"H-hi, who are you?" Brian said to the woman at the door.
She had a black beanie pulled halfway over her head, strands of hair spilling out from underneath. Her emerald green eyes and pearl-like teeth glimmered as she smiled at Brian, her expression pleading for help.
What the fuck?? Brian thought to himself.
"I'm so sorry for bothering you again, but… my car tire blew. Could you help me, please?" she said, adding a playful tone to her voice. She knew she had to give a man some signals of interest if she wanted him to help her. But none of that was running through Brian's head. Even if the girl caught his attention, he wasn't going to make a move. He had just crawled out of a disaster of a love story; he couldn't do this to himself again.
"Sure, let's take a look right away," he said, and they both stepped outside.
The November night was colder than usual. Brian, who'd been lounging around in a short-sleeved shirt at home, started shivering as soon as he hit the chilly air. He crouched down to check the tire.
"What was your name again?" he asked the girl.
"Julia—Julia Cassady," she replied.
Interesting name, Brian thought.
"Hey, you got a spare tire?" he asked, eyes on the car. The front right tire had gone flat. Brian crouched down, loosening the lug nuts, then placed the jack under the designated spot and started cranking the car up. Julia stood nearby, arms crossed against her chest, silently watching him. Occasionally, she glanced around at the empty street, following the few passing cars with her eyes.
"Sorry for troubling you so late at night," she said, lips pressed together, her face radiating guilt.
Without even looking up, Brian replied, "Nah, it's fine. Don't mention it." He kept working.
"You from around here?" Julia asked.
"Sorry, what?"
"I said, are you from here?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm local. What about you?" Brian finally looked up at her as he asked.
"California," Julia answered, nodding her head up and down as if confirming it to herself.
"Nice," Brian said simply, and turned back to the tire.
"So what brought you here?" Brian asked while tightening the bolts. Julia kept staring at him for a moment, her arms still folded. She shuffled the tips of her boots against the ground.
"Met up with someone, then I was heading home. Tire blew, your house was the closest, so I knocked." She crouched down next to him then, tilting her head. "Anything I can do to help?"
Now they were both crouched in front of the tire, side by side. Brian turned his head—and suddenly found himself locked in Julia's piercing green eyes.
She had something unusual about her. Unlike the women he normally saw. Some people would call her ugly, some would call her gorgeous—no middle ground. That alone made her stand out in Brian's eyes.
He broke the eye contact quickly, his gaze drifting lower, catching the line of her cleavage and how the tight black jeans wrapped around her hips. The thought of how firm her ass must look in those pants flashed in his mind. But it lasted no more than a second or two. He couldn't risk staring too long at someone crouched right beside him.
He turned back to the tire. "Nah, I got it under control," he said, flashing her a quick smile.
Julia smiled back. And suddenly, a wave of panic rushed through Brian's chest.
No, no, no, fucking no! Can't do this. Never again. Get your head straight, Brian. Get it together! he scolded himself silently, and stood up abruptly.
"All done. Just be careful—the spare doesn't look too solid. Don't speed," he warned.
Julia stood up too, brushing off her pants. "Thank you so much," she said, holding out her hand.
Brian lifted his greasy hands with a sheepish grin. "Nah, no need. Don't wanna get your hands dirty."
But Julia insisted, grabbing his hand firmly. She held on, smiling straight at his face. "No way, you just saved my life tonight. At least let me say thank you properly."
"Hahaha, c'mon, don't exaggerate."
"Nope. Don't be so modest," she replied.
The two of them stood there, smiling, their hands still locked together longer than necessary. Brian's inner voice screamed again. He yanked himself mentally backward, pulling away slightly.
"Good night. Drive safe," he said, backing up a couple steps but keeping his eyes on hers.
Just as he was about to turn around, Julia called after him. "You never told me your name?"
"Brian," he answered.
"Just Brian? No last name?"
"Easton."
Julia grinned. "Thank you again, Brian Easton." She turned, slid into the driver's seat, and closed the door. From behind the windshield, she gazed at the man who had just fixed her car—her so-called "white knight."
