On the morning of July 11th, 1990, Jim sat behind his desk with eyes that hadn't tasted sleep.
Red, swollen, heavy eyes—eyes that looked as though they were carrying the night of the entire world upon them.
He had stared for hours at the scattered photographs in front of him…
and yet—nothing.
No clue.
No signal.
Not the slightest thread for his exhausted mind to pull.
But the photos weren't what stole his sleep.
It was the small, broken device resting at the edge of the desk—the walkie-talkie… or what was left of it after it shattered the night before.
Jim had spent the entire night trying to repair it, despite being terrible with electronics, as if he were stitching back together his own heartbeat rather than a piece of metal.
And when the device finally came back to life…he felt no relief.
Only dread.
Because as long as this walkie-talkie worked,
the lives of many hung on it—the victims, their families, his own family…
and Jim himself.
Jim, the great detective…
reduced to a puppet, jerked around by fate.
He reached for the phone and called his friend, Son, at the station.
Jim's voice came out rough, exhausted—words scraping his throat:
"Son… I'm not coming in today."
"Why?" Son asked.
Jim inhaled slowly, then spoke with painful honesty:
"Before I'm a detective… I'm a family man.
I don't care if I lose my job…
but if I lose my family… what would be left of me?"
A pause.
"I don't understand… why would you lose your family?" Son asked.
Jim answered with a lifeless voice:
"The killer knows me. He knows where I live.
He's targeting my family."
"Jim, don't worry...."
But Jim hung up.
He opened his desk drawer and placed everything inside:
the walkie-talkie, the police badge, the gun, the photos…
as if he were burying his career, burying his past, burying his guilt.
He wanted to hide everything—forget everything—and reclaim everything with his family.
Jim spent that day with them.
He cooked with his wife, watched television beside her, laughed for no real reason.
He played with his son Jack—their own version of "cops and killers."
Jack, mimicking him with childish bravado, declared:
"Hide well or you'll regret it!
I'm Detective Jim—the best and the worst for all of you!"
Jim pretended to laugh while hiding behind doors…but inside he was something else entirely.
Rubble.
A ghost wearing his own skin.
Later, his daughter Emily sat on his lap, brushing makeup onto his face, painting him into a clown.
She laughed brightly—and Jim made the sound of a laugh with her…
but only the sound.
His mouth didn't smile.
His eyes didn't narrow the way a true laugh does.
He was a broken clown.
But the family was happy.
They believed he was trying to cheer them up.
They never realized they weren't in his heart—they were standing on the edge of his abyss.
Yet while they ate pizza together and watched TV for two hours, Jim felt something shift—a bit of tension melted,defeat retreated a step,and a tiny spark of confidence returned.
A spark—just enough for a drowning man to whisper:
"Maybe… I can survive."
At eleven that night,his wife was knitting winter socks,the children asleep,and Jim stood at the balcony window with a cup of black coffee.
He traced the shape of lightning on the glass with his finger, like a child escaping into imagination.
He waited for Em to call him back into insanity…
back into truth…back into the hell that had become his home.
As he repeated the shape of the lightning again and again,
a thunderclap shook the sky—and a crow slammed into the balcony window, falling inside, writhing in its final moments.
Jim opened the door, stunned.
He watched the creature struggle for life—a being fighting death, even though death allows no negotiation.
For a moment, Jim felt this was a message.
From where?
From fate?
From time, tightening its hands around his throat?
From God?
He didn't know.
As he watched the crow, a thought bloomed:
Even after death is certain…
it resists.
Every living creature does.
What if a victim… resisted?
What if someone broke the killer's pattern?
Left a sign—any sign?
Jim stroked his chin.
Then whispered:
"If a victim tries to send a signal…
I need to be there waiting.
Running won't change the truth—it only hides it.
I have to face the killer…
and wait for one single mistake."
It was the first thread of hope in days.
Suddenly—screams erupted from the children's room.
Jim dropped his coffee onto the crow, rushed to the room, and found the window shattered.
On the white carpet…another crow.
Dead.
No struggle.
No resistance.
Not every creature can fight death.
Some surrender—not because they're weak,
but because dying is kinder than living.
Jim muttered,
"This can't be a coincidence… maybe a sign… maybe something trying to shake me awake."
Never once did he consider it was a warning.
A warning from time itself—the time that was twisting around him.
He buried the two crows in the garden.
"Might as well bury you where you chose to die," he whispered.
When he looked up,
his children were staring down from the window, clinging to their mother.
Returning inside,
he heard the walkie-talkie crackle.
He hurried upstairs, lifted it, and said quietly:
"Em… ? Hello?"
Nothing.
The device wasn't even fully repaired.
He checked the time.
It was slipping again.
Time always running—Jim always chasing.
12:10
12:22
12:37
12:47
12:55
He tried again and again:
"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?"
Only static.
He set the device down, shoved his hands into his pockets, stared at the photos, and screamed the victims' names.
He wasn't thinking anymore.
Logic had collapsed—and when logic collapses, the mind collapses with it.
Jim could no longer keep up.
Time.
The serial killings.
The missing people.
The black car.
The homeless man.
His own fate—the thing he feared more than death.
Chaos, struggle, unraveling—until sleep finally knocked him out on the chair at dawn.
He woke, washed his face, showered with cold water he didn't feel.
Caught a fever.
Spent the day half-dead on the couch, flipping channels, forcing laughter.
A man imitating life, nothing more.
But when he switched to the news…
the remains of his forced smile vanished.
"Two men were found murdered inside a public phone booth… stabbed brutally… fingernails removed…
Their names: John and David."
The news anchor asked:
"Has the police failed?
Has the trust of citizens been betrayed?"
Jim turned the TV off.
He returned to his room, buried his head beneath the blanket, let the phone ring unanswered.
His children stayed home; his wife assumed he was just sick.
Then—the sound returned.
The walkie-talkie.
Jim covered his ears.
He didn't want to go back.
Didn't want to hear the ghostly static again.
But… he couldn't resist.
He rose angrily, grabbed the device, and stepped onto the balcony to throw it but the voice that calm, strange voice—froze him.
Em's voice:
"Jim! We did it! We caught the killer! Jim, answer me!"
Jim froze.
"What are you talking about? Is this some joke?"
"I swear—it's real! The fifth victim—Mary—she was saved! And the killer has been arrested!
Jim… you're the one who saved her.
And you're the one who caught him.
The suspect's name is…
William Kane."
The blanket slipped from Jim's shoulders.
"You… you're serious?"
"Of course! Even your name is here!
Jim, you didn't kill yourself in prison—you never even went to prison.
You're still live with your family.
You did it, Jim!
Please—say something! Laugh!"
Jim's lips trembled into a smile…a teardrop sliding down his cheek.
"We… we actually did it," he whispered.
I won....we won
He tilted his head to the sky,laughed softly—the laugh of a man who felt life being handed back to him.
In that moment…Jim believed he had won.
He saved the rest of the victims.
He saved him self.
He changed the future.