Hazell and I sat across each other, our hearts heavy with anticipation. A thousand secrets weighed on our minds as I softly uttered, "They're going to come after us, Haz. We left Sebastian in a coma. What happens when he wakes up and points the finger at us?"

Hazell's mischievous grin sent a chill down my spine. I could tell he was plotting something. My chest still ached from the betrayal of our friends, and as urgent knocks echoed at our door, a knot formed in my stomach. Girding myself, I opened the door to a sight straight out of my nightmares.

Liza stood there, a furious vision, brows furrowed, mouth clenched, eyes ablaze with anger. Smoke seemed to seep from her nostrils like a raging dragon, her hair a tangled mess. Ragged clothes hung on her frame, and she clutched a trembling shotgun, its black barrel swallowing light. My body froze as our gazes locked; I sensed her indecision between hurling something and throttling me. Lips drew
tight; a cigarette dangled from her mouth—it was clear this wouldn't be a friendly chat. I met Liza's gaze with an unwavering stare, ready for whatever reckoning she had in mind.

Liza's furious screams pierced the air as she stormed into the room. I caught sight of Hazell concealing something behind his back, dread coursing through me as I saw her level the gun at him.

"Hazell, don't move, or I'll shoot." Her voice carried a steely authority that only someone bred in the military could muster.

Hazell slowly extended his arms, revealing an old hammer in his left hand. His sinister smile sent shivers down my spine, and I knew he was about to confess to a string of heinous acts. Fear flashed across Liza's face as she stumbled back, but I
stepped forward before she could find cover, blocking Hazell's path.

"Run!" I urgently implored her.

She bolted towards the exit as Hazell called out after her, and on instinct, I declared with resolve, "No more. I don't care what fate awaits me. I won't let you
take another life."

Police sirens wailed outside, cutting our standoff short. My father's voice echoed from downstairs, dissipating the tension like smoke dispersing from fire. Hazell's twisted scheme had unraveled.

The wailing sirens outside grated on my nerves, the sound drilling into my head. My Dad's voice bellowed from downstairs, his fury potent enough to stir anxiety in me.

"Hazell and Ezra, get out here now!" he yelled.

"Please, don't make this harder than it needs to be."
My attention shifted to my brother standing before me, his face an enigmatic mask.

We both understood what was unfolding, and there was no need for words. Liza rushed out of the house, hands raised in surrender, her sobs echoing. Hazell
muttered under his breath, then glanced back at me, offering a subtle nod.

Weeks later, Hazell and I found ourselves handcuffed in a jail cell, awaiting our destiny. Upon seeing us, a detective entered, freezing in disbelief—his expression said it all. His partner inquired about his shock; he could only manage one word: "Psychopath."

I looked at Hazell as he pounded his fists against the wall, disregarding the pain.

His dark laughter cut through the air as he licked the blood from his hands as though it were sweet nectar.

"Well, I suppose you weren't entirely wrong when you dubbed this hell," he sneered disdainfully. He hummed a tune and then glanced over at my cell, where I remained frozen in time ever since our father had locked us behind those cold bars.

∆∆∆

The harsh clinking of handcuffs filled the air as Hazell Klein, his face contorted with manic glee, cackled from the confines of his jail cell. My eyes were fixed on the wall before me, my body lying motionless on the bottom bunk of my bed. It had drained my emotions from me, leaving me numb and unresponsive. My back turned to Hazell.

Hazell's frustration exploded as he slammed his fist into the cold, unforgiving wall, blood staining his knuckles.

"BO-RING! I might die before the trial comes," he taunted, his words carrying a mocking tone. "I guess you were right, Ez... This is hell."

He whistled a haunting melody and casually licked the blood from his fist—a very on-tune version of "Hungry Like the Wolf."

"Well, good luck surpassing the Verma-stew, Tom killer," Hazell's laughter echoed through the cell and outside the hallway.

A shiver coursed through my body as Hazell's laughter reverberated in my ears. I lay handcuffed on the cold prison floor, completely still and unresponsive, as if it had reduced me to a mere shell of a human being. My brother's once-familiar
laughter now sounded like a distant, sinister echo.

Mr. Klein, our father, appeared at the corner of the cellblock, his eyes heavy with sadness as they settled upon his two sons.

"I broke Ezra," Hazell confessed gleefully, callously shoving his shoe into my side.

Mr. Klein's patience finally wore thin. "Enough, Hazell! This is not a game. You killed someone, for fuck's sake."

Hazell's wicked grin remained intact as he observed our father, his eyes filled with twisted amusement.

My Dad's voice trembled as he asked, "What happened?"

I remained unresponsive, lost in the depths of my turmoil. Mr. Klein snapped his fingers in my direction, desperate for any sign of life, but I remained fixed on the wall, a silent and lifeless figure.

"Ezra!" Mr. Klein called out again, his desperation growing with each failed attempt to rouse me. Hazell's manic laughter filled the cellblock, a haunting soundtrack to the scene unfolding.

Mr. Klein finally grabbed his radio in a last-ditch effort to seek help.

"Hey," he pleaded into the microphone, his voice quivering with anxiety, "get me medical down here to check on one inmate."

A voice crackled through the speaker, inquiring, "Is he breathing?"

Mr. Klein's frustration boiled over, and he unleashed a forceful kick against the wall near my face.

"Ezra!..."

But I remained immobile, unresponsive to his efforts.

"He's catatonic," Mr. Klein reported into the microphone, his voice laden with despair.

Another kick to the wall, another desperate cry.

"Ezra!"

A faint snort escaped my lips as I struggled to breathe. My father leaned in closer, his eyes widening as he observed the chilling signs: blue lips and pallid skin. Panic surged through him as he rushed to my side, frantically rubbing my back.

"Ezra, breathe! Breathe!" His words were desperate, his pleas echoing in the cold, unforgiving cell.

As tension peaked, Hazell's laughter resounded again, filling the space with a chilling and eerie sound.

"Breathe, damn it!" Mr. Klein implored, his voice filled with anguish, as I choked and gasped, caught in my harrowing struggle for breath.

Moments and hours later, I was rushed to the hospital. The setting sun streamed through the blinds, casting a warm glow that invited comfort into the room. Yet shadows lingered in every corner, constantly reminding me why I was there.

My father sat across my hospital bed, scattered papers and a Coke bottle on his desk. He smoked his cigarette silently as if aware that nothing good would come from this heavy pause.

Abruptly, the door swung open, and the officer stepped in. He spoke softly yet firmly, his words carrying both dread and a glimmer of hope.

"Sir... I need to speak to you outside. There's good news," said the cop. Mr. Klein jolted upright, struggling to believe the words he heard.

Outside my doorway, the officer continued, "We've got more data from the labs... There might be someone else involved—possibly another DNA profile."

My heart raced as I absorbed the information—could someone else be responsible for some of Hazell's deeds? Fueled by newfound hope, I watched my father walk back inside with a smile.

"Well, good news for you, bud..." He said, my mind trailing off as he delivered the news. There was a second killer out there, and I wouldn't stop until I figured out who they were.