Richard left the alley in a daze, his hands stained with the blood of a man whose name he never knew. The act had been quick, brutal, and it was over before he had time to think.
But now, as he walked the streets, something inside him felt broken. His mind was blank, and his eyes, once full of the quiet guilt that haunted him every night, were now vacant—literally white, devoid of life.
He didn't blink, didn't shift his gaze. Just walked.
The world around him blurred into gray shapes. Cars honked, people passed, but he didn't hear or see them. Step after step, his legs carried him in the direction of home as if on autopilot, but his mind stayed somewhere far behind.
Not a single thought crossed his head, and no feeling, no guilt, no fear. Just silence.
When he finally arrived at the front door, his hand moved on its own, pushing it open. Inside, the sounds of his children playing echoed faintly.
