The Tenth Explosion

Chapter 2: Unwanted news

James didn’t leave the office like a man who had just finished a long day. It was more like he slipped out of it. Quiet. Mechanical. The kind of exit where your body moves before your mind catches up. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about.

You know that feeling, right? When you’ve been staring at a screen too long, numbers or reports or whatever, and everything starts to blur into one long, meaningless stretch. That was him. He shut down his system, grabbed his keys, nodded at no one in particular, not even his fellow workers and stepped out. The city outside was doing what cities do—honking, shouting, living. It almost felt disrespectful.

By the time he got back to his lodge, the silence hit him first. Not peaceful silence. The kind that presses on your chest a little. His place wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t alive either. A chair slightly out of place. A cup he forgot to wash. The faint smell of cologne that had overstayed its welcome. "Ohh Gosh!!" He said.

He dropped his keys on the table and sat down, leaning back like he’d just finished something important. But he hadn’t. That’s the thing. There was always something unfinished now. His phone was already in his hand before he realized it. He smiled—just a little—as he scrolled to her name.

It wasn’t even about the call. It was about continuity. They’d been in the middle of something earlier. A conversation about how she's missing him being around. He tapped her name. Paused.

Have you ever hesitate for no reason? Like your body senses something your brain hasn’t caught yet? That was the moment. Then, without thinking, his other hand fumbled for the remote. He didn’t even look at the TV. Just pressed a button out of habit. Background noise. Something to fill the room while he waited for her to pick up.

The screen flickered to life. At first, it was just sound. Urgent voices. That specific tone news anchors use when they’re trying to stay calm but failing just enough for you to notice. He wasn’t paying attention. Not yet. “Hello?” he muttered into the phone, even though the call hadn’t connected.

Then something on the screen shifted. A picture. You know how your brain works with recognition? It doesn’t ask permission. It just hits you. He froze. The phone slipped slightly in his grip. On the screen, framed in that harsh, unforgiving news layout, was her face. Smiling. The same picture she’d sent him months ago, joking about how it was her “official serious face.”

Except now it wasn’t funny. It was under a headline. Bold. Cold. Another Explosion. Casualties Confirmed.

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really. Words kept coming out of the TV, but they didn’t land. They just… passed through him. Because his mind had already locked onto one thing. Her. “No…” he said it quietly, like saying it louder would make it more real.

He stepped closer to the TV, like distance was the problem. Like maybe if he got close enough, he’d see something different. Some correction. A mistake. But the image didn’t change. And then the details started slipping in. Location. Time. Casualty list. It was the same lab. Again. The City Sermon Lab.

You know, there are places in a city that feel wrong even when nothing is happening. Like you walk past and something in you says, “Nah… not here.” That lab had been that place for years. Locked up. Sealed. Supposedly inactive. And yet, every year—like clockwork—something went wrong. An explosion. People died. And then silence again.

He had lost people before. That’s what made this different. Last year, it was his mother. That one had broken something in him, sure. But there was still… structure. There were people around him. Support. His fiancée had been there, grounding him, keeping him from drifting too far into that dark space. Now? Now she was the one on the screen. It felt like someone had taken the one thing holding him together and just… removed it. Clean. Precise.

He didn’t remember sitting down, but suddenly he was on the floor. Back against the wall. Phone still in his hand, the call long disconnected. His mind kept looping the same question. Why? Not even in a dramatic way. Just… confused. Like he genuinely didn’t understand the pattern anymore. Why him? Why again?

There’s a point where grief stops being loud. It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t cry. It just sits there, heavy, pressing down on everything. That’s where he was. Then his phone rang. He stared at it for a second before answering.

“James.” His father’s voice. Old, steady, but not unaffected. You could hear it—the strain. The kind that comes from someone who has seen too much already and knows exactly what this kind of news does to a person.

“I saw it,” the old man said. James didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say. A long pause. Then, “Son… listen to me.” That tone. Not soft. Not comforting. Grounded. “I know what you’re feeling. I know that place your mind is trying to go. Don’t go there.”

James let out a hollow laugh. “Where exactly is that?”

“You know where,” his father replied. “The part where you stop caring about yourself. The part where everything becomes… disposable.”

