Rain hammered against Eric’s coat as he struggled through the narrow alley. His breath was ragged, and his hands trembled from the weight of the bundle wrapped in a stained white sheet. With each step, his heart pounded faster.
“This has to be a nightmare. No... God, please,” he whispered to himself. He paused and turned back, scanning the deserted alley before crouching down. His fingers fumbled to the sheets. With a hesitant tug, he peeled the edge. He waited for thunder to strike again to provide him some light. Perhaps he was wrong. He was tired. And the last six times he checked, he didn’t see clearly.
Thunder struck again, casting jagged shadows on the damp brick walls. That light gave a glimpse of what lay inside that sheet. The face inside stared back at him, pale and battered, its nose and ears streaked with dried blood. The man’s naked body was a canvas of scars and small holes covered his chest. Eric stared, his stomach churning. The dismembered head was enough proof that the man was dead this time. But Eric might want to check again in a few minutes. Once more, Eric let the sheet fall and fought the urge to run. He stood and closed his eyes for a moment.
He took a deep breath, and his chest tightened. “You’re supposed to be the best crime investigator, Eric. The best. So why can’t you figure this out?” he whispered. He reached with trembling fingers to his right side. He pulled a small spiked club out and stared at its blood-stained spikes, holding it up to his face. It gleamed faintly in the dim moonlight. Not a weapon for a fight, Eric thought. But perfect for making the kind of holes he’d seen in the corpse behind him.
His tightened grip around the club caused pain in his knuckles to flare. The pain brought out memories with it. Flashes of punching—repeated, violent. Blurry, but undeniable. He lowered the club, his breaths shallow and uneven. He turned his gaze to his left side, where the weight of the sword on his hip pressed against him. He couldn’t see it in the darkness, but he didn’t need to. He’d examined it earlier—a long blade, sharp enough to sever a head.
Eric’s eyes widened as he swallowed. “No...no. This can’t be,” he muttered, shaking his head as if the motion might dislodge the thought forming in his mind. But the pieces clicked into place, anyway. “Man carrying the tools of the crime and pulling a corpse in a dark alley,” he thought bitterly, his lips curling into a grimace. “It’s me.”
Steps echoed through the narrow alley as Eric paced in circles around the body. Just as he used to solve crimes in Wintervale. But tonight, the crime scene wasn’t just another case. It was his. No matter how he tried to twist the evidence, the conclusion was always the same: “I did this.”
His mind churned past denial, grappling instead with the inevitable. He imagined the moment he’d be caught. “What would I even say?” His gaze fell to the wrapped corpse behind him. “No, your honor, I don’t remember killing him. I just... dragged the body here?” He winced. Even in his head, it sounded absurd.
Eric’s eyes narrowed as he thought. If someone had given him that excuse, would he have believed them? The answer to that was clear. He buried his face in his hands. He wanted to scream, but he knew better. A scream would draw attention. And attention was the last thing he needed.
“I should turn myself in,” he muttered, his voice shaky. Then reality struck. Here in Wintervale, murder was punishable by death. He could already see the scene unfold in his mind—dragged to the scaffold, the crowd’s cheers drowning out his pleas. The announcer walks to the stage, “Wintervale. The year 1245. At his majesty’s order we sentence. Eric for the crime of murder to death.” He imagined the executioner’s sword gleaming in the light as it was raised high above his neck.
The faces of his colleagues flashed in his thoughts. “Carl? Mike? Who among them would revel in the chance to take my place? Who would mourn me? Who would feel disappointed?” His voice cracked as he whispered the last thought.
A sharper pain pierced through his resolve. “Olivia,” he breathed. “Nancy.” His wife. His daughter. Their faces swam before him. He could picture their tears, their shattered trust. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. “I can’t let them see me like that.”
Eric straightened, his eyes hardening. “I’ve caught criminals before,” he muttered, his voice now steadier, colder. “I know how to cover my tracks. I know how to get away with it.” Eric dragged the corpse to the end of the alley, his movements clumsy with fatigue but still determined. When he reached the edge, he peeked out cautiously into the open street. It was empty—thankfully. Across the street, “the Wintervale River” said Eric to himself. He could hear it flow, its waters cutting through the city.
“The river runs for miles,” Eric thought, his breathing uneven. “It’ll carry the body far from here.”
