The cell was quiet.
Too quiet.
Tom lay on his bed, his back turned, staring at the cold, stained wall in front of him. The thin mattress barely supported his weight, but he didn't move. He didn't need comfort.
Across the cell, Franzzle sat on the opposite bed.
Watching him.
Unblinking.
His gaze didn't waver—not for a second. It was constant. Fixed. Almost unnatural.
Tom felt it.
At first, he ignored it. Then he tolerated it.
Now… it was starting to get under his skin.
It wasn't fear.
In physical terms, Tom knew he was far superior. If it came to that, Franzzle wouldn't last a second.
And yet—
Something was wrong.
A faint, unexplainable discomfort crawled beneath his skin. Not fear… but something close to it. Something he couldn't name.
And that irritated him more than anything.
Finally—
Tom exhaled sharply and turned his head slightly.
"What's the matter with you?" he snapped, his voice edged with anger.
Franzzle blinked, almost as if surprised.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," Tom turned just enough to glance at him, "why are you staring at me like that?"
A small smile formed on Franzzle's lips.
"Oh… that." He let out a soft chuckle. "It's just… I've been alone in this cell for three or four days. Haven't talked to anyone. And now that you're here…"
His smile widened faintly.
"I guess I just can't help myself."
Tom clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"Whatever." He paused, then added, "Why the hell are you even here? You're a high schooler. Shouldn't you be in juvenile?"
Franzzle laughed lightly.
"I turned eighteen last month. So legally…" he shrugged, "I'm an adult now."
Tom didn't respond immediately.
There it was again.
That feeling.
A quiet, growing sense of dislike toward Franzzle. Not based on anything clear. Not something logical. Just… there.
Persistent.
Uncomfortable.
"Yeah," Tom said flatly. "So that's why you killed those three kids?"
For a brief moment—
The light in Franzzle's expression dimmed.
Not entirely gone. But… reduced.
Still, he remained calm.
"Huh." He tilted his head slightly. "Well… they bullied me for a long time. It was… natural, I guess."
A pause.
"It makes sense. In my case."
Then his eyes sharpened slightly.
"But you…" he continued softly, "you killed your best friend, right?"
The words hung in the air.
"How do you explain that?"
Tom didn't answer.
Silence returned—heavy, suffocating.
After all… he was the one who started it.
Still—
"I was being framed," Tom said finally, his voice firm.
Franzzle's face lit up, almost instantly.
"Ohhh…" he leaned forward slightly. "And by who?"
"I don't know." Tom's tone remained steady. "Oliver is looking into it. He promised me he'll catch whoever did it. Soon."
There was a faint shift in his expression.
"He's a smart guy," Tom continued. "Probably the most brilliant person you'll ever meet. A genius."
A brief pause.
"And he's a good man. We've been friends since high school."
Another pause.
"I trust him."
Franzzle nodded slowly.
"Ohhh… okay." He leaned back slightly, though his eyes remained fixed on Tom. "I don't want to push too much… but I can't help asking."
A faint smile returned.
"Why do you trust him so blindly?"
Tom frowned slightly.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean…" Franzzle's voice softened. "I've heard about your case. The dementia thing and all that."
He tilted his head.
"Don't you think it's a little… fishy?"
Tom's eyes hardened.
"That's what I've been saying," he replied. "Someone framed me."
"Exactly," Franzzle said quickly. "But who framed you?"
"I told you—I don't know. Oliver is looking into it."
Tom's tone sharpened slightly.
"That night, only three people were there. Me, Oliver, and Robert."
Franzzle didn't respond immediately.
Then—
"Well…" he said slowly, "you got drunk first… and then everything happened."
Tom stayed silent.
Franzzle leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering.
"What's actually strange… isn't the idea that someone framed you."
A pause.
"It's the dementia."
Tom's gaze shifted.
"What do you mean?"
Franzzle's smile returned—faint, controlled.
"Think about it," he said. "Memory loss. Time gaps. Killing someone unconsciously…"
He let the words settle.
"Even if you were unaware… wouldn't you feel something was wrong? Wouldn't you notice signs? Something off about yourself?"
Tom didn't answer.
"So let me ask you directly," Franzzle continued, his voice almost a whisper.
"Do you even have dementia?"
The question hit harder than it should have.
Tom froze.
His mind began to move—fast, searching, digging through the past few days.
Moments. Fragments. Memories.
He tried to find something—anything.
A gap. A lapse. A sign.
There was nothing.
"I… didn't," Tom muttered. "I didn't feel anything."
His voice grew firmer.
"No memory loss. No time gaps. Nothing like that."
His jaw tightened.
"I said I'm being framed. Someone manipulated my reports—"
Franzzle's smile widened.
"Exactly," he said softly. "But changing medical reports like that… isn't easy."
A pause.
"And the person who framed you…" his eyes narrowed slightly, "…must be very clever."
Tom's expression darkened.
"And you yourself said something earlier."
Franzzle leaned forward, lowering his voice further.
