The Past That Won't Stay Buried
Darkness stretches in every direction. Damien blinks, trying to adjust, but there is no light—just an overwhelming stillness, the kind that wraps around you like a noose. The air feels thick, damp, like a basement with no escape. He can hear his own breathing, slow and uneven.
Then, a flicker.
A dim, sickly yellow glow appears ahead, revealing a room he hasn't seen in years. The moment he recognizes it, a sharp chill crawls up his spine. The house.
His childhood home.
The walls are still cracked, stained from years of neglect. The sagging couch is covered in old cigarette burns, the coffee table littered with empty bottles. A television hums with static, casting an eerie glow over the dim space. The remote lies abandoned on the floor, half-crushed, like someone had thrown it in a drunken rage.
And there he is.
His father.
Slumped in his usual chair, head tilted back, mouth open in a snore so deep it rattles through the air. The stench of whiskey and sweat hangs heavy, a scent Damien will never forget no matter how many years pass.
He swallows, throat tight. He doesn't want to be here. Not again.
A distant drip, drip, drip echoes from somewhere—water? Blood? The longer he stands there, the more wrong everything feels.
Something shifts.
The snoring stops.
Damien's breath catches. His father's chest is too still, the rise and fall of breath absent. Slowly, his body starts to move—but not in a natural way. His limbs jerk, his head twists, but his face is still hidden in shadow.
Then, with a sickening crack, his father turns toward him.
Damien's stomach tightens.
The man's face is hollow, his skin sunken and gray, as if he's been rotting in that chair for years. His lips move soundlessly, forming words Damien can't hear. His father tries to speak again—this time, his jaw hangs unnaturally, opening wider, stretching further than humanly possible. A scream builds in Damien's ears, but it's not coming from his father. It's coming from—
A glint of metal catches his eye.
Damien looks down.
There's a knife in his hand.
A fresh drop of blood slides from the tip of the blade, splashing onto the floor. The stain beneath his father's chair spreads.
No.
His breathing turns ragged. The walls seem to close in, the light from the TV flickering erratically. He blinks, trying to steady himself—
A voice cuts through the void.
"Damien."
He stiffens.
"Damien, wake up."
Present Day – The Awakening
Damien's eyes fly open, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. His fingers twitch against the sheets, as if still gripping a phantom blade.
For a second, he's still in the dream. Still standing in that godforsaken house. Still watching the blood pool beneath his father's chair.
Then reality slams back into him.
He's in his apartment. Dim morning light filters through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room. The scent of whiskey and sweat is gone, replaced by the faint aroma of coffee and rain from the open window.
A shadow looms over him.
"Jesus, Damien, are you dead or just ignoring me?"
Jonas.
Damien forces himself to exhale, dragging a hand over his face. He looks toward the doorway where Detective Jonas Carter stands, arms crossed, wearing the same unimpressed expression he always does when Damien oversleeps.
"You look like shit," Jonas adds helpfully, stepping inside without an invitation.
Damien groans, sitting up. His body feels heavier than it should. "You always know how to boost my self-esteem."
Jonas smirks, tossing a file onto the bedside table. "That's what partners are for. Now get dressed—we've got a case."
Damien rubs his temples, still trying to shake the remnants of the dream. It wasn't real. It's never real.
But the blood always feels real.
With a sigh, he pushes the thoughts aside and swings his legs over the bed. Work. Focus on work. That's all that matters now.
The Case Begins
Fifteen minutes later, Damien is dressed and on the road, the morning chill biting at his skin as he follows Jonas toward the car. The city is just waking up, the streets still damp from last night's rain. A perfect day for murder.
Jonas fills him in as they drive.
"Victim's male, late twenties. Found early this morning by a jogger in Northside Park."
Damien barely reacts, flipping through the crime scene photos in the file. The victim's throat is slit, his body positioned unnaturally—not the work of an amateur.
Jonas drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "You're quiet."
"Just thinking," Damien replies, though his mind is still tangled with the dream. Thinking about another body. Another pool of blood.
Jonas doesn't push. They've been partners long enough to know when to leave things alone.
When they arrive at the crime scene, the area is already taped off. Uniformed officers nod as they pass, and Damien crouches beside the body.
Blood has dried in thick rivulets down the victim's neck, staining the grass beneath him. But it's not the gore that holds Damien's attention—it's the precision.
The way the body is positioned. The lack of hesitation in the cut.
This isn't just a random killing.
Damien recognizes the work of a methodical killer.
And he has a sinking feeling that he already knows who it is.
But he says nothing.
Because the truth is far too dangerous.