"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how."
Suffocating, the room was to him. Its silence heavy with unspoken tension. A single flickering bulb cast jagged shadows on the peeling wallpaper, while rain lashed against a barred window, each drop like a frantic heartbeat.
On a cluttered desk, scattered papers bore cryptic diagrams and jagged handwriting. A blinking tape recorder sat beside them, waiting.
A figure of a man hunched over the desk, eyes hollow and fixed on the cracked mirror. The rain roared outside, but inside, the only sound was a low, rhythmic thud.
A Knock on the door was heard.
A woman entered the room, her eyes scanning the dimly lit office as she asked, "Good afternoon, Is this Mr. Vincent's office?"
The man, hunched over his cluttered desk, didn't look up immediately. Instead, he replied in a gruff tone, "Depends on who's asking, miss."
The woman hesitated for a moment, overwhelmed. She nervously closed her umbrella, fidgeting with it as she tried to compose herself. Finally, she mustered the courage to explain. "I'm here to see Vincent Walker, the private investigator. I have a job for him," she said, her voice trembling as she struggled to catch her breath.
The man straightened his posture, brushing some papers aside as he stood. He moved toward her with deliberate steadiness, offering her a handkerchief from his pocket.
"I'm Vincent Walker," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Private investigator, at your service. And you are, miss?"
"Emily," she replied, gripping the handkerchief tightly. "Emily Denvers. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Walker. I need your help!" Her voice cracked as she continued, her words pouring out in a rush. "I think my husband is cheating on me. Please... please help me find some peace of mind. I can't rest, thinking about him being with another woman."
She looked at him with pleading eyes, her desperation unmistakable.
"Peace of mind, huh," Vincent thought to himself, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. When was the last time he'd felt that? Perhaps it was before that night, before the night that cursed him.
His mind drifted involuntarily to a memory he wished he could erase.
A bitter memory flashes; Vincent stood frozen, surrounded by the metallic stench of blood, his shoes sinking slightly into the dark, viscous pool beneath him. His wide, unblinking eyes stared at the scene before him. Inside, his voice screamed one word, loud and desperate: "RUN!"
"Alright, missy," Vincent said, shaking off the memory. "I'll take your case. Now, tell me more about your husband. Who is he, and why do you think he's cheating on you?"
Emily clutched her umbrella tightly, her knuckles white as she tried to hold back her tears. "My husband Kyle," she began, her voice quivering. "He's not the man I married anymore. He's never home, and when he is home, he doesn't even look at me. I've tried everything—cooking his favorite meals, planning time together—but nothing works. He barely talks to me, and when he does, it's just a word or two. He's hiding something, I can feel it. I know he's having an affair... please, Mr. Walker, believe me!"
Vincent leaned back against his desk, folding his arms across his chest as he regarded her with a faint sigh. "Belief," he said, his voice low, "means not wanting to know what is true, missy."
He gestured to the chair opposite him. "Have a seat. I'll investigate your case, but understand this: my job isn't to call you a liar or judge your husband. My job is to find the truth and present it to you, whatever it may be. It'll be up to you to deal with that truth. If you agree to those terms, sign this agreement." He slid a document across the desk. "It outlines my fees and any additional expenses that may come up during the investigation."
Emily didn't even glance at the paper before replying. "Money is not an issue. I'll sign whatever you need, just find out what my husband is doing—and who he's doing it with. I'll... I'll kill that bitch myself!" Her hands trembled as she pulled a card from her purse and handed it to him. "This has my personal contact details. Call me as soon as you find anything. You seem like a good person, Mr. Walker. I know I can trust you with this."
Vincent accepted the card, tucking it into his back pocket as his sharp eyes finally took a good look at the woman before him. Emily was in her mid-twenties, strikingly beautiful and well-dressed, with no visible signs of abuse. Her composure wavered between desperation and determination.
Is she paranoid? Vincent wondered briefly. It didn't matter. Whether her suspicions were real or imagined, he was getting paid either way. Now, all that remained was to uncover what Kyle Denvers had been up to—and who he had been doing it with.
Emily leaves his office as Vincent thinks to himself that he should be able to solve this case easily. From the window, he watches Emily leaving in a pitch black car, model? He does not remember, but it did look like something he could never afford. "Peace of mind, huh. Money really doesn't guarantee anything does it?"
