"Kelvin… give yourself up. We know you're in there."
Sirens bled into the night, their wail circling the small hut stranded in the middle of nowhere—like a lone lighthouse in a dead ocean.
Three police cars idled a few steps away, red and blue lights slicing through the dark. Officers moved around it in restless loops, like birds picking at something they couldn't quite reach.
"Surrender, Kelvin!"
For a few seconds—nothing.
No movement. No sound.
Just the wind brushing against the cracked wood.
Then—
A voice ripped through the silence from inside.
"I have children."
A pause.
"They're tied up. If anyone takes one more step closer…"
A breath. Cold. Steady.
"I won't hesitate."
"You asshole!"
And then it came—
Crying.
Raw. Shaking. Real.
"Cop uncle—!"
"Please—save us!"
"H-he's a demon!"
The house didn't feel empty anymore.
It felt… occupied.
"Put your gun down, Kelvin!"
"Son of a bitch…" one officer muttered under his breath. "Agent Gomez, we should negotiate."
Gomez didn't take his eyes off the door.
"I'll talk to him," he said quietly.
Then, sharper—without looking back:
"Find a way in.
We're ending this."
One month ago — Jacksonville, Florida
The Brown brothers had an unusual crowd outside their bookstore today.
The store was a supermarket for books—
a heaven for bookworms.
It had all kinds of fiction, neatly kept in different corners.
The reason for the rush was a very new release: The Man in Mud.
The crowd, dressed in colorful clothes, looked like spilled paint across the ground—different shades blending into one restless motion.
Kelvin Fring stood within the crowd.
Clean face. Long hair.
A faint smile.
Because he was the anonymous author of the new release.
He moved along with the crowd, listening—trying to gather fragments of what people thought.
"Excuse me."
"Yes?"
"That book in your hand… is it a good read?"
"Yeah, the previous volumes were awesome. Don't know about this one."
"You haven't read it?"
"C'mon, man. It just released—and look at it. It's thick, at least 400 pages. What do I look like, a robot?"
"Okay… my bad."
Kelvin entered the shop.
The crowd had thinned.
"Mr. Fring."
The shop owner called him—a well-dressed young man, blond and composed.
"Hey, Helmut."
"Good to see you."
"Where is Elliott?"
"He had a headache today, so I'm here alone.
Well… you are a big man now."
"Yeah, but nobody knows me. So the only big ass I can see is you."
"C'mon, man, didn't you see the crowd? They were all here for The Man in Mud by Kelvin Fring."
"Yeah, yeah."
"So, working on the next volume?"
"I'm quite busy as a freelance journalist. Taking a break for a few days."
"What about the sales? How many copies?"
"You'd be surprised… seventy."
"Seventy…"
"That ain't a big number."
Kelvin stepped out of the bookstore, a faint irritation settling under his skin.
He saw a boy coming out of the store.
"Hey, what did you buy?"
"It's Red Monkey. The cover looked interesting."
"Can I have a look?"
"Yeah, but make it quick. My mom must be waiting."
Kelvin took the book.
Looked at it.
Then—
He tore a page out.
A clean rip.
Another.
"Hey—what the fu—what did you do?!"
"Are you a psycho? Goddammit!"
The boy snatched the book back, anger trembling in his hands.
Kelvin just smiled.
"You gotta pay for this."
"What?"
"Pay now."
"And if I don't?" Kelvin's voice stayed calm.
"What if I take it back… and tear it completely?"
The boy froze.
Fear spread slowly across his face.
He shouted. A crowd gathered like ants over something sweet.
"Hey, boy, what happened?"
"That man—he tore my book!"
"Which man?"
The boy looked around.
"He—he is gone!"
"That's a bad habit," someone said. "You shouldn't go around screaming for no reason."
"But he was here!"
Kelvin returned to his apartment—Room 332.
His room was well arranged.
Different flowers sat quietly in the corners.
A work area with an old computer.
32 emails.
I have to say this… I am totally broken.
