The fluorescent lights above me flicker — tired, like an old man who's seen too much and is now silently begging to be put down like an animal..

“So, Mr. Silas,” Arthur begins, voice low, a forced chuckle escaping his throat, “tell me why you’ve been doing what you’ve been doing.” He leans forward, trying to wear the illusion of control like a suit that doesn’t fit quite right.

“Oh, Mr. Arthur,” I murmur, lips curling into something between a smile and a sneer, “I’m nothing more than a humble man who writes in his spare time and works for the wellbeing of this little town.”

I say it with the expression of a hawk mid-meal — calm, and dangerous.

Arthur’s amused, briefly. But he wipes the look away and replaces it with anger and annoyance.

“Mr. Silas, you do understand I’m the one in power here. I hold the reins. You’re just a fly caught in my web,” he growls. “Answer my questions, or there will be consequences.”

He leans closer.

“Did you — or did you not — push Theo to do what he did?”

“Oh my,” I sigh, mockingly. “Now that’s a question. But you, dear investigator, should know better. Firing off direct questions without consent? Not exactly… legal. Your first words should’ve been, ‘Are you comfortable being questioned and recorded, mr silas?’ But OH MY– you didn’t ask that. A simple misstep, yes, but one that could make your precious little job go poof.”I smirk, a hand mockingly close to his side of the table.

Arthur shifts in his seat, his jaw tightening.

“I’m aware of the citizen's rights,” he says with a smug little grin. “But the law also states that any person under investigation is permitted — if not obliged — to answer.”and "what do you know about consent Mr silas”, his voice low but husky.

Finally, he sits, one leg slung over the other, hands calmly interlaced.

“True,” I reply smoothly. “But I’m not exactly listed as a suspect, am I Mr Arthur? You told me I’m here for questioning because I was his therapist. Not because I’m a suspect.”

I flash him a slow smile.

He lets out a chuckle. “Mr. Silas, you’ve really played this well. Knowing the law and hiding behind the medical field? You’ve practically opened a case for yourself.”

I stand — slowly, deliberately — and raise my hand in front of me.

“Mr Arthur if I wanted I could've had you ; both like literally and metaphorically” .

Then, with a sudden whip of my hand, I slam my palm down onto the edge of the table. Blood blossoms from my skin, warm and dripping.

Arthur freezes; like a deer caught in headlights.

I stare straight into his eyes and smirk. His expression — is it guilt? Or a flicker of sorrow It's hard to tell.

Like the flickering of the fluorescent lights above us.

“Seems like someone’s got hemophobia,” I whisper, voice low and teasing. “Have fun explaining this to your superiors, my love~”

I stand, steps echoing behind him, and stroke the back of his head gently.

“I want to slice this pretty little body of yours to pieces, Mr. Arthur,” I say with a grin. Mine, not his.

I walk past him. A single tear mixes with the blood dripping from my palm as I make my way to the nearest officer, with my bleeding hand on my head.

“OH GOD! Mr. Arthur’s lost it! He slammed me against the table. Please — someone help — I can’t stand the blood!”

Officers rush toward me like bees to honey. I collapse to the floor, sobbing — a performance I didn’t know I could pull off so well. Poor old me, beloved by all. Why wouldn’t they help?

When Uncle Miller’s young son died, who did he call?

Not Arthur. Not his wife. Not his children.

He called me.

The town’s quiet little savior. The same guy who helps the elderly , who helps cut the grass in the millers lawn.

“WHO DID THIS TO YOU?!” shouts the department head — the same man I once helped through his war-haunted nightmares.

Even the youngest officer, barely through training, rushes to my side. Old friends, all of them. Of course they believe me.

“It was Arthur!” I scream, clutching Uncle Miller’s wrinkled hand.

Every head turns.

In the back of the room, Arthur bolts, racing toward the bathroom.

His body slammed through the doorway, collapsing hard onto the floor. Miller stormed toward him, not to help — but to shout, to tear into him in front of everyone. The others moved fast, not in confusion,closing in,like dogs in rut.

