Chapter 34: Old Wounds
Caleb turned the phone over in his hand, still not believing it. The screen was cracked, but when he pressed the power button—it lit up. Just slide-lock screen. No password.
"...What the fuck? Not locked?" Caleb frowned. "Why the hell didn’t Mike have this on him earlier?"
Curiosity gnawed at him. With a crooked grin, he started opening apps one by one. His thumb stopped on DhatsUpp.
"Heh... old bastard," he muttered, grin spreading wider. "Let’s see what you’ve been hiding."
The chat list filled the screen. A lineup of girls’ names, most with cutesy avatars or cheap-looking selfies. Caleb blinked, a little surprised. There were a lot.
He tapped one. His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t flirting or small talk—just vulgar threats.
[Mike: If you don’t obey, everyone’s gonna see the pics I saved of you.]
[Mike: You think you can run? Tomorrow I’m picking you up. Don’t piss me off.]
Caleb froze. His breathing grew heavier, the phone burning hot in his grip. He swiped into another chat. Same thing. Threats, curses, even proof of small money transfers. Mike really was a filthy predator.
"Dirty bastard..." Caleb hissed, eyes narrowing.
Disgust thickened in his chest as he slid into the gallery. Dozens of photos and videos lined up. One picture popped open—a young woman’s face, look innocent, smeared with thick white fluid. Her eyes were red, crying.
Caleb stared for a long time. Then his heartbeat kicked harder as he opened a video. Rough footage—Mike forcing himself on a girl, her sobs clear, her body thrashing.
Caleb went still. His stomach lurched with nausea. But at the same time, his body reacted. His breathing quickened, revulsion and arousal clashing like fire and gasoline.
"Shit..." he muttered, covering his face with a hand. His shoulders shook—half short laughter, half fury.
He quickly exited the gallery and shut the phone off. His hands trembled as he shoved Mike’s phone back deep into the gap of the sofa.
Silence swallowed the room again. Caleb stared blankly ahead, a thin smile creeping over his lips.
"My decision... to end Mike’s life..." his voice was low, cold.
"...was the right one."
Caleb closed his eyes again, letting Mike’s phone stay buried in the busted couch. He didn’t want to touch it anymore that night. Too disgusting, yet too valuable to throw away.
"Fine... let it stay there," he muttered, drawing in a long breath. His body finally gave in, sinking into shallow sleep—dark and full of shadows.
Morning broke with pale light seeping through the cracked window. Caleb opened his eyes slowly, his head heavy. His throat was dry, like it was lined with sandpaper. He grunted low, body still aching.
His eyes drifted to the table. Last night’s beer bottle still sat there. No longer cold—flat, almost sour. But he drank half of it anyway. The bitter liquid scraped down his throat, cutting the thirst for a moment.
He sat still for a long while, letting the seconds crawl by. No rush. No panic. His face stayed blank, only sometimes brushing a hand through his messy hair.
The clock hands crept forward. 7:30... 8:00... closing in on 8:30.
Caleb stood, pulling on the ragged hoodie hanging from the chair. He tugged his cap lower, slipped on his mask, and glanced out the window. Torkside’s morning air bit cold, the streets still quiet.
One deep breath. His stomach was empty, but his mind was locked on one thing.
Torkside Library.
It was close—just a few blocks from where he lived now. No need for a ride. Just a walk, and he’d be there.
Caleb glanced at his phone, still stuck in airplane mode. Screen black, no sound, no notifications. Only the digital clock in the corner marked the time.
8:30.
He yanked the hood low over his face, then stepped outside. Every step carried him closer to the place he thought he’d buried in the past—and to the meeting that could change everything.
Caleb’s steps carried him down Torkside’s narrow sidewalks, cutting through the chill of the morning air. When he reached Torkside Square—the place that had been full of screams and corpses just last night—his eyes immediately caught it: bright yellow police tape stretched across the scene, cordoning off the area still swarming with cops and a few nosy onlookers.
He stopped for a moment. Behind his black mask, a thin smile crept across his face. A bitter smile.
"So this... is what’s got the world buzzing?" he muttered under his breath.
People whispered, some snapping photos with their phones, while officers pushed them back from the tape. None of them had any idea the real culprit was standing just a few feet away, watching with a cold stare. Caleb moved again, calm, slipping past the crowd without a single person recognizing him.
It didn’t take long before the old Torkside Library rose in front of him. Its walls still dull, the paint peeling, but the wooden sign above the door still clearly bore its name. Caleb stared at it for a while, his chest tightening slightly.
This place...
He pushed the door open, the rusty hinges groaning. The air inside was the same—dusty, thick with the scent of old paper. His steps carried him straight toward the back shelves. The history section.
His eyes swept across the rows of thick books lined neatly. For a moment, he could almost see the ghosts of the past—two kids sitting side by side, Fiona with her braided hair, smiling as she read, while young Caleb only pretended to focus, just wanting to sit closer.
Caleb’s fingers traced along the spine of a book, sliding over the dusty surface. A faint smile tugged at his lips behind the mask—but it wasn’t warm. It was cold, twisted by contrast.
"Back then we laughed here together... and now?" his voice rasped, barely more than a whisper.
He pulled out a rickety wooden chair tucked in the corner of the aisle, setting it down to face the narrow passage between shelves. The time was creeping up on nine.
He sat down. And waited.
Caleb sat still on the rickety wooden chair, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed blankly on the aisle between shelves. Time dragged slow, every tick echoing in his ears like the countdown of a bomb.
In his head, he already knew the pattern. If Fiona really came, she’d head straight here. The history section. Our old spot.
And sure enough—light footsteps echoed into the aisle. Closer and closer. Caleb straightened his back, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his hood.
Then finally... the figure appeared at the far end of the shelves.
Long black hair slightly undone, a young face wearing an expression tight with nerves yet soft at the edges. Her eyes scanned around for a moment—then locked straight on him.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, Fiona froze. Her breath hitched. But then, without hesitation, she moved. Not slow, not cautious—her steps quickened, almost rushing, as if she needed to close the distance right away.
Caleb didn’t move. He just sat there, watching coldly from his chair. But behind the mask, a thin smile tugged at his lips.
Just like I thought... you came straight here.
Now Fiona stood only a few steps away, her gaze carrying panic, relief, and something harder to read all tangled together.