He looked behind him, “I would have to go back to see if there are any tracks I need to cover from before.” he paused. Before what? Before waking up here, dragging a dead body? Before regaining consciousness in this nightmare? What was the right word for his situation? Maybe he was still asleep, and he would wake up soon in his cozy bed next to his wife Olivia. See his daughter Nancy and tell her some stories about his work. Teach her some values of honor and honesty. Thunder struck again, shattering his foolish dreams. He is here in the dark alley and his only company is a stiff corpse.
He shook his head. Summoning his courage, he darted across the street, dragging the bundle behind him. His heart pounded in his ears, the rain masking the scrape of the sheet on the ground. He constantly checked left and right, then the buildings behind. “If someone peeked through the windows behind me, if someone pass through the street.” Sweat covered him despite the cold weather, And These ideas didn’t help calm him, but he couldn’t get them out of his mind. He Reached the riverbank, Eric stopped abruptly. A wall lined the sides of the river.
He bent down and placed the corpse on his shoulder. His muscles protested in pain. The strain burned through him. With a last surge of strength, Eric heaved the body upward, pushing it over the edge. Soon, a splash of water followed. Now his company floated by the river. Never to be seen again, Eric hoped.
“Now the weapons.” He thought. His hand went to the spiked club hanging at his side. He pulled it free, its weight solid. He raised it, ready to toss it into the river to join the body. Then he froze.
Footsteps.
They echoed faintly through the storm, deliberate and measured. Someone was coming at a slow pace, their silhouette barely visible in the darkness. Eric’s breath hitched, and his pulse quickened. The club remained in his hand.
The echo of footsteps drew closer, each measured step tightening the knot of fear in Eric’s chest. The figure finally emerged under the dim moonlight, a short man in a grey coat, the same as Eric’s.
Eric squinted at the face, but the shadows obscured it. What was clear was the uneven way the man walked. He was limping. The man halted abruptly, his body stiff.
“Daric,” the man said, his voice cracking with shock. “Oh God. It’s him. I will notify the others.” He stumbled back a step. “We were searching for you.”
“Did he see me toss the body?” Eric wondered. instincts surged to the forefront. “No witnesses.” The words resounded in his head like a bell. “No,” Eric said to himself, shaking his head, “That’s not who I am. What about the values I taught Nancy?”
The man took another step back as he noticed the deadly look on Eric’s face, his movements jerky. Eric’s eyes widened in realization. “If he leaves, my fate is sealed.”
The man hesitated for a second longer before turning sharply on his heel. His limp didn’t stop him from moving quickly, hurrying back the way he came. Eric’s knuckles whitened as he clutched the club tighter. “Those values mean nothing,” he murmured bitterly, “if Nancy loses her father.” He took a step forward. His decision was made.
Eric gained momentum, rushing the man from behind. The man struggled forward, screaming, “Help! Help!” His voice cracked with panic as he limped, moving as fast as he could, as if his life depended on it. Which it did. But with that limp, he had no chance.
Eric closed the gap quickly, raising the spiked club high. He swung with all his might, the force of the blow landing squarely on the back of the man’s head. The crack echoed through the alley as the man crumpled to the stone ground. “Agh!” a grunt came. the club’s spikes stuck in his skull.
Without hesitation, Eric placed his boot on the back of the man’s neck and yanked the weapon free with a sickening squelch. Blood spattered the wet stones beneath them. Then he struck again. And again. Each swing of the club brought a dull, wet thud. The man’s screams died abruptly.
Eric stepped back. His gaze fell upon the man’s lifeless body. Blood pooled around the corpse, soaking into the cracks of the cobblestones. This time, there was no doubt about it. He’d done this. His mind screamed one thought: no witnesses. “I had to,” he told himself.
Eric’s head snapped up, scanning the empty street. The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from his boots, but not fast enough. Then—a sound. The distinct clatter of a window shutting. He turned sharply toward the noise, his eyes locking onto a building across the street.
“It’s Daric,” a woman’s voice shouted from inside. Eric froze, His head thumping. “Daric? Who is that?” He took a step toward the building. “she saw. No witnesses.” His breath quickened as he stared at the darkened window. Then, just as quickly, another thought stopped him in his tracks. “What am I doing?” he muttered. “Kill her too? Then what—cover for three murders?” He shook his head. He glanced at the fresh corpse beside him. Blood still seeped from the man’s shattered skull, forming a spreading pool that would be impossible to clean.