The way you make me fall in love with a character and break me down right after…
"Fan emails, huh?"
Kelvin received these every day.
Most of them disturbed. Emotional. Unsettled.
He smiled reading them.
"These overflowing emotions…
I love it."
"Things are good here… but the publications refuse to buy most of my stories."
"Fiction is just fiction."
"It has no thrill."
He exhaled slowly.
"I think I should quit as a journalist."
Kelvin leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling—
Until a knock tore through the silence.
Knock.
Knock again.
He got up.
"Coming."
He opened the door.
"Hello, Mr. Fring."
A young woman, around his age—Lily Carter—stood there, holding a book.
"Lily?"
"You gonna let me in?"
Kelvin stepped aside.
"Yeah. Sure."
She started speaking the moment she entered.
"It was truly amazing.
Volume three of Man in Mud."
"Oh… thanks."
Lily flipped through the pages, searching—then stopped.
"Yeah… here."
"What is there?"
"Shartus already knew the truth.
He just didn't have the will to admit that his own brother was behind it.
The shadow he had been chasing all along was right beside him—
laughing every time he suspected someone else.
The man in mud dragged everyone down…
and stood in the middle like an Indian lotus.
He chose not to expose him.
He chose to end it himself."
"I didn't get that," she said.
"Why kill his brother instead of exposing him?
Isn't killing the harder choice?"
"You don't get it, Lily."
Kelvin's voice stayed calm.
"His brother is a murderer.
He would rot in jail forever."
A pause.
"Shartus didn't want that."
Another pause.
"That's what you call emotion."
Lily stared at him for a few seconds.
"You want something to drink? Coffee?"
"No…
Yeah.
A glass of water."
"What's the big idea?"
"Huh?"
"Don't tell me you came here just for that."
"No… I just stopped by.
For a conversation.
Like saying hello."
"You haven't said 'hello' once since you came."
"Well… I said—"
"No, you didn't."
"I said it.
Right now."
"…Fine.
You win."
Kelvin handed her a glass of water.
After a few moments, Lily left.
An email popped up on Kelvin's laptop.
"Liam?"
"I've done all the research for him.
Call me."
Two streets ahead of Kelvin's apartment stood the central headquarters of Summertime Daily.
Kelvin often wrote stories to sell there. Most of the time, his fictional work was rejected.
Still—
He went there every day.
Hoping that someday, they would be interested.
The next morning, Kelvin dressed neatly.
Then headed straight to Summertime Daily.
He walked in without hesitation.
Straight to the founder—
Ted Smith.
"Here is a story.
And you're going to adapt it this time."
Ted looked up.
"That's some confidence.
What kind of ghost is appearing this time?"
"It's not about a ghost, mister."
A pause.
"It's about a nihilistic killer who appears at night… dancing."
Another pause.
"It is said that when he dances, he chants—
and everyone is hypnotized."
Ted leaned back slightly.
"Mr. Kelvin… you're back with these illogical stories."
"Don't you dare call them illogical."
Kelvin's voice stayed low.
"It is real."
"Even if it is, I have no interest in your bullshit stories."
A beat.
"So get out."
"Oh…"
Kelvin smiled faintly.
"So you're ordering me to leave."
He stepped forward slightly.
"Fine. I'll go."
A pause.
"But before that—"
His eyes settled on Ted.
"I should tell you something."
Silence.
"Your son… is a criminal."
Ted's expression hardened.
"Get out.
Or I call security."
Kelvin didn't move.
"The stories in your newspaper—
the ones you believe are real—"
A breath.
"They're manually set up."
Ted frowned.
"Some parts of them… are physically performed."
"What are you talking about?"
Kelvin turned.
"I must go, gentleman."
Kelvin stepped out and kept walking.
No direction.
No thought.
Just movement.
He bought a drink can from a roadside stall and kicked it forward as he walked.
It rolled, clattered, slowed—
he kicked it again.
Metal against asphalt.
Again.
Again.
