Jacob drove in silence.
The road stretched ahead, empty, blurred at the edges. His hands were steady on the wheel—but his mind wasn't.
It kept drifting.
Back to Oliver.
Back to that moment.
The phone call. The sudden panic. The way Oliver had rushed out without a second thought.
Lucy…
Jacob exhaled slowly, trying to focus.
Before leaving, Oliver had given him one instruction—
Go to Franzzle's school. Check everything. Staff, students, teachers, workers. Somewhere, there might be a connection. Something they had missed.
And Oliver himself—
Had gone to the hospital.
⸻
The car slowed.
Jacob pulled up in front of the school.
It stood silent.
Closed.
Empty.
The gates locked ever since the incident.
Franzzle's crime had left its mark here.
Even now, the place felt… wrong.
⸻
A lone worker stood near the entrance.
Jacob stepped out, approached him, and showed his investigator license.
"I need access to the school records," he said.
The worker hesitated—then nodded, stepping aside to make a call.
A short conversation followed.
A pause.
Then permission.
⸻
Jacob was led inside.
The halls were quiet. Too quiet. Each step echoed faintly against the walls.
The worker guided him into a room.
A table.
A chair.
"Wait here," the man said, before leaving.
⸻
Jacob sat down.
His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
His thoughts drifted again.
Oliver.
Lucy.
The hospital.
For a moment—just a moment—he wanted to leave. To go there instead.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
Tom.
They had to prove Tom's innocence.
⸻
The door opened.
The worker returned.
In his hands—
A large bundle of files.
He placed them on the table with a dull thud.
Jacob stared at them.
"That's all?" he asked.
The worker shook his head.
"No… we have five more like this."
Jacob paused.
Then nodded slowly.
"Bring them."
⸻
Time passed.
⸻
Eight hours later—
The room hadn't changed.
But Jacob had.
The files were scattered now—opened, stacked, pushed aside. Names, records, details—blurred together in his mind.
He had gone through almost everything.
Teachers.
Students.
Staff.
Many of them had connections to Robert.
Patients.
Regular visits.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing that pointed anywhere.
No pattern.
No suspect.
⸻
Only one file remained.
The last one.
New admissions.
Jacob picked it up.
Opened it.
There were only two names.
His eyes moved to the first—
And stopped.
"James Ford…"
He frowned slightly.
"Ford…?"
The surname felt familiar.
Not distant.
Recent.
He reached for his list.
Started scanning.
Line by line.
Then—
He found it.
"Aisha Ford."
Jacob froze.
Slowly, he looked back at the file in his hand.
Turned the page.
Parents' details.
His eyes landed on the name.
And stayed there.
"Aisha Ford."
The file slipped slightly in his grasp.
The scene shifted.
Morning.
Oliver arrived at the hospital.
The building stood tall before him—cold, pale, and imposing. Its wide glass entrance reflected a dull sky, while the concrete walls rose without warmth, like something built only for function, not comfort. Rows of narrow windows lined its height, each one identical, each one silent.
There was no life in it.
Only urgency.
Only consequence.
Oliver didn't stop to look.
He was already moving.
⸻
Fear filled his chest.
Not thoughts. Not logic.
Just fear.
He ran toward the main entrance, pushing through the glass doors with force. Inside, the sharp scent of antiseptic hit him immediately. White walls. Clean floors. Distant footsteps. Faint voices.
A reception desk stood ahead.
A middle-aged woman sat behind it.
Oliver rushed to her.
"Lucy—Lucy Marley," he said, breath uneven. "Where is she?"
The woman looked up, immediately catching the urgency in his voice, the panic in his eyes.
"She's in operation," she replied quickly. "You'll have to wait outside the room."
Oliver didn't waste a second.
He turned and ran.
⸻
The stairs felt longer than they should have.
Each step heavier.
Each breath tighter.
Finally—
He reached it.
A white door.
Above it—
A glowing red sign:
EMERGENCY
It flickered slightly.
And for a moment—
Oliver felt a chill run through him.
⸻
He stopped.
Just for a second.
His mind tried to catch up.
Tried to prepare.
But one thought cut through everything—
What will I say to Tom?
He had taken responsibility.
Tom's family.
Tom's trust.
Tom's faith.
And now—
This.
⸻
A sharp pain hit his head.
Oliver winced, grabbing his temples with both hands. His vision blurred slightly as dizziness crept in. He staggered forward, then slowly lowered himself onto a chair outside the operation room.
He leaned forward.
Elbows on his knees.
Head in his hands.
⸻
Frustration.
Exhaustion.
Something deeper.
Something heavier.
⸻
His eyes drifted downward.
And the thoughts began.
Uncontrolled.
Relentless.
Even if I catch Mr. X…
I won't be forgiven.
A pause.
Or maybe… Mr. X doesn't even exist.
His breathing Slowed.
Darkened.
Maybe… it's me.
The thought came quietly.
Too quietly.
I was there that night.
I drank.
I don't remember everything clearly.
His fingers tightened slightly.
What if…
What if I killed Robert?
His jaw clenched.
What if I changed the reports… framed Tom… without even knowing?
The idea settled in.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
If that's true…
Then I'm the most dangerous one here.
His chest tightened.
I have nowhere to go.
Nowhere to run.
Silence.
Then—
Another thought.
Sharp.
Defiant.
But If Mr. X exists…
His eyes lifted Slightly.
Then I'll find him.
His grip tightened.
No matter what.
I will catch him!
He exhaled slowly.
Steadying himself.
Because if Mr. X exists.
He doesn't deserve to win.
memory flickered.
That night.
Robert speaking.