That hit. Because it was accurate. Too accurate.

“You think I haven’t been there?” the old man continued. “After your mother… I stood exactly where you are now. Same anger. Same questions.”

James closed his eyes. “And what did you do?” he asked, voice low.

“I stayed alive,” his father said, simply. “That’s the first thing. You don’t get to give up. Not now.” There was something in that. Not comfort, exactly. But… direction.

“And the second thing?” James asked.

“The second thing,” the old man said, “is you don’t let this be meaningless.”

Silence again. But this one felt different. Because something had shifted. You could almost hear it—the moment where grief starts hardening into something else. Something sharper.

“I’m going to find out what happened,” James said. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was certain.

His father didn’t argue. “Then do it properly,” he said. “Not recklessly. You understand me?”

James didn’t answer that directly. Because part of him already knew… recklessness was going to be involved. After the call ended, he sat there for a while longer. Not frozen this time. Thinking. Then he stood up.

You ever see someone make a decision and you just know there’s no going back? That was him. He picked up his phone again and dialed his boss. It rang twice.

“James? Everything okay?” Straight to the point. Work tone. Professional.

“No,” James said. “It’s not.” A pause. Then the shift. “What happened?”

James glanced at the TV again. “My fiancée… she was at the site. The explosion.” Another pause. Longer this time. “I’m… sorry,” his boss said, and this time it sounded genuine. not corporate or maybe rehearsed.

“I won’t be coming in,” James continued. “At least two weeks. Maybe more.”

“Take whatever time you need,” the boss replied. “We’ll handle things here.”

That part was easy. Work didn’t matter anymore. Not in the way it used to. After the call, the room felt different. Not lighter. Just… clearer. Like everything unnecessary had been stripped away.

Then his phone rang again. This time, the name on the screen made him hesitate. Her brother. A military officer. Disciplined. Controlled. The kind of person who doesn’t call unless there’s a reason. James answered. “Hey.”

The voice on the other end was steady, but you could hear it—the effort behind it. “James.” Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, the brother chuckled. “You remember that time she tried to climb that mango tree and fell halfway up?”

James blinked. “What?”

“She swore she wasn’t crying,” the brother continued. “Even with blood on her knee.”

And just like that… something broke. Not in a bad way. In a human way. James laughed. Short, rough, but real. “She told me she conquered that tree,” he said.

“Of course she did,” the brother replied. “In her version, she always wins.”

They went back and forth like that for a while. Stories. Small things. The kind of memories that don’t feel important until they’re all you have left. And for a moment—just a moment—it felt normal.

Then James shifted. “Listen,” he said. “I need to ask you something.”

The brother went quiet. “What is it?”

“That lab,” James said. “City Sermon. What’s going on there?”

The change was immediate. Professional. Guarded. “You know I can’t talk about that.”

“I’m not asking for details,” James pressed. “Just… is there activity?”

A pause. Then, “That information is classified.”

James frowned. “Classified? It’s been blowing up every year.”

“And it’s still classified,” the brother replied, firmer now. “Even I don’t have full clearance. That’s handled at a higher level.”

That did something to James. Because now it wasn’t just tragedy. It was secrecy. And secrecy always means someone knows more than they’re saying. “So people just keep dying,” James said slowly, “and no one explains why?”

“It’s not that simple,” the brother replied.

“It never is,” James shot back. Silence. Then, softer, “James… don’t go digging into this. You won’t like what you find.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Because now it wasn’t a warning. It was a challenge. “Too late,” James said.

And you could hear it now. That edge. That shift from grief to something more dangerous. “I’m going to find out,” he continued. “With or without clearance.”

The brother exhaled. “I figured you’d say that.”

They didn’t argue after that. Because there was no point. Some decisions don’t need agreement. When the call ended, James stood there, staring at nothing. Then he looked back at the TV. At her face. And something settled in him. Not peace. Not even acceptance. Just… direction.

You know that feeling when everything narrows down to one path? No distractions. No alternatives. That’s where he was now. The City Sermon Lab wasn’t just a place anymore. It was the answer. And whatever was buried inside it—he was going to drag it into the light. No matter what it cost. "This time, I got nothing serious to loss because I have lost almost everything" he said deep down in his heart.