The city thinned without him noticing.
The noise faded.
The road stretched emptier than it should have been.
Only when the sound of the can echoed too long did he pause.
He looked around.
This wasn't a place he recognized.
A faint wind passed.
Then—
The sound of an engine behind him.
A car slowed.
Stopped beside him.
The window slid down.
"Mr. Fring."
Kelvin turned.
"Hank Smith?" he said, almost under his breath.
Hank smiled slightly.
"Hey. I found you."
"How long have you been following me?"
"I haven't been following you," Hank said calmly.
"It's just that our paths crossed."
Kelvin watched him.
"Are you here to kill me?"
Hank let out a quiet breath, almost amused.
"Kill? What are you talking about?"
A pause.
"I'm here for that."
He pointed at the document in Kelvin's hand.
Silence.
"Wanna take a ride?" Hank asked.
Kelvin opened the door and sat inside.
The car moved.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The road stretched ahead, empty and steady.
Hank kept his eyes on it.
"That story," he said after a moment.
"The dancing one."
Kelvin didn't respond.
"It's good."
A pause.
"Very good."
Kelvin glanced at him.
Hank continued, voice even.
"My father was going on about how bad it was."
"He mentioned it… complained about it."
A faint smile.
"So I asked him to explain."
Kelvin stayed quiet.
"And when he did…" Hank exhaled softly.
"That was something else."
He tapped the steering wheel lightly.
"Interesting concept."
Another pause.
"Unpredictable."
Kelvin looked ahead again.
Hank didn't look at him.
"Maybe I could help that story."
The car slowed.
Then stopped.
A bar stood ahead—dim lights, quiet entrance.
Hank parked beside it and turned the engine off.
Silence settled inside the car.
He glanced at Kelvin.
"Well?"
The bar was dim—low lights hanging like tired thoughts, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and something stale.
Glasses clinked in the background. A slow hum of conversations drifted and broke.
Kelvin sat across from Hank.
A glass in his hand.
Untouched.
"I am not interested in you."
Hank took a small sip, unfazed.
"I know, Mr. Fring."
A faint pause.
"You think I'm some kind of criminal."
Kelvin didn't respond.
Hank continued, calm as ever—
"But you know… yeah, our newspaper uses some fake stories. Without my father's permission."
A slight shrug.
"But I'm not a criminal."
"I didn't ask for your justification."
Kelvin's voice stayed flat.
"I know exactly who you are."
Hank's smile didn't change.
"Well… that makes things easier."
He leaned back slightly.
"Give that document to me, and your story will be printed."
"You'll receive your share."
A pause.
"You give me the story—
I'll do the rest."
Kelvin looked at the glass in his hand.
Then at Hank.
"This…" he said, almost dismissively,
"take it."
He placed the document on the table.
"I'm not interested in this one any longer."
Hank's fingers rested lightly near it.
He didn't pick it up immediately.
"Well…"
A small pause.
"If this story works…"
Another.
"Maybe—
just maybe—
we could partner up."
"I don't ever want to work with you."
Kelvin stood.
The chair scraped softly against the floor.
He left the document behind—
and walked out.
The night air felt colder outside.
Quieter.
His phone buzzed.
He picked up.
"Liam?"
A step forward.
"Yeah… all according to script."
A faint pause.
"I think he's interested in me."
Another step.
"Or maybe he's just acting."
Silence.
"Whatever the case…"
His voice lowered slightly.
"I'll find a way in."
The sound of tires slowed beside him again.
A car pulled up.
The window rolled down.
"Hey, Mr. Fring…
Come. I'll drop you home."
Kelvin didn't say anything.
Just looked at him for a moment—
then opened the door and got in.
The ride was quiet.
Streetlights passed over them in intervals—
light, shadow, light, shadow—
Hank didn't speak.
Neither did Kelvin.
The city slowly returned.
Familiar roads.
Familiar silence.
The car came to a stop outside Kelvin's building.
"Here," Hank said.
