Date: 17th January 2011 (Bristol)
The night refused to end for Denver Jackson. Even after returning home, even after lying down beside his wife, even after closing his eyes again and again, He can't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the echo of a gunshot and the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat. The night had felt like a fever dream that refused to break.
When the faint light of morning finally slipped through the curtains, Denver hadn't really slept at all. He got out of bed. For a moment, he stood there, staring at nothing, as if trying to organize his thoughts. But they refused to settle. His mind replayed fragments of the previous night in broken pieces—lights, voices, the professor's speech, the masked woman, the revolver And then—darkness.
After he finished his morning routine, He took out a black leather suitcase— The same black suitcase from the night before. For a second, his hand paused over it, his fingers tightened slightly. He packed his usual things—files, notes, a few personal items. From the outside, everything looked normal and he prepared to leave.
"You're leaving for work already?" Elle asked from the kitchen doorway. She was holding a mug of tea, her eyes searching his face for an explanation he hadn't given her last night. "I have a full schedule, Elle," Denver said, his voice low. "I need to get a head start."
He didn't wait for her to ask more questions. He grabbed the suitcase and headed for the car. The morning was still cold, although less harsh than the night before. The city was waking up—people heading to work, cars filling the streets, everything's fine as if nothing had happened.
Denver drove in silence. His destination was a private clinic where he worked as a psychotherapist. It wasn't a grand place, nor did it bring him wealth. But it was enough. Enough to support his family. Enough to live a simple life.
Back in his university days, Denver had been a rising star in the field of psychology. He'd had offers from major corporations and research foundations, but he had turned them all down. He preferred the quiet work of helping individuals untangle their minds. It was that raw, honest passion for the subject that had made him Professor Taylor's favorite student.
Because psychology wasn't just a career to him. It was something he believed in. Understanding people, Understanding the mind. That had always mattered more than money to him. That was also why Professor Taylor had always favored him.
When he reached the clinic, the familiar smell of antiseptic and old paper usually calmed him but today, it felt suffocating. He walked through the lobby, nodding briefly to the other staff members. Denver was known for being the silent type—professional, reserved, and deeply focused. While other staffs gossiped in the breakroom, Denver usually kept to his office. He wasn't someone who talked much. In fact, he preferred silence most of the time.
But that didn't make him distant. Everyone respected him becsuse They knew his work. They knew his dedication.
At the reception desk, Miss Mary, a kind woman who had been with the clinic for years, looked up with a bright smile.
"Good morning, Dr. Jackson. You're in high demand today," she said, checking her ledger. "A patient arrived early and insisted on seeing only you. He said you were the most capable man for the job."
Denver let out a weak, humble laugh. "No way, Mary. There are plenty of people here more capable than me. I'm just dedicated, that's all. Anyway tell the patient to meet me in the consultation room in five minutes."
Mary smiled and said, "Well, you are the most capable therapist here and it's a fact."
Denver nodded. "Alright Alright. Send him to the consultation room."
Denver went to his office, placed the black suitcase carefully by his feet under the desk, and took a seat. He tried to straighten his posture, to look like composed and professional as his patients expected.
A few minutes later, a young man named Tom entered. He looked exhausted, carrying a heavy diaper bag, followed by his wife who was holding a newborn baby.
"Thank you for seeing me, Doctor," Tom said, sitting down heavily. "I didn't know where else to turn." Tom explained his situation with a shaky voice. He was a software engineer, a man who had spent the last two years working twelve-hour shifts in hopes of a promotion. He worked at a software company with long hours and constant pressure. He had been working hard for a promotion—pushing himself beyond limits, taking extra tasks, staying late. But the promotion never came. Instead, his boss kept giving him more work.
"I thought… if I just worked harder," Tom said, his voice tired, "things would change."
"But now…" Tom glanced at his wife and child, "I just feel exhausted. I don't want to keep living like this." He explained how the stress had started affecting him—his sleep, his mood, even his ability to think clearly.
"I thought I could handle it," Tom whispered, glancing at his sleeping daughter. But my head feels like it's going to explode. Since the baby was born, I realized I can't be a good father if I'm constantly on the verge of a breakdown. So I decided to quit my job, but the stress... it hasn't left me."
