Chapter 18 – Fracture
1092 Words
The city felt smaller tonight.
Tighter.
Like the walls of every alley were inching closer, compressing Damian’s lungs with every step he took.
He drove through the storm without seeing the road—barely aware of the red and blue lights blurring past him, the horns, the rain slamming against the windshield like bullets. All he could feel was the mill. The mural. The recording.
You were not alone.
Those words weren’t a threat.
They were a confession.
Not his—
but theirs.
Someone had been there.
Watching.
Recording.
Remembering more about that night than Damian had allowed himself to remember.
He reached the outskirts of Blackwood—
a smaller, quieter district where the streetlights flickered like dying fireflies.
He parked in front of a small, peeling apartment building.
A place he had avoided for five years.
He stepped out, his boots sinking into the wet sidewalk, and climbed the rusted stairs to the second floor.
Apartment 2C.
He knocked once.
Silence.
Twice.
Movement.
The door opened a crack.
A thin young man stared back at him—hair messy, eyes wide, skin pale like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Damian recognized him instantly, even though the boy he remembered had grown into someone older, more haunted, more fragile.
Eli Mercer.
The witness.
The one who had survived that night.
Eli’s eyes widened in fear the moment he saw him.
“Damian… Blackwood?”
Damian swallowed, voice steady. “I need to talk.”
Eli looked behind Damian, scanning the hall like someone might be listening.
Then, reluctantly, he opened the door.
Damian stepped inside.
The apartment was small, dimly lit, cluttered with half-finished puzzles, stacks of newspapers, and walls plastered with drawings of the jagged triangle symbol—hundreds of them, scribbled in frantic strokes.
Eli’s fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” Damian said quietly. “But I didn’t come to hurt you.”
Eli flinched anyway.
Damian took a slow breath. “Eli… you were at the mill that night. You saw something—someone. I need you to tell me what you remember.”
Eli didn’t sit.
He just stood there, trembling, eyes darting around the room as if the shadows could bite.
“You… you don’t remember, do you?”
Damian stiffened. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Eli’s voice cracked. “But you were right there.”
Damian’s heart hammered. “Right where?”
Eli swallowed hard. “Next to me.”
The room tilted.
He forced himself to speak. “Eli… what did you see?”
Eli’s hands shook violently now. “I saw… him. The boy. I saw the blood. I saw the symbol carved into the wall. I saw someone run in after him, yelling—crying—begging him to breathe.”
His voice trembled as he continued, eyes unfocused, haunted by memories that time had refused to erase.
“And then I saw the other person.”
Damian leaned in. “Who?”
Eli’s lips parted.
“You.”
Damian’s blood ran cold.
Eli pressed himself back against the wall, breathing fast like he was reliving every second. “You were there before anyone else. Your hands were covered in blood. You were shouting for help. You kept saying you didn’t mean to scare him. You kept saying you didn’t see the other man.”
Damian’s vision blurred. “Eli—no. That’s not possible. I didn’t kill him.”
Eli shook his head quickly. “I didn’t say you did.”
Damian froze.
Eli stepped closer, lower lip trembling. “You didn’t kill him, Damian. But someone wanted it to look like you did. Someone was watching. Someone who ran before the police arrived. And they… they saw you touch the body. They saw you pick up the weapon. They saw you panic and move things.”
Damian’s voice scraped out of him. “I was trying to help him.”
“I know.” Eli’s eyes softened, just a little. “But they didn’t care. They took pictures. They recorded you. They used your panic. They used your guilt. They built their story around it.”
Damian’s heart twisted, sharp and sickening. “Who did?”
Eli looked down.
“I don’t know their face. They wore a hood. But I remember… their walk. Their height. Their voice.”
Damian stepped forward, gripping Eli’s shoulders. “Tell me everything.”
Eli nodded shakily.
“They whispered to the boy before he died. Something like… ‘This is the cost.’ I don’t know what that means. And they were humming… something soft. A song. Then when they saw me, they ran.”
Damian’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”
Eli whispered, “Because they threatened me.”
A chill slid down Damian’s spine.
“They sent me messages. Pictures of you. Pictures of Selene. Pictures of me walking home. They said if I ever told the truth, they would finish the job.”
Damian stepped back slowly, trying to breathe through the rage building like a storm in his chest.
Five years.
Five years of doubt.
Five years of suspicion.
Five years of being watched, manipulated, cornered.
And the whole time—
Eli had been living in fear too.
“They’re still watching you, Damian,” Eli whispered. “And they know you’re here tonight.”
Damian froze.
“How do you know that?”
Eli pointed toward the window.
Damian turned.
And his blood turned to ice.
Across the street, glowing faintly in the rain, taped to the powerline pole, was a small photograph.
Damian and Eli—
standing in the apartment window.
Taken seconds ago.
A message scribbled underneath:
“Good. You’re remembering.”
Damian lunged toward the window, but the street was empty—
no footsteps,
no shadows,
no figure running.
Eli collapsed into the closest chair, shaking uncontrollably. “They’re here. They’re here, Damian. They never left.”
Damian stared out the window, fury burning through him.
He wasn’t losing another person.
Not Eli.
Not Isadora.
This ended soon.
Very soon.
He turned back to Eli, voice low, steady, lethal.
“Eli… I’m going to end this. But I need you to tell me one more thing.”
Eli looked up, terrified but willing.
“Did the person that night say a name?”
Eli hesitated—then nodded.
Damian’s pulse spiked. “Whose name?”
Eli whispered:
“Yours.”
———-
- Writer