A name.
Faint.
But clear enough.
⸻
"Ford—"
⸻
The door opened.
The sound snapped him back.
A doctor stepped out—around fifty, removing his gloves calmly, like this was routine.
Oliver stood up immediately and walked toward him.
"Good morning, Mr. Shepherd," the doctor said, composed.
"How's Lucy?" Oliver cut in, his voice tight. "And her child?"
No patience.
No formalities.
⸻
The doctor paused.
Looked down.
Just for a moment.
But it was enough.
Oliver felt it.
⸻
"Lucy is stable," the doctor said slowly.
A brief pause.
"I'm sorry… we weren't able to save the child."
⸻
Silence.
⸻
Oliver closed his eyes.
Took a deep breath.
Held it.
Like his body was resisting the truth—
And he was forcing it in.
⸻
Then—
He turned.
And began to walk.
⸻
One step.
Two—
⸻
The world tilted.
⸻
Darkness swallowed everything.
⸻
Silence.
⸻
⸻
Oliver's eyes opened.
He was lying on his bed.
His room.
Dark.
Completely dark.
It took a moment for his vision to adjust.
Night.
It was night.
⸻
His head felt heavy.
His body slow.
Then—
He noticed something.
In his hands.
⸻
He was holding something.
Tightly.
In both hands.
⸻
He lifted his right hand slightly.
A horseshoe.
Cold.
Metal.
⸻
His left hand—
A thick rope.
Rough.
Coarse.
⸻
He froze.
⸻
Then suddenly—
He dropped both of them onto the bed.
They landed with a dull sound.
⸻
His breathing grew uneven.
⸻
Slowly, he reached toward the lamp beside him.
His fingers trembled slightly as he switched it on.
Light filled the room.
⸻
He looked at his wristwatch.
The ticking sound felt louder than usual.
⸻
4:12 AM
The scene shifted.
Evening — 17 July
The cell was quiet once again.
Tom and Franzzle sat on opposite beds, separated by only a few feet of concrete and shadow. The dim light above flickered faintly, throwing uneven shapes across the walls.
Tom looked unwell.
He lay back against the thin mattress, one hand resting over his chest while the other covered part of his face and eyes. His breathing was slower than usual, heavier somehow.
Franzzle noticed.
And smiled.
"Are you alright?" he asked softly.
Tom didn't move.
"Fuck off."
Franzzle chuckled lightly.
"C'mon, don't be rude. I'm just asking."
"And I think," Tom muttered coldly, "I already told you to shut the hell up."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Franzzle leaned back slightly. "But I'm just concerned about a friend."
Tom lowered his arm immediately and looked at him with pure disgust.
"What do you mean by friend?" he snapped. "Huh? We are not friends. Not at any cost. Especially not with you."
Franzzle's expression didn't change at all.
No irritation.
No anger.
Only that same calm smile.
"Oh really?" he said lightly. "Well… no worries. I still consider you one. Doesn't matter what you think."
"Fuck off."
Silence followed.
A long one.
But eventually—
Franzzle spoke again.
"So…" he said casually, "did you think about it?"
Tom's eyes narrowed slightly.
"About what?"
"The thing I told you."
The irritation returned instantly.
Tom's jaw tightened, but this time he didn't move from the bed. His body clearly lacked the strength for another outburst.
"Listen, kid," he growled, "I warned you. Don't say that again."
His breathing sharpened.
"I swear… if I was alright right now…"
His eyes darkened.
"You'd already be dead."
Franzzle tilted his head slightly.
"Then that would've made you a real criminal."
Tom froze for half a second.
And said nothing.
Because he couldn't.
The words had landed too precisely.
Finally, he looked away.
"Just don't ask me that again."
Franzzle sighed softly.
"No, no… you're misunderstanding me." His voice remained strangely calm. "I'm not trying to manipulate you or anything."
A pause.
"I'm asking for your own sake."
Tom frowned.
"My sake?" he muttered. "What the hell does that mean?"
Franzzle blinked slowly.
"What?" he asked. "You don't know?"
Tom stared at him.
"I thought maybe you would've noticed."
A faint smile appeared again.
"Or maybe… your friend told you already."
Something shifted in Tom's expression.
"What are you talking about?"
Franzzle's eyes remained fixed on him.
"This morning," he said quietly, "your wife went into labor."
The words struck instantly.
Tom's body stiffened.
For a moment, the cell disappeared.
Lucy.
His mind went straight to her face.
To her voice.
To the child.
A sharp pressure tightened in his chest.
No.
No, that couldn't—
Why didn't Oliver tell him?
Was she alright?
What about the baby?
Questions crashed into him faster than he could process them. His thoughts tangled together violently, panic trying to force its way through the walls he had built inside himself.
And underneath all of it—
Fear.
Raw fear.
Tom sat up suddenly.
"Don't lie!" he shouted, rage breaking through his voice. "You were with me the whole day! How the hell would you even know that, huh?!"
His breathing became uneven.
"Don't make me laugh! You're just trying to mess with me and—"
"—This afternoon," Franzzle interrupted calmly, "while you were asleep… I heard some cops talking about it."
Tom stopped.
Silence.
His fists clenched tightly.
"Then you heard wrong," he muttered.
Franzzle shrugged slightly.
"Well… maybe."
A pause.
"Or maybe not."
Then he smiled again.
"That's easy to verify, isn't it?"
Tom's throat felt dry.
"Ask your friend when he comes," Franzzle said softly. "Ask him yourself."
His smile widened slightly.
"And then maybe… you'll realize I was right."
For one brief moment—
Tom felt like his heart had stopped.