"Kelvin… give yourself up. We know you're in there."
Sirens bled into the night, their wail circling the small hut stranded in the middle of nowhere—like a lone lighthouse in a dead ocean.
Three police cars idled a few steps away, red and blue lights slicing through the dark. Officers moved in restless loops, like birds picking at something they couldn't quite reach.
"Surrender, Kelvin!"
For a few seconds—nothing.
No movement. No sound.
Just the wind brushing against the cracked wood.
Then—
A voice tore through the silence from inside.
"I have children."
A pause.
"They're tied up. If anyone takes one more step closer…"
A breath. Cold. Steady.
"I won't hesitate."
"You asshole!"
And then it came—
Crying.
Raw. Shaking. Real.
"Cop uncle—!"
"Please—save us!"
"H-he's a demon!"
The house didn't feel empty anymore.
It felt… occupied.
"Put your gun down, Kelvin!"
"Son of a bitch…" one officer muttered. "Agent Gomez, I think we should negotiate."
Gomez didn't take his eyes off the door.
"I'll talk to him," he said quietly.
Then, sharper—without looking back:
"Find a way in.
We're ending this."
One month ago — Jacksonville, Florida
The Brown brothers had an unusual crowd outside their bookstore today.
The store was a supermarket for books—
a heaven for bookworms.
It had all kinds of fiction, neatly arranged in different corners.
The reason for the rush was a very new release: The Man in Mud.
The crowd, dressed in colorful clothes, looked like spilled paint across the ground—different shades blending into one restless motion.
Kelvin Fring stood within the crowd.
Clean face. Long hair.
A faint smile.
Because he was the anonymous author of the new release.
He moved along with the crowd, listening—trying to gather fragments of what people thought.
"Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"That book in your hand… is it a good read?"
"Yeah, the previous volumes were awesome. Don't know about this one."
"You haven't read it?"
"C'mon, man. It just released—and look at it. It's thick, at least 400 pages. You expect me to read? What do I look like to you, a robot or something?"
"Okay, okay… my bad."
Kelvin entered the shop.
The crowd had thinned with time.
"Mr. Fring."
The shop owner called him—a well-dressed young blond man.
"Hey, Helmut."
"Good to see you."
"Where is Elliott?"
"He had a headache today, so I'm here alone.
Well… you're a big man now."
"Yeah, but nobody knows me, so the only big ass I can see is you."
"C'mon, man, didn't you see the crowd? They were all here for The Man in Mud by Kelvin Fring."
"Yeah, yeah."
"So, working on the next volume?"
"I'm quite busy as a freelance journalist, so it's a break for a few days."
"What about the sales? How many copies did you sell?"
"You'd be surprised to know… seventy."
"Seventy…"
"That ain't a big number."
Kelvin stepped out of the bookshop, a faint irritation settling under his skin.
He saw a boy coming out of the store.
"Hey. What did you buy?"
"It's some Red Monkey. The cover looked interesting."
"Can I have a look?"
"Yeah, but make it quick. My mom must be waiting."
Kelvin tore pages out of the book.
"Hey—what the fu—what did you do?!"
"Are you a psycho? Goddammit!"
The boy snatched the book back, anger trembling in his hands.
Kelvin just smiled.
"You gotta pay for this."
"What?"
"Pay. Now."
"And what if I don't? What if I take that book back and tear it completely?"
The boy froze.
Fear spread across his face.
He shouted. A crowd gathered like ants over something sweet.
"Hey, boy, what happened?"
"That man—he tore my book!"
"Which man?"
"He—he is gone!"
"That's a bad habit, boy. You shouldn't go around screaming for no reason."
"But he was here!"
Kelvin returned to his apartment—Room 332.
His room was well arranged.
Different flowers sat quietly in the corners.
A work area with an old computer.
32 emails.
I have to say this… I am totally broken.
The way you make me fall in love with a character and break me down right after…
"Fan emails, huh?"
Kelvin received these every day.
Most of them disturbed. Emotional. Unsettled.
He smiled while reading them.
"These overflowing emotions…
I love it."
"Things are good here… but the publications refuse to buy most of my stories."
"Fiction is just fiction."
"It has no thrill."
He exhaled slowly.
"I think I should quit as a journalist."
Next day — Headquarters of Summertime Daily
"This is the latest—three people murdered each other. The conflict started because of switching TV programs."
"Mr. Fring, I'm telling you—
I can't accept stories with no root."
"Add spice to something that happened. Don't create your own stories.
That's how it works."
"You can leave."
He left.
He pushed the door open—and midway, he was interrupted.
"Mr. Fring."
The voice carried urgency.
"Excuse me—Mr. Fring."
"Who the hell are you?"
"I'm the manager. Hank Smith.
Nice to meet you."
He extended his hand.
"What do you want?"
"Well… you know—
if your stories take place in reality…"
"They will blow up."
"What do you mean?"
"It's exactly what you heard."
Kelvin stared at his hand longer than necessary.
Then shook it.
"Kelvin Fring."
"Nice to meet you."