Kelvin stepped out.
Closed the door.
The car left without another word.
Morning came without much difference.
Kelvin woke up.
Same ceiling.
Same stillness.
He got up, moved through his routine without thinking—
washed, dressed, sat by his desk.
The room felt exactly the same.
Unchanged.
A knock broke it.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Another.
He stood.
Walked to the door.
Opened it.
Two officers stood outside.
"Mr. Kelvin," one of them said, voice firm.
"You are a suspect in a crime scene."
Kelvin blinked once.
"What?"
A pause.
"Murder of Ted Smith."
"It's JPD.
You're coming with us."
"Wait…? I didn't do anything."
Kelvin frowned slightly.
"You're getting this completely wrong.
I'm just a common man—and besides that, I have no business with Ted Smith."
"Mr. Fring," the officer said, steady,
"you are coming with us."
A pause.
"You might be innocent.
But resistance won't prove it."
Kelvin exhaled lightly.
His phone buzzed behind him.
"Can I pick up?"
The officer glanced at the other, then back at him.
"…Make it quick."
Kelvin turned, picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
A voice came through.
"Hello, Kelvin.
How's things working?"
Kelvin's expression didn't change.
"No. No—there's a problem."
A pause.
"There's a problem with you."
His tone stayed flat.
"Dialing this number again and again—I told you, it's the wrong number.
I'm not your aunt."
A beat.
"Put it down."
The call ended.
"Bitch," Kelvin muttered under his breath.
He slipped the phone back.
"I think we're good to go."
The officer gave a short nod.
"Yeah. As long as you don't treat me like a criminal."
"No," the officer replied, calm.
"Not until you're proven guilty."
A slight pause.
"And we genuinely hope… that doesn't happen."
"Yeah, yeah."
Kelvin stepped forward.
"Whatever. Let's go."
The officers took Kelvin straight to the scene.
The area was sealed.
Yellow tape stretched across the space.
Low voices. Controlled movement.
They led him in.
The body lay still.
Covered—but not enough.
"The victim was stabbed once in the stomach," one officer said.
"Then at the throat."
Kelvin looked at it for a moment.
Then—
"Hmm?"
A slight tilt of his head.
"So… where do I come in?"
"Mr. Fring," the officer said, steady,
"the object used was a piece of glass."
A pause.
"It carries the same fingerprints as this document."
He held it up.
"An article written by you."
Kelvin's eyes stayed on it.
A second passed.
Then—
"Officer… that glass you're talking about—"
he stepped a little closer,
"where did it come from?"
"It appears to be from a bar. It's currently in our custody."
Kelvin exhaled through his nose.
"Right."
A pause.
"This is a setup."
His gaze shifted to the badge.
"Emma Bateman."
The officer didn't respond.
"You're getting this wrong."
Kelvin looked back at him.
"It was Hank Smith."
A brief silence.
"Mr. Ted's son?"
"Exactly."
Kelvin's voice stayed controlled.
"He took me to a bar that day.
He took those documents from me."
A slight pause.
"He could've taken the glass from there."
"What bar?" the officer asked.
"You mean XOXO House? That place is owned by Hank."
Kelvin frowned slightly.
"I don't remember everything. I was a bit high when I left."
A breath.
"But there were cameras."
He looked at them.
"You can check it.
I was with him.
And I gave him my documents."
The officer glanced once at the body.
Then back at Kelvin.
"Convenient," he said.
A pause.
"We'll verify that."
Another officer shifted beside him.
"If you're lying—don't make it worse for yourself."
Kelvin didn't react.
"I'm not."
A beat.
"Mr. Kate," the officer said,
"let's move."
Kelvin turned.
"I'll take you there."
And they walked out—
toward the bar.
"Hey, officer… I've got this urge to smoke.
Mind if I grab a cigarette from a nearby store?"
The officer looked at him for a second.
Then reached into his pocket.
"Here."
He held one out.
Kelvin took it.
"Oh… thanks."