And she didn't stop watching until Brian finally stepped back inside his house.
When Brian stepped back inside, he felt stunned. His arms and face were frozen stiff, his skin flushed red from the cold. He rushed to check on his daughter. Love was still fast asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling peacefully.
It was around 10 p.m. Knowing that tomorrow was Sunday gave Brian a small sense of comfort. He had finally settled back into his old house, no more worrying about rent. The only problem: the memories still lingering inside these walls. Every corner was haunted by Michelle.
When Michelle had left him, Brian had chased after her straight to New York without even touching the house, desperate to find her and bring her back. Later, when he returned—after killing Michelle and her lover and staging it all as a suicide—everything in the house began pressing down on him.
He had thought about renting a new place. But money was already tight. "Goddamn city's so expensive," he muttered to himself, New York flashing across his mind. Then the image of Bear Mountain surfaced.
⸻
The courtroom was packed. Journalists, lawyers, families filled every seat. Outside, six or seven different news reporters stood live on camera, surrounded by crowds of citizens pressing forward.
When Brian arrived at the courthouse, he stepped out of the car in a sharp black suit. Cameras swiveled instantly toward him.
"Why did you kill them?"
"Was it because she left you?"
"You're the prime suspect—what do you have to say for yourself?"
Reporters shouted questions one after another, but Brian ignored them all. Two police officers had gripped his arms tightly, leading him through the chaos.
As he crossed the threshold, he heard one officer bark, "Alright people, move along!" Behind him, voices from the crowd pierced the air—"Murderer!" they screamed.
Brian didn't flinch. He kept his gaze straight ahead, shutting out the noise.
⸻
When the judge finally entered, everyone stood.
Brian scanned the room. So many familiar faces. His own family sat there, eyes glued on him. Michelle's mother, Vivian, was weeping—her gaze burning holes into Brian. When their eyes met, she didn't blink, didn't falter. Her look screamed: You'll pay for what you did.
The judge's voice cut through the silence, stern and commanding.
"State your name for the record."
"Brian Easton."
"Mr. Easton," the judge continued, "you are not here today on trial for murder. Official records list the event as a double suicide. But your past assault on Theo Bernthal, combined with your status as Michelle Flores's ex-husband, has placed you as the primary suspect. Today, we are here to examine the possibility of foul play."
All eyes in the courtroom fell on Brian. He sat still, forcing himself to look calm, though inside his chest a storm was raging. He cleared his throat, drew in a slow breath, and began.
"I reject all charges and suspicions against me, Your Honor," he said, steady but sharp. "On the night of the incident, I was not there. My alibi is confirmed—I was at the bar where my ex-girlfriend, Scarlett Sable, works."
The prosecutor cut in. "That much is true, Your Honor. The deaths were recorded as suicide. However, the defendant's violent history with the victim, and his direct ties to Michelle Flores, make it necessary to reconsider whether suicide is the full truth."
Brian stared blankly at him, his jaw tightening. Did nobody hear what the fuck I just said? he cursed inwardly.
The judge leaned forward, turning his gaze back to Brian.
"What exactly transpired between you and Michelle Flores?"
Once again, the room's attention locked on Brian.
"She was once my best friend," Brian said evenly. "Later, she became my wife. Six months into our marriage, I came home from work one day and found her gone. She'd abandoned the house, left our daughter Love alone, and run off to New York."
Brian's words echoed across the courtroom. Michelle's mother, Vivian, lowered her head, trying to stifle her sobs.
The judge pressed on.
"Mr. Easton, you claim your wife abandoned you and your child. Could this have been the reason for your violent altercation with Theo Bernthal? Could your anger have driven you past the point of no return?"
"Yes, Your Honor, that was the reason for the fight," Brian admitted. He turned his head toward Vivian, who was crying bitterly. For a moment, everything replayed in his mind—Michelle's screams, the night she died. He fought hard to keep his face composed, to cage the storm inside. Then he looked back to the judge.
"It was a personal matter. My wife left me and my daughter to go back to her ex. It broke me. When I saw Theo, I attacked him. I lost control." He drew in another deep breath, resting his palms against the wooden stand in front of him.