His eyes darted back to the window. “What if she has a family in there? What if they saw me? Kill all of them, too?” He let out a dry, joyless chuckle, his voice tinged with despair. “Murder is good business—once you get your first customer, they just keep coming.”
A sharp pain stabbed at his temples, and he rubbed them with blood-smeared fingers. His gaze dropped back to the club. He should drop it. He should run. But his feet refused to move.
“Daric!” The shout echoed down the alley. Eric spun, raising his club instinctively. Searching for the source of the voice. But there was nothing to see, only the steady sound of footsteps, deliberate, closer every second.
“Who now?” Eric said under his breath. The footsteps multiplied. “It’s more than one,” he thought, his pulse quickening. “Two? Three?”
His gaze darted between the body at his feet and the figures that solidified as they drew closer. “There he is,” one of them pointed at Eric.
Eric’s muscles tightened. “Two,” he said, “I can take them.” Planting his feet firmly, he readied himself to charge. As the figures approached, details became visible—two men wearing the same grey coat as he and his friend on the ground.
His eyes widened as he noticed the glint of swords at their sides. “This won’t be easy.” He shifted his stance, fixing his eyes on the shortest one. “I have to charge before they draw.” He gritted his teeth, “Ready... one, two—”
“He killed another!” the short man barked with a laugh, gesturing to the corpse at Eric’s side. “Told you he would!”
Eric froze, startled. The men came closer, their expressions oddly casual. The short one chuckled openly. Another lit a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating his face, an old man with grey hair. “Enough,” the old man commanded, after a long draw from his cigar. The short man’s laughter ceased immediately, his smirk replaced with a straight face. “Yes, Superior,” the short man muttered.
The so-called superior turned his attention to Eric, locking eyes with him. His expression darkened. “Daric, this time you’ve taken it too far,” he hissed. At a slow old man’s pace, he strode towards Eric’s recent victim, crouched down, and grabbed it by the collar. With a sharp tug, he lifted the body enough to reveal a crimson design embroidered on its coat. “do you see this?” he said, shaking the corpse slightly for emphasis. “You’ve killed a man of the ministry. Killing commoners? No problem. But this? Do you have any idea how much trouble this will cause me?” he pointed to Eric, in a scolding manner, “I Told you men in grey coats are off limits.” Eric stared, baffled. His brow furrowed as he pointed at himself. “Are you… talking to me?”
The superior’s face twisted in anger. “Is there someone else here called Daric?” he said
“But I’m Eric,” Eric said,
The short man’s mouth twitched, struggling to suppress a laugh. He turned his head to the side, clearly trying to hold it in. The superior froze. His glare lingered on Eric, but then his expression shifted. His brows drew together, and his mouth opened slightly, as though a realization had struck him. The superior released his grip. The corpse falls to the ground. His hard expression softened as he stepped past the body.
“Oh, I see now. Poor thing, you are,” he murmured, his voice almost tender. He strolled toward Eric, his movements deliberate and unthreatening. “It’s honestly my fault,” the superior said comfortingly. “I should’ve known that letting you work this long would affect you.”
Eric stiffened and stepped back at the danger approaching, but the superior’s steady steps didn’t falter. The man closed the distance and wrapped him in a firm embrace.
“Don’t worry, Daric,” the old man said. “I’ll take care of this, and the ministry.” His voice was soothing.
Eric froze, his body rigid in the unexpected hug. The man’s presence, his words—it all felt wrong. But despite the confusion still swirling in his mind, a small part of him wanted to believe the reassurance in the old man’s tone. His grip on the club loosened slightly. “If being Daric gets me out of here,” Eric thought, his pulse steadying, “so be it.”
The superior reached out calmly to take the club from Eric’s hand. Eric’s muscles tensed. This is the moment to strike. Yet he didn’t. he relaxed as the murder weapon was taken away. With his other hand, the old man grabbed Eric’s wrist. “Let’s go,” the superior said.
Eric hesitated. “Is this a trap?” he wondered, but he only nodded, allowing himself to be led. The superior turned to the short man. He waved toward the corpse and commanded, “Clean this up.”
