The room was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. He lay on the couch, unable to sleep, staring at the dark ceiling as the rain outside slowly faded into the distance. His mind refused to rest—like an old engine that kept rattling long after the ignition was turned off.
He switched on the television to drown out his thoughts. Late-night news flickered to life, casting pale light across his face.
And then—he froze.
The anchor's voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
"Breaking News: The mysterious incident on the city flyover…"
A picture flashed on screen.
Her face.
His heart skipped a beat. He leaned forward, gripping the edge of the sofa, eyes locked on the screen.
"They're… talking about her," he whispered, his voice trembling.
The footage rolled—the night he had saved her. The screeching of his bike, the violent skid, the chaos… it all played out like a nightmare replaying itself in slow motion. The reporters praised the unknown biker who had risked his life to save a stranger.
His chest tightened as he watched himself, nameless and faceless on the screen, standing in the rain beside her fragile form.
"Maybe this time… I'll know who she really is."
Then the anchor's tone shifted. The music behind the broadcast changed—low, ominous, heavy.
"In a shocking twist…"
His stomach dropped.
"…the girl rescued on the flyover was shot dead inside the hospital earlier this evening."
The world around him shattered.
The remote slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. His eyes went wide, his lips parting as if words were supposed to come—but nothing did.
"What…?"
His breathing grew shallow. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
"No… this can't be real."
Tears welled up and began to spill, one after another. His vision blurred. His mind froze like a computer hit by a fatal error.
"Shot…? Inside the hospital…? Who would do that…?"
The anchor kept talking, but the words became static in his ears. He wasn't watching news anymore. He was sinking—deeper and deeper into confusion, grief, and fear.
His thoughts raced wildly, overlapping, tearing each other apart.
Was it a random attack? Was she being followed? Why her?
He clutched his head tightly, trying to calm the storm.
But then a whisper from deep inside him emerged—cold and clear.
"Someone wanted her dead… and maybe… this isn't over."
His heart pounded violently, like a drum of war echoing through his chest. The rain outside started again, as if the sky itself had decided to mourn with him.
The room felt smaller. The air heavier. He could hear the drip of water from the balcony outside, each drop marking time, mocking him with its slow, relentless rhythm.
He wanted to scream. To shout her name. To shake the world until it gave him answers. But he stayed still, trembling, feeling the weight of helplessness crush his chest.
"Why… why her? She didn't deserve this. She was… she was…"
His voice broke. Words failed him. Memories of that night on the flyover flashed violently—her delicate hands trembling, the rain pelting down, the world moving in chaos around them. He remembered the flicker of life in her eyes, the brief spark of trust she had shown him, and now… nothing.
Silence returned, but it was different—heavier, darker. A shadow of fear crept along the walls, curling around him, whispering that this was just the beginning. That danger, grief, and chaos had found him too.
He leaned back, gripping the edge of the sofa as if it could anchor him to reality. His chest rose and fell erratically. His mind raced with a single, relentless thought:
"I have to find out… I have to know who did this. And why."
The rain outside intensified, drumming against the roof like a warning. Thunder rolled in the distance, a low, ominous growl that echoed the storm inside him.
And in that moment, he realized: this was no longer just tragedy.
This was a call. A darkness that demanded to be faced.
A darkness that was coming for him too.
He didn't wait a single second.
The rain hadn't stopped; it only changed its voice — from a soft whisper to a cold, impatient hiss against the windows. He shoved his feet into shoes, grabbed his jacket, and ran out into the night as if motion could outrun the shock. The city blurred past him; the neon reflections on wet asphalt made everything look unreal, like a memory projected onto glass.
He reached the police station with his heart still hammering inside his ribs. The fluorescent lights inside made the place smell of bleach and old paper; the bulletin board was cluttered with faded photos and notices. He pushed past the front desk and demanded, breathless and raw, "How did she die? Who did this? I need to know — I have to know."
The desk sergeant's face was tired, seasoned with the kind of resignation you can only earn by watching the world fall apart too many times. He exchanged a look with another officer, then spoke in the flat, careful tone of someone who had learned to carry bad news.
"We're looking into it," the officer said. "There's no clear evidence yet. The murder scene was — clean. Whoever did this left almost nothing. We've searched for proof; we haven't found anything we can use."
"No proof?" The words came out rough. "But— there was a CCTV, the flyover—people saw her. Someone must know."