Poor, pitiful me, I thought, Mr. Silas — the beloved one, the trusted one. The man they call when no one else is there.

Ronin appeared at my side, grabbing my hand firmly, his voice low as he dialed for the ambulance.

“He hated you the second you moved here,” he said. “Everyone knows.”

There voices fade as my hand reaches for the—

Silas

The bird chirps, its voice soft and almost melodic, a low trill that lingers in the air. There’s something calming about it, something I savor. I stretch, slowly rising from my bed, the cool air brushing against my skin. It’s time to feed my pets. After all, one can never be too prepared, can they?

First comes Jam, the golden retriever. He’s not what he once was, his tail broken, crushed by a road roller — or so the rumors say. His left eye... oh, it’s not quite right. The iris has been bleached white, the vibrant brown gone, leaving nothing but an empty, milky void. Someone must have thought bleach could fix it, but instead, it only left him looking more... lifeless. I smile at the sight — a twisted beauty, one only I can appreciate. I feed him with care, watching him eat, my hands trembling just slightly. Then comes bones, my big guard dog;I walk towards the dressing table and practice my flawless smile. The townsfolk love so much, I grab the earring I was gifted by someone I can't remember the name of , a small heart wrapped around what looks to be a gold drop design .

Next, I walk over to my hamster’s cage. It’s odd to see him like this — he’s already gone, but there’s an odd elegance to his lifeless form. His tiny body, stiff with rigor mortis, lies with the softness of a corpse still in its prime. His little intestines dangle from the edges of his body, like delicate ribbons hanging in the wind. His one eye — perfectly scooped out, a hollow socket staring back at me — is an art form in itself. I can’t help but grin. My favorite of all, I whisper to myself, a soft chuckle slipping from my lips. It’s beautiful.

Everyone in town thinks a maniac is responsible for these twisted scenes, that I’m just an innocent bystander, someone who helped, took in the broken creatures and sheltered them. They don’t know the truth. They never will. How marvelous it is when a plan unfolds so flawlessly.…………………

I prepare for the day, making my way to the old housere’s library. I hand the librarian a pamphlet offering a discount on his beloved Sunday special sandwiches. He takes it from me, his expression soft and respectful, nodding in gratitude. He then offers me a chocolate chip cookie, still wrapped in its plastic.

“My wife gave it to me,” he says with a small chuckle. “She forgot I can’t have sugar. Alzheimer’s is hard, you know?, she can't remember small things”

I meet his gaze, my expression a careful blend of sympathy and respect. He nods, his eyes clouded, and turns back to his desk.

“Come back anytime, my lad. With a wife, that is!” he adds with a soft laugh, shaking his head before returning to his work.3

I take the cookie, a smirk tugging at my lips as I bite into it. The sweetness is overwhelming, too much for my taste. But perhaps Jam would enjoy it, a glimmer of amusement crossing my face. Though, I know he can’t have chocolate... The thought lingers in my mind for a moment longer than I care to admit.

I wonder how he’ll manage to scratch himself while staring at me with those pleading eyes—

Eyes… hollow, clouded, my finest creation yet.

I walk slowly toward my office, the one that gets redecorated for me every so often—sometimes monthly, sometimes yearly.

The thought gets more and more twisted and dark but my mask I created with perfection stays still, suddenly a man almost my height slightly taller with green emerald eyes a beard so thin you would need a microscope to see, his hand burnt slightly a 2 degree burn perhaps maybe a year or two older, and a slight spot maybe on his lips, why the fuck is his hair colored?

His voice husky yet caringly sweet , i smile instinctively while helping him up;

He looks at me eyes bright , with a hint of…i…don't know?????

I smirk as I lean against the frame of my door.

”He's outside his house again, he sure does like staying in an isolated place , I wonder how you are…, my thoughts are interrupted as bones barks at my phone, that's been ringing for at least 4 minutes now.

(Eli)

I hate the man next door !! His house is always beaming with that beige color I hate so much!!’’.

I say to my sister Jenna , she sips on her coffee as she nods along her expression neutral.