“Yes, superior,” the short man replied without hesitation.
The short man moved toward the body, but the superior paused, tapping a finger to his chin. “Place them with the other two.”
The short man responded, “Olivia and Nancy.” Eger to signify that he understood his task.
Eric froze.
“Olivia and Nancy,” he said, pausing before the dawning realization: “My wife. My daughter.”
A growl of rage tore from his throat. He yanked his wrist free from the old man’s grip with a sharp twist. His hand shot out toward the club, but the superior had already stepped back. Eric’s fingers grasped only empty air. His other hand clenched into a fist, and before the superior could retreat further, Eric drove it into the man’s face with all his strength. The blow sent the old man sprawling to the ground.
The short man reacted instantly, drawing his sword. Eric hissed at him through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you!” His hand flew to the sword still at his hip, his fingers curling around its hilt. But before he could draw it, a dull thunk echoed behind him, and a sharp pain soon followed through the back of his skull. Warmth trickled down his face. Blood. His vision blurred as his knees buckled beneath him. Eric crumpled to the ground, half-conscious. He struggled to focus, his eyes locking on a figure above him.
The man held a jagged stone in one hand, blood dripping from its edge. The ground was cold against Eric’s cheek as his vision flickered. His ears rang faintly, but he could still make out the surrounding voices. The old man shuffled beside him, groaning softly as he struggled to his feet. Then, his voice cut sharply through the haze.
“Are you stupid? Why did you mention their names?” the old man snapped.
The short man flushed. “I didn’t think he knew about them,” he said with a sheepish expression.
The old man shook his head. “He reads the file of every man he tortures—that’s how he immerses himself in his role.”
The third man, the newcomer who had struck Eric with the stone, interjected. “He immerses himself too far, it seems. He truly believes he is this Eric.” His gaze locked on the old man. “Superior, you understand I’ll have to report this to the Ministry. As a reporter, it is my duty.”
The superior nodded curtly, his demeanor resigned. “Of course.”
The reporter continued. “Does this happen often?”
The superior sighed, running a hand over his face. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “If he spends too much time getting into the mind of his prisoner, he loses himself in the process. It usually ends with him killing a commoner and dumping the body in the river.”
The reporter frowned. “Is that where the last prisoner Eric is now?” he asked.
the superior shrugged, “Probably,”
Eric—or whoever he was—lay sprawled on the ground, his strength fading halfway to unconsciousness. Yet what he heard kept him from slipping into darkness. “What?” he thought, his pulse quickening despite his weakness. “The old man knows what I did with the body? Could the body floating in the river now... be the real Eric? nonsense. I know who I am”
The reporter stepped out of the rain and under the shelter of a nearby balcony. Pulling out a small notebook, he began to write as he spoke to the superior. “There will be an investigation by the Ministry of this. I advise you to get your story straight.”
If the comment unsettled the superior, he didn’t show it. Instead, he pointed sharply at the man lying on the ground. “I’d like to remind you,” he said, “that Daric here is one of our best. He caught the last traitor, Eric, extracted the information we needed, then located and executed his family.” The superior took a moment to emphasize his point. “All to keep the ministry secrets safe.”
Eric—or Daric, as they called him—wanted to scream, to protest the words he’d just heard. “This can’t be true.” He could still see the faces of Olivia and Nancy, vivid and full of life. They were real. Weren’t they?
He tried to make sense of it, but the words of the old man echoed in his mind: He lost himself in the process. This happens repeatedly.
Eric’s thoughts spiraled. “I’m no executioner, no torturer. That goes against my values.” But even as he thought it, doubt crept in. My values? Are they even mine? A memory stirred—the man he killed before. He’d had a reason then, hadn’t he? But where was the remorse? He felt nothing, as though the act was routine. Have I done this before? “he usually kills a commoner” Those were the words of the old man.
Above him, the superior continued to praise “Daric” and recount his loyal service to the Ministry. But to Eric, those tales of good deeds sounded like horrific atrocities. And then it hit him—the man he’d killed had called him Daric. So had the woman at the window.
“Everyone is so certain of who I am—except me.” With that thought in mind. Doubts of who he was or whether he had killed the only family he remembered. Slowly, the sounds faded and darkness crept from the corners of his eye. As he lost his consciousness or perhaps his life.
