"Hands on your head, tozo!" barked the arresting officer, brandishing a pair of handcuffs with his left hand while aiming a loaded point forty-five police caliber directly at the young man. "And knees kissing the ground!"
The young man dropped to his knees without hesitation. His legs gave out before his will could resist. His knees kissed the dusty asphalt as ordered, trembling beneath the gravity of the moment.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" the officer sneered, circling the boy like a vulture. He patted him down roughly, hands sweeping across his clothes with trained efficiency. Then, with the clink of cold metal, he bound the young man's wrists behind his back, locking him into submission.
"Looks like we've just stumbled upon quite the enigma—a combination of ritual murderer and terrorist," the officer mocked, jerking his head toward the scorched imprint left behind by the missile blast. Smoke still curled from the fractured road, the remains of the violent spectacle barely cooling.
"I-It's not what it l-looks like, officer," the young man stammered, voice trembling as he struggled to find the words that might explain the inexplicable.
But how could he explain any of it? How could he deny that he killed the man lying dead nearby? The heart lying outside the man's body—how could anyone explain that? The destroyed street? The smoke? The scorch marks? What part of this didn't scream terrorist or ritual killer?
"It's—" he continued, but his sentence was interrupted by the second officer.
"We know what it looks like, bumpee," said the second officer who had knelt beside the corpse. He stared at the bloodied heart on the ground, expression twisted in distaste. "Looks to me like the evidence is quite... evident."
Both officers chuckled with hollow amusement, and the young man felt a fresh wave of dread wash over him.
Then, without warning, the first officer's face contorted with fury. He grabbed the boy by the front of his tattered shirt and yanked him violently to his feet. He spun him around with brute force.
"Open your mouth," the officer growled, pressing the barrel of the point forty-five hard against the boy's temple.
"W-what?" the young man stammered.
"Open your freaking mouth!" the officer insisted.
"I-I... It's not what you thin—"
The gun slid into his mouth before he could finish. Metal, cold and acrid with oil, cut across his tongue. He went silent, choking slightly, eyes wide with terror.
"Corporal, what do you think you're doing?" asked the second officer as he stood from the body and approached slowly, voice low and edged with disbelief.
"Sir, I feel like ending this bumpee's pathetic life right here, right now!" the corporal growled, and it was clear from his voice that he meant it.
"Are you out of your mind?" the sergeant barked, stepping in. "Look at what you're doing! He's still a suspect!"
"He killed a man in cold blood," the corporal snapped, jabbing his chin at the crime scene. "You see that?" he snarled. "That mess? That torn-up road? The guy's heart ripped out of his body?"
"You forget the principle of innocent until proven guilty?" the sergeant countered sharply. "Or does the uniform now give you the right to play judge, jury, and executioner?"
"But the evidence—"
"Did you see him do it? Did you see him rip the heart out of that man's chest?" interrupted the sergeant.
"No... but we caught him in the act!" the corporal stubbornly persisted.
"No. We nearly caught him in the act," corrected the sergeant. "And that difference matters. Even if he's guilty—which the court will decide, not us—he still has rights. Pull that gun out of his mouth or you'll answer to me."
The corporal hesitated, the weight of his own fury crashing into the brick wall of the law. He pulled the barrel slowly out of the young man's mouth. The boy gasped for air, saliva slick on his lips.
"This is your lucky day, ritual killer," the corporal hissed. "But I promise you—you'll pay for this heinous crime—"
"Vere you are, offishers."
A new voice slurred from behind them, unmistakably familiar to the young man. It was the voice in his head a moment ago before the police arrived. But without the slurry effect.
He turned around sharply, and so did the two officers.
The stranger who approached now was clearly drunk. He staggered toward them with uneven steps, his words melting together with booze-laced speech.
His skin was a rich chocolate hue, eyes a warm, disarming brown that held an odd, captivating spark. His body was athletic, striking—beautiful even. Handsome didn't quite fit. Angelic felt closer. He looked to be in his early twenties, like a young Denzel Washington dressed in Jack Sparrow's after-party clothes.
"I pick to came up my two—no, wait!" the man paused in mid-wobble, blinking hard like his words had just tripped over themselves. Clearly, his English had taken a severe beating—knocked unconscious by booze and dragged into the wrong sentence, as though wrongly misplaced in order of arrangements. And even in his intoxicated glory, he managed to fumble his way back, retracing his grammatic steps on time.
