"You killed him?" The voice rang through the dark night, sharp and accusing.
Zane Campbell held the lifeless body, shaking it in distress. His voice broke with pain. "Don't die, please!" He begged, his heart pounding.
"Zane, you killed him," the voice came again, piercing through him like a sword. His scream rang, filled with deep grief.
"I didn't kill him! Help me! They killed him!" Zane pleaded, but the stranger just stood there, unmoved.
"You stabbed him! You shot him, Zane Campbell!" The words hit him brutally, triggering his anger.
Fiercly, Zane stood to face the man. But his anger was instantly replaced with fear when he saw the camera. The man clicked the camera continuously, capturing every moment.
"What are you doing?" Zane's voice trembled.
"Collecting evidence. You killed him," the stranger's cold voice sent a chill down Zane's spine.
Sweat appeared on Zane's forehead. His whole body trembled. "They killed him," he whispered, but before he could say more, footsteps sounded behind him.
He turned around. Police officers, their uniforms dark in the dim light, guns aimed at him.
"You're under arrest, Zane Campbell, for the murder of—"
"No! No!" Zane's painful scream shrieked through the night. He turned and ran.
"Get him! Find him! He murdered him!" The voices chased after him.
Zane hid beneath a tree, his breath heavy, his body trembling uncontrollably. Then, lights dispelled the darkness, exposing every hiding place.
He looked down at his hands and shuddered. Blood. His fingers, his palms, everything was wet with it.
His eyes dropped to his clothes. It wasn't left out, completely soaked in blood.
A wave of panic crashed over him. His chest tightened.
"He died… he died," Zane whispered, his voice breaking.
A massive screen lit up, displaying a chilling headline: Zane Campbell murdered Bob Campbell.
"No!! No!! Stop it!!" Zane's bittered scream rang through the air.
Then, numbers flashed on the screen. 13567.
In a dimly lit room, Stan George hit the air, violently in his sleep. "No! Stop!" His voice hoarse with fear as he jolted awake.
His heart pounded fiercely, his pulse throbbed against his skin. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His breath rough and uneven.
That dream. The same nightmare that had tormented him for two years.
Grabbing a pillow, he hugged it tightly, his body shook as he sobbed silently. "When will this end?" he sobbed, his voice heavy with pain.
And those numbers, 13567, glued in his mind. It had registered there for long.
He didn't know how long he lay there, trembling, tears soaking his face. But slowly, his heartbeat steadied, and his breath became even.
His gaze shifted to the clock. 6:05 AM.
Swallowing his emotions, he forced himself out of bed. Straight to the bathroom and took a cold shower. He dressed up, ready to leave for work.
Because every time the dream came back, there was only one way to bury it. Work.
Sliding into his car, he gripped the wheel and stepped on the accelerator. But before he could push the memories down, an image rushed into his mind.
A speeding car.
A bloodstained phone in his shaking hands.
Not his blood. His. That man's.
Stan's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his breath became rough. The past he thought he had buried returned back, raw and merciless.
"Fuck you all!" His roar pierced through the car as he slammed his fist against the wheel.
His face twisted in grief. His body trembled violently.
Why was the dream back? Why now?
He pressed harder on the accelerator, the car racing forward, the wind brushing fiercly against his skin.
But no matter how fast he drove, the memories stayed. They refused to disappear.
Blood everywhere.
The knife drove deep into his stomach.
The bullet tore through his chest.
"No!! Stop it!!" His emotions rushed into him like a violent storm, threatening to drown him.
As he drove into the parking lot of his office, he slammed the brakes hard. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Get it off! Get it off!" He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Minutes passed. His breathing slowed, his trembling hands loosening their grip on the wheel.
With a deep inhale, he adjusted the rearview mirror and stared at his reflection. His face was pale, his eyes dark with exhaustion.
"Stan George," he murmured. A deep chuckle escaped him.
"This isn't you."
Shoving the mirror away, he grabbed his suitcase and stepped out of the car.
As he approached the entrance, his eyes landed on the bold inscription above—Zathcore AutoTech.
He let out a quiet sigh before walking in, his steps graceful, like one who wasn't trapped in his emotions a while ago.
The moment he reached his office, he slumped onto the sofa. His fingers hovered over his phone, then hesitated.
There was no point in calling. If there was news, they would tell him.
But still… he needed to talk to someone.
Quickly, he dialed another number. The phone barely rang once before a familiar, excited voice answered.
"Love!" Her voice rang with joy, instantly softening his tense mood. His lips curled into a smile.
"Baby. Hope you slept well?" His voice, now exuded warmth.
"Yeah! I'm on my way to work," she replied cheerfully.
He heard the faint sound of a door shutting. She was stepping out of the house
"I miss you," he whispered, still smiling.
"Weekend will be here soon, and I'll see you," she said, her voice tender.
"Call me when you get to work. I love you," he murmured.
"Definitely. I love you more," she assured him.
As he slowly disconnected the call, he gazed at his phone, his smile lingering. In the midst of his chaos, he had found her. She had become his anchor, his companion, his friend, his lover.
For the first time that morning, the weight in his chest felt lighter. He felt alive.
With a new found energy, he ordered breakfast and buried himself in work. The hours went pass quickly, the day sped faster than usual.
When he finally glanced at his watch, it was well past closing time. Stretching his stiff limbs, he straightened his suit and carefully tucked important documents into his briefcase.
Just as he was about to leave, his phone beeped. It was a message notification. He tapped the message to open it.
"Love, I think I might be pregnant."
The words struck like a lightning bolt. His expression darkened instantly. His jaw clenched. Veins bulged on his forehead as his breathing became heavy.
"How could you!" he roared, his voice a low, dangerous. Anger rose within him, stripping the peace he had felt just moments ago.
Without another thought, he grabbed his briefcase and stormed out of the office.
He didn't need a child? Not now.