Chapter 4

Outside, neighbors gathered, their voices a cacophony of anger and disbelief.

"I saw his mother purchasing vegetables this morning, and now she's dead by noon. Slain by her own son—what kind of monster does that?"

"A beast, that's what! Even animals don't harm their own. His parents provided him with everything, and this is how he repays them!"

"And his wife? Poor woman. I recall attending their wedding and enjoying their sweets. Now he's crippled her. What kind of evil man does this?"

I left the drugs out on the table, making no attempt to conceal anything. The evidence painted a damning picture, all pointing squarely at me.

The officers turned to me, eyes burning with contempt. One stepped forward, his voice dripping with accusation.

"What was your motive? Why did you do this? They were your parents! And your daughter—just a month old! How could you?"

The weight of their questions pressed down on me, but I remained silent.

The drugs had worn off, and a searing pain shot through my body. I collapsed to the floor, curling into myself as cold sweat drenched my skin.

The officer closest to me sneered, kicking me lightly as if testing my reaction.

"Cut the act! Don't even think about playing games with me. The evidence is airtight. Spill the truth!"

Before I could respond, another officer searching the room found something. He held up a document, his eyes scanning it quickly before freezing in place.

"This man…" he said, his voice faltering. "He has advanced bone cancer."

The crowd exchanged bewildered glances before one voice broke through, seething with indignation:

"What does advanced bone cancer have to do with it? Not having much time left doesn't justify killing your parents and daughter!"

Another chimed in, their tone laced with venom:

"Exactly! If he's going to die soon, let's just put a bullet in him now. No need to let him leave this world peacefully!"

"Anyone who murders their own family deserves the harshest punishment. A beast like him doesn't deserve to live!"

Their accusations pierced the air like daggers, but I finally managed a weak breath and whispered:

"I plead guilty. I've never tried to escape or deny what I've done. I admit everything. I'll even tell you my motive... but I need to see Yasmine first."

The words had barely left my lips when a young officer stormed toward me, his face twisted in fury.

"You murderer! You're in no position to ask for anything! Just tell us your motive and stop wasting time!"

Before he could come any closer, an older officer grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Calm down. Let him speak. He doesn't seem mentally unstable. He didn't try to run after committing these murders, so there's probably more to this than we think."

The young officer hesitated, his jaw tight with resentment. "You're saying he has a valid reason for wiping out his own family? What could possibly justify that?"

"Revenge," the older officer said quietly, his gaze fixed on me. "It's got to be revenge."

For the first time, I felt a flicker of something close to acknowledgment. I met the older officer's eyes, impressed by his intuition.

He was right. The motive wasn't simple.

It had taken me 25 long years to uncover the truth—a truth so dark it had consumed me entirely.

When the officer finally agreed to my request, I let out a sigh of relief. The tension in my body eased just enough for the overwhelming exhaustion to take over. I collapsed to the ground, consciousness slipping away like water through my fingers.

In my dream, I was transported back to my childhood.

I stood in a tiny walker, clutching a Transformer in my small hands.

My parents trailed behind me, their faces lit with warm smiles.

For a fleeting moment, our family seemed perfect—like the happy ending of a story.

But the dream shifted. The warmth faded, replaced by my mother's cold, indifferent voice:

"If you're sick, you're sick. Who doesn't get sick? Stop making a fuss. No need to check. Trust me—I'll find a doctor to see you at home."

My reply was cautious, almost pleading:

"Mom, I'm really in pain..."

"Mom, why have you changed so much since getting married?"

...

Suddenly, ice-cold water splashed onto my face, jolting me awake.

When I opened my eyes, I was being wheeled into a hospital corridor. My body ached, and my mind was clouded, but the cold voice of a policeman cut through the haze:

"Yasmine is in there," he said, pointing to the intensive care unit. "Look at what you've done to her. Look at what you've cut her into!"

His tone grew harsher. "She hasn't woken up yet, so how can she talk to you? You've seen her now like you wanted—so tell us your motive!"

I dragged myself toward the glass door of the ward, each step heavy with exhaustion. Through the glass, I saw Yasmine's pale, lifeless face on the bed.

Quietly, I shook my head. "I'll only tell Yasmine. If I wanted her dead, I would've killed her at home."

I didn't want her to die. I wanted her to live—to bear the truth and suffer its weight for the rest of her life.

"You—!"

The policeman's face turned crimson with fury. His anger made him lunge forward as if to drag me away, but his superior intervened.

"Get a grip," the captain barked, pushing the enraged officer aside. He sighed and turned to another officer. "Find the doctor. Ask when Yasmine will wake up—or if there's any way to wake her sooner."

I stood there, still as stone, waiting.

Perhaps it was divine irony—or fate's cruel hand—but just as the officer left, Yasmine's eyes fluttered open.