The officer rubbed his temples. "We're trying. If you know anything, even the smallest detail, tell us. Any lead could help push this further."
He swallowed; his mouth was dry. He felt foolish, like a stray who had wandered into a wolf's den asking for answers. He wanted to tell them everything — the way she had laughed under that sunroof, the way they had looked like idiots and lovers at the red signal — but the memory felt too precious, too fragile to put into words. Still, one image cut through the panic: the BMW M8, its glossy black skin, the sunroof opening like a secret. The two people standing, laughing like children. He spoke quickly, each sentence a thrown pebble hoping to find purchase.
"That day… at the signal. There was a BMW M8 Competition. Sunroof open. Two people — one of them was a girl. You should check the CCTV at the signal and search that car's number plate. Track the car. Find the owner."
Silence answered him for a heartbeat. Then, surprisingly, action. The police moved. Requests were made. Screens lit up with date-and-time stamped footage. Faces blurred and snapped like moths in a jar until a plate number resolved out of grainy pixels. The officers worked the angles, the timestamps, the city's scattered eyes. Within hours a name appeared on a file: address, college, social circle.
"And?" He asked, breathless with hope and fear.
The officer's mouth tightened. "Found him. The driver — or rather the car's registered owner — comes from money. A lot of money. His father's name pulls up listings, companies, and assets." The officer's eyes flicked away, avoiding his. "There are bodyguards wherever he goes. People who make sure trouble never reaches him."
The air in the station felt thicker; like the first gust of a storm that would not let go. He thought of the girl again — laughing, alive, unguarded. The thought of anyone sliding a bullet into that life made bile rise in his throat.
"How will you question him?" he asked. The words were small, pointless.
The officer let out a humorless laugh. "Question him? You don't just walk into a lion's den and ask it to explain its hunger. His father can bury people in cash. He can bury cases in silence." He pushed a file across the desk. "We'll try. We'll do what we can. But don't expect justice to arrive like a deus ex machina. Power buys a lot of silence."
His hands trembled around the file. The police were earnest, but earnestness was not always enough. Influence had weight; money had teeth. The officer softened slightly as if trying to hand him back a small flame: "If you want to push this — and I mean actually push it — you'll need to be where he is. You'll need to step into that world. Where he studies. Where he lives. Watch him. Be inside the places he hides behind his name."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "You want me to go to his college?"
"Yes." The officer's voice was blunt but not unkind. "It's an elite college. His kind of money doesn't just buy cars — it buys reputations, doors, and the quiet that protects them. Admissions are not easy; these institutions exist so certain people can stay together. But I'll try. I'll ask my contacts. I'll pull every string I can."
Days crawled by like something with a broken leg. Then, just when hope felt like mismatched pieces, his phone buzzed. A police number. A single sentence that felt heavier than any brick.
"You can join," the officer said over the phone, voice distant, almost surprised. "I managed to get you a meeting with the principal. Behave yourself. Don't ruin this chance. I fought to put you in this place — don't waste it."
He hung up and stared at the ceiling until the light outside turned to gold. Admission to the college was a doorway that should have been barred. He imagined the corridors — the polished floors, the quiet confidence of the rich, the cliques that were ironclad. He imagined the boy who owned a BMW and sunroofs and an army of protectors walking those halls like he owned the air.
And yet, despite every warning, a single thought burned clean and bright in him, like a shard of glass reflecting sunlight.
"This is my chance," he whispered to the empty room, voice firming with resolve. "This is the only chance I'll get to find who killed her."
The officer had left him with a final, chilling reminder when they parted: "There have been deaths linked to that college before. Accidents. Suicides. Nothing concrete ever stuck. If you go in, think. Move carefully. One wrong step and everything you hoped to reveal will be lost."
He sat very still, the words echoing in the hollow. He had one chance — one dangerous, impossible slot carved out by luck, by a cop's stubbornness, by the stubbornness of his own grief. The rain outside rose again, a steady drum that seemed to punctuate the decision.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened.
They had taken her life away. He would not let silence take away the truth.
He would go into their world. He would learn their language. He would walk their halls and breathe their air. He would sit across from their principal and smile until smiling hurt. He would become what he needed to be — even if it meant everything he had known about himself had to be left at the door.
Because there was only one rule left that mattered: find the person who killed her. Bring them out into the light. He had one chance — and he would not waste it.