the wrathful spirit that smites down all those who’ve sinned. It shows no mercy to anyone of any class or status. It strikes and it kills until justice is delivered.
The people call it a serial murderer that seems to have inspired a movie and a soap opera. The government calls it a really devious criminal that is not exempted from law just because it has rid of them quite a number of untouchable criminals. The devouts call it God’s messenger of death and the Messiah of the modern age.
Michael thinks it’s a load of bull but drives a mean looking Aventador, matte white with a custom design of carbon fiber on its hood, and that very car is parked right outside his house. Tonight’s unlucky target must be his neighbor across the street since everyone in his house is still alive.
He waits by the window, curtain pulled tautly open, watching with careful eyes. Let the Phantom know he’s watching, let it know he has a witness tonight.
There is an orange light coming from the window in the second floor across his, a round shadow showing through from the sheer curtains. Another shadow appears, tall and thin and sleek just like the Aventador. Then an echo of a boom shakes the stillness of the neighborhood, and Michael knows this Phantom is no mysterious spirit sent from God knows where. No, the Phantom is nothing supernatural at all; completely human and thus fallible.
The light across flickers dead, most likely the same as its owner. Michael waits, body freezing and breath pausing as he diverts his attention to the lonely white car parked on his driveway.
The car door, driver’s side, slides up, and an equally white figure slips in just as it slides down immediately.
Michael feels the air stolen out of him like a punch in the guts when he sees a pair of sharp eyes stares up at him over darkly tinted windshield.
Apparently, the Phantom is no man after all.
Whoever this Phantom is, Michael has to meet her.
This is the third version of the opening, the first being the one written in Scrivener and the second one handwritten and still have to be typed.
There is a legend of a white blur bringing death to the houses it visits. They call it the Phantom, the invisible avenger, the wrathful spirit that smites down all those who’ve sinned. It shows no mercy to anyone of any class or status. It strikes and it kills until justice is delivered.
The people call it a serial murderer that seems to have inspired a movie and a soap opera. The government calls it a really devious criminal that is not exempted from law just because it has rid of them quite a number of untouchable criminals. The devouts call it God’s messenger of death and the Messiah of the modern age.
Michael thinks it’s a load of bull but drives a mean looking Aventador, matte white with a custom design of carbon fiber on its hood, and that very car is parked right outside his house. Tonight’s unlucky target must be his neighbor across the street since everyone in his house is still alive.
He waits by the window, curtain pulled tautly open, watching with careful eyes. Let the Phantom know he’s watching, let it know he has a witness tonight.
There is an orange light coming from the window in the second floor across his, a round shadow showing through from the sheer curtains. Another shadow appears, tall and thin and sleek just like the Aventador. Then an echo of a boom shakes the stillness of the neighborhood, and Michael knows this Phantom is no mysterious spirit sent from God knows where. No, the Phantom is nothing supernatural at all; completely human and thus fallible.
The light across flickers dead, most likely the same as its owner. Michael waits, body freezing and breath pausing as he diverts his attention to the lonely white car parked on his driveway.
The car door, driver’s side, slides up, and an equally white figure slips in just as it slides down immediately.
Michael feels the air stolen out of him like a punch in the guts when he sees a pair of sharp eyes stares up at him over darkly tinted windshield.
Apparently, the Phantom is no man after all.
Whoever this Phantom is, Michael has to meet her.