"Was that your first reason for going to New York, Mr. Easton? To attack Theo Bernthal?" the judge asked.
Before Brian could answer, a woman's voice rang out behind him, trembling with grief. "YES!"
Brian turned his head just enough to glimpse her—Theo's mother, Irene.
"Order in the court!" the judge snapped, silencing her.
Brian looked back at the judge, almost as if asking permission to speak. The judge gave a curt nod. "Go on."
"The day of our wedding, Theo stormed in and tried to ruin it. We fought, right there. And he told me, 'I'll take back what belongs to me. Maybe not today, but one day.' So when Michelle disappeared, I thought he was the one who'd taken her. That's why I went after them."
"And how exactly did you find them?" the judge asked.
"Michelle's old phone was still at the house, in the closet. I used iCloud to track it. That's how I found them. I first saw them in Times Square. I didn't attack. They saw me too. Michelle even came over, apologized."
"And when did you attack?"
"I don't remember the exact day. But they were leaving the movie theater. I was out driving my daughter around so she'd fall asleep. When I spotted them… I snapped. I couldn't hold back. I went at him."
The judge narrowed his eyes.
"Did you follow them before that? At any point?"
Brian's instinct was to say No immediately. But then he remembered Irene—how he had followed her, trying to find Theo's address. If he lied, the risk of being caught would be worse. He inhaled deeply, lowering his head.
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Continue," the judge urged.
"When I first came to New York, I called Michelle and Theo countless times. Neither of them ever picked up. Michelle's iCloud was shut off too. So I reached out to her mother on Instagram. She didn't know who I was—thought I was just some young guy hitting on her. She invited me to a hotel room. When I got there, she opened the door wearing nothing but her underwear—"
"LIES!" Irene's voice thundered from the back.
Brian didn't even fully turn, just tilted his head sideways, his voice calm but cutting.
"Wanna check the hotel security cameras, Irene? Huh? What do you say?"
The judge slammed his gavel. "Order!"
Brian exhaled and went on. "Anyway… I told her I wasn't interested in that. I only wanted to know where Theo was. When she refused, she kicked me out. So I followed her back home."
The words drew suspicion instantly. Vivian turned toward Irene, glaring. "You filthy woman!" her eyes seemed to say.
But Irene held her head high, her face unreadable, as if every word Brian spoke was a lie no one would ever believe. Yet the way Brian spoke—the cold, raw edge of it—made it sound too real to dismiss. The tension in the room was palpable.
The judge finally broke the silence.
"Mr. Easton, these are very serious accusations. You admit to following Irene Bernthal to her residence. How can we be sure there was no other motive?"
Brian raised his head, staring straight into the judge's eyes. He tried to rein in the fury boiling in his chest.
"If my intentions were bad, Your Honor, I would've gone through with it in that room. She's the one who invited me in. But I didn't. I only followed her to find Theo. I thought maybe he lived with her. How the hell was I supposed to know he had a separate place?"
The judge pressed further. "After following her to her home, did you attack Irene Bernthal?"
Fuck. Brian cursed in his head.
"No. But I threatened her."
"What kind of threat?"
"I told her I'd beat her son. Which I did." Brian said it with a smug tone, not flinching, almost proud. His lack of remorse only sharpened the suspicion against him. But to Brian, it felt like proof—he wasn't guilty of murder.
The prosecutor shot to his feet.
"Your Honor, his own words prove his violent tendencies. Theo Bernthal's death may be listed as suicide, but the defendant's constant threats and aggression could very well have pushed him to it."
Brian's eyes flared. He exploded.
"I never pressured anyone into suicide! I only wanted to beat the man who tore my family apart. And yeah, I did beat him. You know what else I did, Your Honor?!"
His voice boomed across the courtroom, his eyes locked on the judge, dangerous and unflinching.
"I smashed his fucking face in."
The room went dead silent. Dozens of eyes stared at Brian in horror.