“Say this neighbour of yours ... .Did you have a chat with him? Considering he's the only one around ; and by chat I mean like a legitimate chat? Instead of you constantly wanting a fight with him.’

“Her words lingers through my mind as I realise I live around a desolate place, mostly no one around the nearest house being around 1 km far but his is the only house almost directly in front of mine , cept of course the vacant resident buildings around us “.

“Oh forget it you chipmunk!”

I tease her.

She snort-laughs, nearly choking on the coffee—probably made by him.

I watch her a little longer than usual,a quiet smile draws itself across my lips. She’s happy. Finally happy.

My little sister, my little girl… finally at peace.

My eyes linger as she moves her hand, revealing the scars—faded now, healed. Just remnants of a silent war we fought alone. She and I. No one knew. No one could know.

But then, my smile fades.

I lock eyes with the man behind her. He’s staring at her like a starved hawk watching prey.

God, I hate him.

I hate him so much I could rip the muscles from his bones.

Tear his limbs apart.

Drench that pale figure in the blood he deserves to lose.

Maybe do what i did to that man

Jenna keeps laughing through the phone, then I see her get up—probably to refill her cup.

She’s completely unaware of the eyes burning into her back.

I press the phone tighter, jaw clenched, fists locked at my sides.

Then she comes back on

He’s still watching.

I force myself to speak, voice low, careful.

"You know, he’s not a good person or a good husband."

There’s a pause on the other end.

Then her voice, calm but tired:

"You’ve said that before."

But she doesn’t argue anymore.

Not like she used to.

There was a time she’d defend him—say I was paranoid, overprotective, “trauma-drunk”

She just accepted it this time around ,and it scares me not because I'm scared of him but because I'm scared of what he'll do to her.

“Something changed. She doesn’t talk much—maybe he heard me? Much later, after she tells me she’s going to rest and the call disconnects, I stay wide awake.”

And there he is, the guy who made my life a living hell by just…existing..

Standing by his porch light. Smoking. Watching, like a guard dog.

I don't think he knows I can see him; it's become his little ritual now every day at around nighttime he comes outside and smokes, But it's different this time he doesn't move at all.

Only the smoke moves—twisting in the dark like it knows something I don’t.

My eyes drift to the closet.

I walk like a dog caught destroying the couch or maybe even a child caught lying and feels guilty.

I walk towards the box I swore I’d never open again.

But promises don’t mean a damn thing

when you can feel it coming back. For some reason my heart pounds a little. Maybe I'm scared. Perhaps I don't have to hide behind the wall made of blades., and the pain of a twelve year old with mistakes.

I feel my jaw tightening as I open the old box.

Faded photos of Jenna and me—bruises, broken smiles, eyes too tired for our age.

The tapes. I feel a tingle in my hand.

The letters. My grip tightens.

Every piece of our past is still perfectly intact, like the box had been waiting for this moment.

And then I see it.

The small wooden case.

A grin creeps across my face as I reach for it, hands trembling with something that feels too close to joy.

I flip it open—and there it is.

My escape.

The small blade drops into my palm, the edge still sharp, still perfect.

Untouched by time.

God, I love it so much.

I slip the blade from its case, cold against my skin.

Slowly, I press it to my wrists—not to hurt, but to feel something real, something sharp enough to cut through the dark mountain of thoughts and feels inside me, and suddenly im a little boy again a boy with dreams of saving his sister and wanting to wreck the wrench of a man he was.

A thin line of blood shows up, warm and vivid like a bucket of red paint thrown on a sheet of snow, pure white snow .

I close my eyes and breathe it in; and then I smell iron.

The pain isn’t about the blade.

It’s about everything I’ve held inside—the fear, the anger, the helplessness.

Tears spill down my face, hot and sudden.

I whisper her name.

"Jenna..."

She’s so far away now, across continents and time.

But I let the tears fall.

For the little sister I couldn’t protect.

For the moments lost.

And in that quiet ache I've been feeling since he came into my life, I swear I’ll find a way to make it right to her.