A brief pause.
"You got a lighter or something?"
The officer pulled one out and flicked it open.
Kelvin leaned in.
The flame rose, small and steady.
He lit the cigarette.
The tip glowed.
A slow drag.
Smoke curled into the air.
Kelvin exhaled quietly.
Here's your peak scene—tightened, slowed where needed, with stronger impact and clarity. Same events, no unnecessary additions, just made to hit harder.
Kelvin walked with the officers toward the bar.
The street was quieter here.
Dim lights. Closed shutters.
He looked at the building.
"You were right," he said.
"It's the XOXO bar."
A faint breath.
"Damn… that man's a genius."
"Mr. Fring, stay behind."
The officers moved ahead.
One of them forced the door.
A sharp crack.
They went in.
Kelvin stayed outside.
Still.
Watching.
Then he turned.
Walked toward the police car parked a few steps away.
Opened the door.
Reached inside.
Closed it.
Came back.
"Officer," he said, holding two cans.
"I brought some cola. Wanna drink?"
They stepped out of the bar.
One of them shook his head slightly.
"Mr. Fring… we checked the entire place."
A pause.
"There are no cameras here."
Kelvin nodded slowly.
"Oh… is that so?"
"You're a writer, aren't you?" the officer said.
"It's possible you just made it all up."
Kelvin stood there, one can in each hand.
Both already open.
"No, no," he said quietly.
"I'm innocent."
"Kelvin Fring," the officer continued, voice firm,
"Hank said you were rejected by his father."
A step closer.
"Your story, to be precise."
A pause.
"And it's not impossible for a man to kill in anger."
Kelvin's eyes stayed on him.
"There are no cameras," he said.
"Doesn't that mean Hank brought me here on purpose?"
"So there would be no proof?"
"We can't rely on what you say," the officer replied.
"Right now, all the evidence points to you."
A beat.
"The camera in Ted's office was jammed before the incident."
Another.
"The glass. The files. Your fingerprints."
He looked directly at Kelvin.
"So here's what it looks like."
"You were high.
You kept thinking about the rejection."
A pause.
"It built up."
"You came here."
Another step.
"You jammed the cameras."
"And with that glass in your hand—
you killed him."
Silence.
For a moment—
everything aligned.
The story.
The evidence.
The sequence.
Perfect.
Just not his.
Kelvin lowered his gaze slightly.
Then looked back up.
"You know what, officers…"
A faint smile settled on his face.
"I love twists."
He moved without warning.
Both cans flew from his hands and burst against them. The liquid splashed across their uniforms, their faces, their sleeves. For a brief moment, neither of them reacted.
Then the smell reached them.
One of them stiffened. "What the hell is—"
Gasoline.
Kelvin had already stepped back.
The cigarette between his fingers had burned low. He flicked it down, not at them, but near their feet.
The flame caught the ground first.
It spread fast.
Too fast.
One officer instinctively stepped back, but his shoe dragged through the fuel. The fire climbed up in a sudden streak, catching the fabric of his pants. He tried to reach his holster, but his grip slipped.
"Shit—!"
The second officer lunged forward to help, grabbing his arm. That was enough. The fuel transferred, and the fire followed it.
They both stumbled, trying to put it out, hands slapping against their own bodies. Training didn't matter in that moment. Pain took over faster than thought.
One of them tried again to reach for his gun. His fingers didn't close properly. He dropped to one knee, then lost balance completely.
The other backed away, then collapsed a second later.
Their voices broke into screams, then into something weaker.
Then into nothing.
Kelvin watched.
He stepped forward once the movement stopped.
Careful. Close enough.
He bent down, took their guns, and stood up again.
The fire crackled behind him.
He turned away.
A taxi passed slowly at the end of the street.
Kelvin raised his hand.
It stopped.
He got in.
The door shut.
The car pulled away.
He took out his phone.
Typed.
Liam, everything is going as it should.
He stared at the screen for a moment.
Then sent it.
How is it?