"That the only people in that house were…"
A beat.
"You, Oliver… and Robert."
Something clicked.
Suddenly—
Tom's eyes widened.
A realization.
Unwanted.
Uninvited.
And with it—
Came anger.
Sharp. Intense. Rising too fast to control.
Before he could stop himself—
Tom lunged forward.
He grabbed Franzzle by the collar and yanked him up with force. Franzzle's body felt light in his grip—fragile, almost.
Tom's face twisted with fury.
"Listen, you dumbass!" he snapped. "Don't get the wrong idea! We're not friends or anything!"
His grip tightened.
"I said I have a friend—and I trust him! You hear me?"
His voice rose.
"I'm not listening to your bullshit! Don't think you can influence me!"
His eyes burned with rage.
"Now shut your mouth and keep that disgusting tongue inside it!"
A pause.
"Understood?!"
Franzzle struggled, his breath catching.
"O-Okay… okay… I get it," he choked out. "Just… let me go…"
Tom released him.
Franzzle dropped back onto the bed, coughing lightly, trying to steady his breath.
Tom turned away immediately, his back facing him again.
Silence returned.
But it was no longer the same.
A few seconds passed.
Then—
"But… just give it a thought."
Franzzle's voice was quiet.
Almost casual.
Tom didn't respond.
Didn't move.
He tried not to listen.
Tried not to think.
But the words had already settled in his mind.
And no matter how hard he tried—
He couldn't stop thinking about them.
16 July, 1958
8:00 AM
Oliver sat slumped over the table, his head resting against a scattered mess of papers, photographs, and documents. The room carried the stale weight of a sleepless night—dim light filtering through the window, untouched files piled like silent accusations.
It was obvious.
He hadn't slept.
Or rather… he had collapsed.
The investigation had consumed him.
Yesterday, he had gone through his list—one by one.
An old, kind woman who spoke more about her loneliness than anything useful.
A little girl with a paralyzed leg who smiled too brightly for her condition.
A pregnant woman abandoned by her husband, her voice trembling between hope and despair.
And many more.
None of them helped the case.
Not even a little.
By all logical standards, the entire day had been a waste.
And yet…
Oliver didn't regret it.
Listening to them—their problems, their pain, their ordinary lives—it brought him something unexpected.
Peace.
A brief escape from the weight of the case.
But peace didn't solve murders.
And now—
Time was running out.
That thought had chased him through the night.
Again and again, he had gone over the case. Every detail. Every statement. Every inconsistency.
Searching.
Reanalyzing.
Breaking it apart.
Putting it back together.
Over and over.
But there was nothing.
No mistake.
No clue.
No hidden thread.
Nothing.
At some point—
His body gave in.
Sleep took him without permission.
⸻
Ding.
Silence.
No response.
⸻
Ding. Ding.
Still nothing.
⸻
The bell rang again. And again.
Sharp. Repetitive. Insistent.
⸻
Oliver's eyes slowly opened.
Blurred vision. Heavy breath. A mind struggling to catch up.
For a few seconds, he didn't understand where he was.
Then it hit him.
He had fallen asleep.
⸻
Ding.
The bell rang again.
And with it—
A sudden surge of irritation.
Not at the person outside.
At himself.
Oliver grabbed the glass from the table without thinking and splashed the water across his face. The cold shock snapped him into awareness. Droplets ran down his brown hair, across his fair skin, dripping onto his collar.
His jaw tightened.
Then—
Without warning—
He stood up and kicked the chair beside him with full force.
A sharp crack echoed through the room as one of its legs snapped.
The chair collapsed.
Oliver didn't even look at it.
He was already moving.
Fast.
Straight to the door.
⸻
He opened it.
And just like that—
The tension disappeared.
The irritation.
The pressure.
Gone.
Because standing there—
Was Jacob.
And for the first time since waking up—
Oliver felt relief.
Oliver froze for half a second when he saw Jacob.
Then the distance between them disappeared.
He stepped forward abruptly—almost pulling him into an embrace, stopping just short of it, like he didn't fully trust himself to hold on.
Jacob blinked, caught off guard.
Up close, everything was obvious.
Oliver's hair was wet and disordered. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His posture leaned—slightly, but enough to notice. And the faint smell of sleeplessness, of stress, of something unraveling, clung to him.
"Hey… are you alright?" Jacob asked, his voice tightening with concern.
"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine," Oliver said quickly. Too quickly. "Thank God you came."
Jacob didn't argue. He simply placed a steady hand on Oliver's arm, supporting him as they moved inside. There was a quiet awareness in the way he walked—ready, just in case Oliver stumbled.
They entered the room.
And Jacob understood everything.
The empty glass on the table.
Water still spread across the floor.
Files—dozens of them—scattered, opened, overturned.
And the chair. Broken. One leg snapped clean.
He didn't comment on it.
Both of them sat down.
"I was researching… analyzing the files the whole night," Oliver said, running a hand through his damp hair. "That's why all this—you can see."