Brian's words—"I smashed his fucking face in"—hung heavy in the courtroom. Vivian shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks, while Irene sat upright, lips curled in a faint, mocking smile.
The judge's voice cracked like a whip.
"Mr. Easton, speaking with such arrogance will not help your case. This court is here to see the truth, not your anger. You say 'my family was destroyed,' but remember: the wreckage of those families sits in this room right now."
Brian's eyes flicked to Vivian. She was still crying, her gaze full of curses aimed at him. Irene, meanwhile, looked almost satisfied, chin raised high, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along.
The prosecutor stepped forward.
"Your Honor, the defendant's own words reveal his inability to control his rage. This isn't merely a fight—it's a threat, a campaign of psychological torment. That pressure could very well have driven Theo Bernthal to end his life."
Brian leaned forward sharply, veins bulging in his neck.
"No! Beating him, threatening him—that didn't push him to suicide. Theo was already drowning in his own demons. My fists didn't kill him—his own darkness did! But that's not what you want to see, is it? You just want a scapegoat. You want me!"
Murmurs rippled through the courtroom. Some people nodded, as if Brian might have a point. Others recoiled at the fury in his voice.
"Enough!" the judge roared, slamming his gavel. "One more outburst like that and you'll be removed from this courtroom. We deal in evidence here, Mr. Easton. Anger is not evidence."
Brian clenched his jaw, his thoughts racing. Doesn't matter. They'll never find evidence. Because I killed them both clean. Perfect. Fuck them both.
He dragged his hands down his face, forcing a calmness back into his voice.
"You want evidence, Your Honor? Fine. I've given you evidence. On the night Theo and Michelle supposedly killed themselves, I was with Scarlett Sable. There are security cameras in the bar. The footage will show the date, the time. I wasn't there."
The judge demanded the footage immediately. The courtroom held its breath as the video played on screen.
There it was: Brian and Scarlett at the closed bar, timestamped precisely that night. They were drinking, talking, sitting close, kissing—clearly together the whole time.
The judge's gaze remained fixed on the screen, then shifted back to Brian. His voice rang out firmly.
"It is clear the defendant was elsewhere that night."
Gasps filled the room. Vivian's sobs grew heavier—her head dropped, as though the floor might swallow her. Irene, meanwhile, froze in place, her face stone cold, her body rigid.
The prosecutor, rattled, shot up again.
"Your Honor, this only weakens the murder suspicion. But let's not forget—the defendant admitted to threatening and beating Theo Bernthal. This violence, this relentless pressure, could have been the trigger for suicide!"
Brian raised his head, pressing his fingers against his temple, then stared daggers at the prosecutor. A bitter smile curved across his lips.
"I didn't push anyone to suicide," he said, his voice sharp, final. "Theo wasn't killed by me. He was killed by his own fucking shadows. His own demons strangled him. Not me."
Whispers erupted across the room again, a chaotic mix of agreement and horror.
The judge slammed his gavel down hard.
"Silence! Enough!" he barked. "Due to lack of evidence directly connecting Brian Easton to murder, this court finds no grounds for a homicide charge. However, the assault and threat charges will continue under review. Court is adjourned."
Brian stood there, chest heaving with adrenaline. Then he stepped forward slightly.
"Thank you, Your Honor. But… why is the trial being postponed?"
The judge's glare cut straight through him.
"It is not your place to question the court's decisions. Additional evidence will be reviewed. That is final."
With that, the gavel came down once more, and the session ended.
Brian exhaled deeply, his chest swelling with relief. He turned to his family and gave them a proud look, then shifted his gaze to Vivian. She no longer looked as furious—almost as if the confirmation of his innocence had lifted some of her weight. Brian nodded at her silently before leaving the courtroom.
The crowd outside swarmed as he left, but somehow, he made it home in one piece, though his hands and legs were still trembling. His family followed him, helping him settle down.
"Thank you," Brian said, grasping his mother's hands. "But I need to talk to Vivian. Can you watch Love for me?"
"Of course, sweetheart," his mother said gently.
Brian left, driving through the night. On the way, he glimpsed himself on a TV through someone's living room window. His trial was already on the news, blasted across America.