Wasting little to no time, Vincent grabs his trench coat and leaves the office to find Emily's husband, Kyle.
Kyle was a banker at City Bank, 28 years old, successful, and somewhat popular among his peers. He didn't smoke and only drank occasionally. A true people person. From his social media presence, it was clear he had a keen interest in world politics, though he never engaged in arguments with random strangers online.
"Maybe I should ask him on a date," Vincent mused to himself, creating a file on Kyle after scouring the internet during his subway ride to City Bank.
Kyle was wealthy, successful—seemingly perfect. But his wife suspected him of cheating. "What secrets are you hiding, pal? Who are you, Kyle Denvers?" Vincent pondered, intrigued by the contradictions surrounding the man.
Vincent arrived at the bank, his appearance intentionally disheveled. He wore oversized sunglasses, a hat hastily bought from the street, and a trench coat with mismatched stitching along the seams. As he looked at his reflection, he realized his disguise was more conspicuous than he intended. So, he discarded the glasses and coat, hiding them behind a dumpster, planning to retrieve them after completing his job. He felt confident that he'd solve the case before long.
Vincent was good at what he did, but he wasn't a licensed private investigator. In truth, he had never intended to become one. His dream had been to be a police officer.
But life had taken a different turn. When Vincent was just 10 years old, his parents were murdered right in front of him. He never discovered who killed them. Whenever anyone asked about the tragedy, he would only respond with, "Man is the cruelest animal, kid. RUN!" in a panicked tone. The memory of that night haunted him relentlessly. He tried, and failed, to get into the police academy, each rejection pushing him further from his dream. He had hoped to find his parents' killers, but over time, that hope had faded. Now, at 34, he had given up on justice. The thought of revenge was no longer his motivation. Instead, Vincent wanted only peace—something he had not known in years. Yet, the haunting images from that night still flashed before his eyes, keeping him awake, tormenting him.
He had no hopes for a better life. He simply wanted to complete his work, exercise, and then crash on his couch, his usual routine.
"Excuse me? Can I help you?" a security guard's voice broke his thoughts.
Vincent snapped back to the present. "Oh, I was wondering where the help desk is. I'm an account holder here," he lied smoothly, flashing a polite smile.
Inside the bank, Vincent's eyes immediately landed on Kyle. The banker had just arrived and was already chatting with a young woman. "Maybe that's the woman he's sleeping with," Vincent thought, studying the two of them. The chemistry between Kyle and the woman was unmistakable—flirtation hanging in the air like a thick fog, and the woman didn't seem to mind it.
Vincent observed their body language, making mental notes. After an hour of mundane office activity, punctuated by more exchanges between Kyle and the woman, Vincent pieced together some details. The woman appeared to be a client of the bank, though it was difficult to tell just how involved she was with Kyle.
Vincent followed them discreetly as they headed toward the parking lot. Kyle and the woman got into a car and drove away. Vincent tried to keep pace on foot, noting the car's license plate. But his lack of a car meant he had to act quickly.
On impulse, he grabbed a bicycle left unattended on the street, stealing it in haste. He had no idea where Kyle had gone, but he had a number—Emily's number, Kyle's wife. He tried calling, twice. No answer.
Frustrated and still without any leads, Vincent made the decision to visit Emily's house. Perhaps Kyle had gone home, and if not, at least he could update Emily on his progress.
He arrived at the address she had given him. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He knocked, again, but still no response. Impatient, Vincent gently twisted the door handle. It opened with a soft creak.
"Good evening. Is this Mrs. Denvers' estate?" he called out, stepping inside.
The house felt eerily quiet. He moved deeper into the room, unease creeping over him. The tension in the air was palpable, a sense of familiarity tugging at the back of his mind as he explored.
He approached a door he presumed led to the bedroom. It was unlocked, and he pushed it open. But the first step he took inside was met with something far worse than he had imagined.
A pool of blood spread across the floor, the metallic scent choking the air. His heart dropped.
Lying a few feet away, lifeless and cold, was Emily Denvers. Her body was sprawled unnaturally, the gruesome sight searing into his mind. Vincent's breath caught in his throat. He froze, staring at her, his mind racing back to his own childhood trauma.
The memories of his parents' murder rushed back with crushing force. A single voice echoed in his mind, louder than the chaos around him.
"RUN!"