"Yeah," Jacob replied quietly. "I can tell."
A brief pause.
"Well… I'm here because we decided yesterday—to meet and share what we found about the people on our list."
"Yeah…" Oliver nodded, then frowned slightly. "Where's Mira?"
Jacob shook his head. "Don't know. She wasn't at the station."
"You didn't go to her house?"
"I… don't know where she lives."
Oliver let out a quiet sigh, rubbing his temple.
"Fine. Anyway—tell me. Did you find anyone suspicious?" His voice sharpened slightly. "Because in my case… I'm pretty sure none of the people I interviewed are Mr. X."
Jacob hesitated.
Then shook his head again.
"It's the same for me. I went through everything carefully… but I couldn't find anything."
Oliver's eyes narrowed.
"Nothing?" he asked.
A beat.
"Nothing at all?"
"No," Jacob said. "Nothing."
The sound came suddenly—
A sharp crack as Oliver's hand slammed against the table.
Jacob flinched.
"Hey—hey, Oliver—calm down," he said quickly. "We still have Mira. Maybe she found something."
"And what if she didn't?" Oliver snapped, his voice rising. "Huh? What if she also found nothing?"
Jacob fell silent.
Oliver's breathing grew heavier.
"If she found nothing…" he continued, his voice shaking now, "…then I'll lose one more friend."
The words hung in the air.
"I can't afford to lose anyone now."
His voice broke.
Tears gathered in his eyes, blurring his vision—but he didn't look away.
"There aren't many people I care about in this world," he said, almost laughing bitterly. "Actually… I despise most of them."
His hands clenched.
"I hate people. I hate them with everything I have."
A pause.
"So the ones I care about…" his voice dropped, quieter now, "…they're more precious than you think."
His breath hitched.
"I've already lost too much."
Silence pressed in.
"You don't know how I feel," he continued, his voice hollow. "I feel… worthless."
He swallowed.
"You hear me?"
"I feel worthless."
His gaze dropped to the table.
"I couldn't save anything that mattered to me."
A whisper now—
"Nothing."
His voice cracked completely.
"I hate myself!"
The words drained whatever strength he had left.
He leaned back slightly, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if he had just run miles.
Jacob said nothing.
Not because he didn't care.
But because he understood—
This wasn't a moment for answers.
It wasn't his place to interrupt something that needed to be released.
Still… as the silence stretched, something caught his attention.
Something small.
Something off.
Minutes passed.
Short minutes.
But they felt endless.
Then—
Jacob spoke.
"Humans suffer more from imagination than from reality."
Oliver looked up, confused, his eyes still wet.
"What do you mean?"
Jacob met his gaze calmly.
"I mean…" he said slowly, "there's something you're hiding, Oliver."
The words struck instantly.
Sharp.
Direct.
Oliver's body stiffened.
He hadn't expected that.
"I don't know what it is," Jacob continued. "And honestly… I'm not interested in knowing."
A pause.
"But whatever it is… it's making your imagination hurt you more than anything real."
Oliver didn't respond.
"I don't know your past," Jacob said. "I don't know what you've been through. What you've lost."
His voice softened slightly.
"But I do know this—"
"You have a friend to save."
Another pause.
"You said he's precious to you."
Jacob leaned forward just slightly.
"So don't give up this easily."
Even if there's no hope… fight anyway."
His expression steadied.
"Struggle till your last breath to save him."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
And something in Oliver shifted.
The storm inside him began to settle.
Not gone—
But controlled.
He exhaled slowly.
Then reached out, placing a hand on Jacob's shoulder.
"Thanks… man," he said quietly. "You really helped—"
Ring.
The sharp sound cut through the room.
Both of them turned.
The landline phone on the table vibrated slightly as it rang again.
Ring.
Oh—wait," Oliver said, standing up quickly. "Let me get that."
He walked over, his steps still slightly unsteady.
He picked up the receiver.
The cold metal pressed against his ear.
"Hello… this is Oliver Shepherd," he said, his voice dry. "Who's there?"
A voice answered.
And everything changed.
Oliver's expression froze.
His pupils widened—slowly at first, then all at once, like something inside him had shattered.
The color drained from his face.
His grip loosened—
The receiver slipped from his hand.
It hit the floor with a dull, hollow sound, the voice on the other end still faintly echoing through it.
"Oliver?" Jacob said, rising from his seat, unease creeping into his tone.
Oliver didn't respond.
For a second—just a second—
He stood there like he wasn't in the room anymore.
Then suddenly—
He moved.
Fast.
He bent down, snatched the receiver back up, pressing it hard against his ear.
"Alright!" he shouted, his voice urgent, sharp. "I'm coming right away!"
He slammed it down.
The room fell silent again.
Jacob stepped closer.
"What happened?"
Oliver turned.
He stared directly into Jacob's eyes.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then—
"Tom's wife… Lucy," he said, his voice low but shaking.
A pause.
"She's going into labor."
His jaw tightened.
"Now."
Chapter Ends
To be continued