On an isolated beach of a distant island, the young man dragged himself through the damp sand, feeling the grit between his fingers as his clothes clung uncomfortably to his body. His face contorted with both extreme pain and an unyielding determination. The tranquil night offered no solace, only the gentle symphony of ocean waves in the background. The haunting image of his best friend taking a fatal bullet played relentlessly in his mind, tears streaming down his face.
"Ough ough!!!" He coughed, his throat raw from the saltwater. He surveyed his surroundings with bleary eyes. "I can't believe I swam that far." Sitting up, he cast his gaze into the distant, inky ocean. "That should be enough to throw them off, right? I should have lost them by now." Retrieving a soaked cigarette pack from his pocket, he muttered, "Damn those sons of bitches," tossing the pack into the sand. The distant hum of boat engines reached his ears.
"Damn, aren't they going to give up? It's not that deep. I just happened to overhear their conversation. Why would they go to such lengths?" He spat and staggered into the forest, the damp leaves and undergrowth yielding under his unsteady steps. Panic seized him as he fled through the trees, branches brushing against his face, the uneven ground threatening to trip him at every step.
Simultaneously, far away on the open sea, within a luxurious ship's dark compartment, a bloodied black man was bound to a chair. His once-white attire now bore the gruesome stains of his ordeal. Visible wounds crisscrossed his body, a testament to the violence he endured. Though he appeared lifeless, the rhythmic movement of his left chest betrayed his living state. Six armed men stood guard, their imposing presence casting shadows in the dimly lit room.
A tap-tap-tap echoed as a man with a walking stick entered. Resembling an Asian mafia figure, he confronted one of the guards. "Did he say anything?" he inquired in fluent English with a hint of a Chinese accent.
"No," the guard replied.
Turning to the black man, the boss examined him thoughtfully. "A resilient man," he thought, his eyes narrowing as he observed the bullet hole on the right side of the black man's chest. "Search for everything about him. We need to know his purpose," he instructed before leaving. "Yes, boss," echoed the men. The black man, drained of strength, murmured, "Samantha," as he succumbed to fatigue, the name a fragile whisper against the oppressive silence.
Back on the island, the young man continued his desperate flight through the forest, the underbrush now replaced by a tangle of roots and fallen trunks. Unaware of an obstacle in his path, he stumbled, the moist earth greeting his face with a muddy embrace. He lay unconscious, the dampness seeping through his clothes as the sounds of the forest enveloped him.
Upon waking, he found himself surrounded by armed men, their presence announced by the crisp rustling of leaves under their boots. Tears streamed down his face as he threw himself at the feet of the nearest man, the damp soil beneath him serving as an uncomfortable bed.
"Sir, I am so sorry. We didn't mean to intrude on your meeting. We were seeking sponsors. I'm just a university freshman with dreams of winning the Olympics. We heard Miss Daphne was at the party, so we came. We didn't know it would turn out like this. We didn't hear anything, please."
"Who are you? Where are you from? And who sent you?" the gang leader demanded, pressing a gun to the young man's forehead.
"My name is Alphonso. I'm Indian, 18, from New Delhi. Just a freshman in the university. I love clubbing, and my friends call me French Fries. We moved to America six years ago. I eat a lot; my mother is so fat that my father…"
"Shut up!" the irritated gang leader bellowed, firing a shot into the air. He grabbed Alphonso's collar, delivering a punch to the stomach.
The gunshot rang through the forest, echoing the severity of the situation. Alphonso screamed, clutching his left leg as blood spurted. The gangster, exhaling, pointed the gun at his head.
"Now, for the last time, answer my questions accordingly."
"Who are you?"
"Alphonso."
"Where are you from?"
"New Delhi."
"What's your relationship with the black man, and what did you see?"
"Which black man? I know no black man and saw nothing. I've never met a black man in my life. In fact, are there even black people? Wow, I'm just realizing," Alphonso quibbled, his tone now reflecting genuine fear and desperation, his words mingling with the rustling leaves and distant sounds of the encroaching night.