Denver listened patiently, nodding in all the right places. He guided Tom through several grounding techniques and breathing exercises. For a moment, focusing on someone else's problems allowed Denver to forget his own.
"Come back tomorrow at the same time," Denver said at the end of the session. "We'll work on a long-term plan to help you." Tom looked relieved and said "Thank you, Doctor."
As they stood up to leave, Denver reached out. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the baby. Tom's wife smiled and handed him the baby. Denver held the small, warm bundle for a moment, wishing the child a life of peace and better luck than the world seemed to be offering lately. Mary came into the room to help usher them out, cooing at the baby.
"Oh, she's adorable!" Mary said, taking the baby carefully. As they lingered by the door, the conversation shifted to the morning news.
"It's just awful, isn't it?" Tom said to Mary. "The murder happened last night. Right in the middle of the city's nicest neighborhood." Mary nodded grimly. "I heard it on the radio. The police are all over it because the victim was such a big deal."
Denver's heart skipped a beat. He kept his back turned, pretending to organize some papers on his desk. "A murder?" he asked, his voice sounding thin to his own ears.
"Yes," Tom replied. "They found a body, a retired professor I think, but he was someone important cause the police are investigating very seriously.
The world seemed to tilt. Denver went completely silent. He didn't say anything; he didn't even look up. He just stood there, staring at a blank spot on his wall until he heard the door click shut and the voices fade down the hallway. The moment he was alone, He grabbed a glass of water and drank it quickly, but his hands were trembling.
He sat back down, his mind racing through the fragments of the night before. He remembered the Professor's smile, the way he had leaned in to talk about the research. Then, the images turned darker, blurring into a chaotic montage. He remembered leaving his house in a panic at the night. Elle tried to stop him but he yelled at her. He remembered the weight of the revolver in his pocket, the cold air, the sound of a shot, and the sheer, paralyzing terror of what he had done.
He was afraid and in tension when a sudden, rapid knocking on his door made him jump nearly out of his skin. His instincts took over. He grabbed a heavy metal fountain pen from his desk, holding it like a weapon, and moved slowly toward the door.
He swung the door open, ready to strike—but it was only Mary. She recoiled, startled by the look of pure aggression on his face.
"Doctor? Is everything okay?"
Denver lowered the pen, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I'm... I'm fine, Mary. I just remembered some urgent work I had to finish."
"Tom just left," she said, still looking at him with concern. "He mentioned a Professor, and you went pale. Mary paused. "Did you know him? I mean the professor who was killed?
Denver leaned against the doorframe, trying to stop his knees from shaking. "Yes. He was my mentor in college. My teacher." Mary's expression softened into pity. "Oh, Doctor. I'm so sorry. I had no idea. You must be in shock."
"Yes I am" Denver whispered truthfully. "But I'm fine, really. I just need a moment." Before she could offer some more comfort to Denver, another staff member hurried down the hall. "Dr. Jackson? There's a call for you on the main line. They wouldn't leave a message. They said it was urgent."
Denver felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. He had been expecting this, yet he wasn't ready. He walked stiffly to the reception desk and took the phone.
"Yes, This is Denver Jackson."
"Mr. Jackson? This is Detective Miller from the Bristol City Police Station. We're contacting everyone who was on Mister Brandon Taylor's private party list last night. We need you to come down to the station for a formal interrogation."
Denver's grip on the phone tightened. "Of course, Of course. I'll be there shortly."
He hung up and walked back to his office in a daze. He gathered his things when his gaze fell on the black suitcase sitting under the desk. A part of him wanted to leave it there—to run away from it and never look back. But he couldn't.
He knelt down and slowly unzipped the side compartment. Inside the suitcase there weren't just clothes or personal items. There were thick stacks of paper with elegant handwriting. It was the research. The documents professor Taylor had shown the crowd. The "answer" that was supposed to change the world.
Denver stared at the papers, the weight of the suitcase finally making sense. He was carrying the thing for which someone had died for. He snapped the suitcase shut, stood up, and walked out of the clinic to his car.