He was receiving death threats from strangers, but also support from others. Deep down, though, he felt relief. On Bear Mountain, after killing Michelle and Theo and staging it as a double suicide, he'd gone to meet Scarlett at the bar. They had edited the footage together, and now it had saved him completely.
The only problem: the judge digging too deeply, pressing further than Brian had expected.
Motherfucker… Why'd you have to go so hard on me? You looked disappointed I walked free, he thought bitterly.
When he pulled up to Vivian's house, his chest was tight. But that last look she had given him in court had softened his nerves.
He knocked. The door opened to Marcus, her boyfriend. Marcus tried to glare menacingly at Brian, but the look only lasted two seconds before fear crept in. After all, he was standing in front of a man suspected of being a killer. Suspected—or maybe more.
Brian explained why he'd come, and Marcus reluctantly let him in.
Vivian was lying on the couch, red-eyed and drained. She stood up slowly, tears streaming again, and walked toward Brian.
Brian braced himself. He thought she might lash out, scream, attack him.
Instead, Vivian threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder as sobs tore out of her chest.
Brian froze for a moment, then wrapped his arms around her back, holding tight. His own tears finally broke free.
Theo's death meant nothing to him. But Michelle's… Michelle's death still haunted him, whether he wanted it to or not. He wasn't the kind of cold-blooded killer who could shrug it off. He had killed Theo "by accident" and Michelle "out of necessity," or so he told himself. But it still tore at him inside.
"I know, I know… we'll get through this. We'll get through it," Brian whispered, crying into her hair.
They finally pulled apart, though their hands remained locked together. Both of them weeping, both of them searching each other's eyes. Vivian reached up, took the white cap off Brian's head, and set it aside.
"I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry for ever believing it was you," she said, resting her head against his chest.
"If I were you, I would've thought the same," Brian admitted.
They sat together, Marcus joining after a moment. Dinner was served, followed by a little wine. At first the conversation was heavy, then it drifted lighter, until they were reminiscing about better days.
As the night wore on, Vivian excused herself to the bathroom. Marcus seized the chance, leaning in toward Brian.
"How do you deal with all this? This kind of… psychology?" Marcus asked.
Brian leaned back, cigarette burning between his fingers. The sudden question caught him off guard. He hesitated, unsure how to answer.
I had my reasons, Marcus. That's why I don't blame myself. I grieve, but I don't regret.
But he needed to give a real answer.
"I don't deal with it," Brian said bluntly. "I get angry. I want to kill Theo again, even though he's already dead."
Marcus stiffened, cutting him off. His eyes narrowed.
"Again?" he repeated.
Brian quickly corrected himself.
"That's not what I meant. I meant… if he were still alive, I'd wish for him to die a thousand times over."
He knew it sounded clumsy, stupid.
Marcus leaned back slowly. "Alright," he said, though suspicion lingered in his eyes.
Brian met Marcus's gaze for two seconds, then raised the cigarette back to his lips.
If you ever find out the truth… I'll kill you too, he thought darkly.
On the drive back home, Brian's head was a storm. Marcus's suspicious eyes, Michelle's screams, Theo writhing on the ground after his throat was cut—it all came crashing through his skull.
And because of his cursed gift, hyperphantasia, he couldn't escape it. Every sound, every scream, every detail replayed with unbearable clarity. He could see it all as if it were happening again right in front of him. He could hear it in his ears, crystal sharp.
For the first time in his life, he hated himself for having it.
Lost in the flood of visions, Brian suddenly clipped another car's side mirror with his own. Both mirrors cracked. He didn't stop. He just pressed harder on the gas, leaving it behind.
By the time he pulled up in front of his house, his chest was burning with rage. He slammed the car door shut and yelled into the night:
"When the fuck is this gonna end?! The rage, the guilt, these fucking emotions—when do they stop?! I'm sick of it! Sick of it, goddammit! What do I have to do to get my life back? What do I have to do to find love again?!"
His voice echoed down the empty street, but there was no answer. Only the pounding in his skull.