"I mean to shay: I came to pick up my two friendsh," he slurred triumphantly in correction, as if he'd just passed an oral exam in Drunken English one-o-one.
"Piss off, wino," barked the corporal, irritated. "This is police business. You're contaminating a crime scene."
"Osh courf! I mean... of coursh," the drunk corrected himself, swinging his arm dramatically. "And I can shee dish one sheems to be in trouble already," he said, glancing at the cuffed young man. "Whom did you offend dish time, Gọzhie Chinọ-Nsho?"
How did he know my name? Gozie blinked in stunned confusion. It wasn't even correctly pronounced. His name was Gozie Chino-Nso—but somehow this strange man still knew it.
"He's a murder suspect," said the sergeant, eyes narrowing as he scanned the newcomer from head to toe.
"Murder shushpect?" the stranger guffawed. "Don't make me laffsh!" He nearly fell over from laughter. "Gọzhie, a murder shushpect? Thish guy couldn't even hurt a moshquito—let alone rip a man'sh heart out! Murder shushpect? Oh pleashe."
"See for yourself, then," the sergeant said dryly, gesturing toward the bloodied corpse.
"Ah, vere you are, Pauloshki," the stranger said casually, squinting at the body. "Dead drunk, ash ushual. Shame on you! You're a dishgrashe to the Drunkardsh' Union."
Drunkards' Union?
The two officers glanced at each other, both completely thrown off by this.
"But not to worry," continued the drunk, staggering forward. "I'll jush pick you up and takesh you home."
"Step away from the dead man!" barked the sergeant, alarm rising in his voice.
"Dead man? What dead man?" the stranger replied, kneeling by the body and picking up the blood-slick heart as casually as if he were lifting a bottle cap. He angled his body, stylishly shielding his movements from view. Like he knew what he was doing: even in his drunken state.
"Are you deaf, bumpee!?" the corporal shouted, rushing forward. "He said, step away from the—"
He stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-stride. Frozen.
The corpse was moving.
The dead man sat up. Slowly. Mechanically. Like a puppet whose strings had just been pulled by some invisible force.
The sergeant and the corporal stared in stunned silence.
"Don't move!" the corporal screamed, raising his gun. The sergeant followed suit, weapon drawn.
"What in the name of—?" gasped the sergeant.
Gozie stood speechless.
"It's alright, officers," the stranger said calmly, his voice now crisp and controlled. His tone had transformed completely—the drunken slur evaporated like morning mist. He stood upright now, squaring his shoulders as he approached them with deliberate steps. The very air around him seemed to shift and reconfigure itself. That dazed, pitiful fool from moments ago had vanished, replaced by someone altogether different—someone with purpose and clarity in his eyes. The transformation was so sudden, so complete, that it left a palpable tension hanging between them.
"If you haven't seen the dead come back to life before," he said, voice low and smooth, "then it can only mean one thing."
"W-w-what?" stammered the corporal, visibly trembling.
"That you're just dreaming." With that, he waved a hand through the air gently, as if brushing aside a cobweb. For a fleeting second, his eyes shimmered—from chocolate brown to an unnatural, radiant sapphire blue. Or maybe it was just the streetlight playing tricks.
And back inside Gozie's bedroom, the young man sprang upright, gasping. He was dreaming...
His heart thudded in his chest as he looked around in panic. His shirt was intact. No soot. No blood. No ripped clothing. Just the familiar walls of his bedroom.
Thank God... it was just a dream, he thought, exhaling deeply.
Until a voice shattered the silence.
"Oh, is it now?"
Gozie jerked around.
It's him!
The same man—the Mystery Man—was sitting calmly at the foot of his bed, eyes fixed on him. No longer drunk. No longer laughing. Just... watching.
"W-Who the hell are y-you!?" Gozie stammered, crawling back instinctively.
"What you did back there was uncalled for," the man said calmly, ignoring the question. "Given that you acted out of ignorance, I had to channel your reckless act into the Realm of Dreams. But next time you pull that kind of barbaric stunt in public…" he leaned forward, voice suddenly sharp, "you won't be so lucky. YOU WILL BE RESPONSIBLE!"
He pointed two fingers at Gozie with piercing intensity.
"But it was only a dream!" Gozie protested, desperate for an answer.
"Only a dream?" the man chuckled darkly. "Think again, dreamer."
His irises flickered—just for a moment—changing color again before he faded into thin air like mist burning off at sunrise.
Leaving Gozie alone. And wondering... Is this yet another dream?