Chapter 2: The Fugitive

The rain was relentless, pouring from the dark sky in torrents, but Jacob Hartman barely noticed. He sprinted through the shadowed streets of downtown, the sound of his own ragged breathing mixing with the distant wail of sirens. His soaked hoodie clung to his skin, and his heart pounded like a drum in his ears. He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to keep moving.

His hands were still smeared with blood, though most of it had been washed away by the rain. It wasn't his blood, but that didn't matter. The cops wouldn't believe him. No one would.

---

Hours earlier, Jacob had been in the cramped interrogation room of the 12th Precinct.

"Jacob Hartman," Detective Kara Moreno said, her voice sharp and measured. "You were seen leaving Victor Caldwell's building the night of the murder. Care to explain why?"

Jacob's fingers twitched on the table. "I didn't kill him," he said quickly, his voice cracking. "I swear, I didn't—"

"That's not what I asked," Kara interrupted. She leaned forward, her dark eyes locked on his. "I asked why you were there."

"I-I was working," Jacob stammered. "I clean the lobby sometimes. That's it. I didn't go upstairs."

"Is that so?" Kara's tone was icy. "Because we have footage of you on the service elevator headed to the penthouse around 9 p.m. That's less than an hour before Caldwell was murdered."

Jacob's heart sank. The footage. Of course they had the footage. But how could he explain what had really happened? That he wasn't in control? That something—someone—had made him go up there?

"I don't remember that," he mumbled, staring down at the table.

Kara's brow furrowed. "You don't remember? Convenient."

"I'm telling the truth!" Jacob's voice rose, panic creeping in. "I don't know how I got there!"

"Then why did we find Caldwell's blood on your hands and clothes?" Kara pressed, her voice sharper now. "And don't tell me you 'don't remember' that either."

Jacob's hands began to tremble. He could still feel the sticky warmth of the blood, the metallic smell clinging to him even now. But it wasn't his fault. He wasn't in control.

"There was..." He paused, swallowing hard. "There was a voice."

Kara tilted her head, her expression hardening. "A voice?"

Jacob nodded frantically. "It—it told me to go up there. I didn't want to, but I couldn't stop myself. It's like... it's like something was inside me. Controlling me."

For a moment, Kara said nothing, her pen hovering over her notepad. Then she sighed, leaning back in her chair. "That's your defense? A voice told you to kill him?"

"I didn't kill him!" Jacob shouted, his voice cracking. "I swear to God, I didn't! I—"

The door to the interrogation room swung open suddenly, and a uniformed officer stepped inside. "Detective Moreno," he said quietly, motioning her to step outside.

Kara frowned but rose to her feet. "Stay here," she ordered Jacob before stepping into the hallway with the officer.

Jacob sat alone, his head in his hands, trying to steady his breathing. He didn't have much time. He could feel it in his gut, the same way he could feel the presence still lurking somewhere deep inside him, waiting.

That's when it happened.

The lights in the room flickered once, then went out completely, plunging the small space into darkness. Jacob froze, his breath hitching as a strange pressure filled the air, like a storm building in the distance.

And then he heard it—a low, guttural whisper that sent chills down his spine.

Run.

Jacob didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He bolted to his feet just as the door unlocked with an audible click, as though an unseen hand had turned the latch. Heart pounding, he shoved the door open and sprinted into the hallway.

The precinct was in chaos. Lights were flickering erratically, and the air was thick with tension. Officers shouted to one another, their voices drowned out by the blaring of alarms.

Jacob didn't stop to question his luck. He ducked past a distracted officer and slipped out a side exit, into the stormy night.

---

Now, as he crouched behind a dumpster in a filthy alley, Jacob's mind raced. He didn't understand what was happening to him. All he knew was that something had taken hold of him—something dark, something powerful.

The voice was still there, whispering in his mind, urging him to keep running. But where could he go? The police would be searching for him. The entire city would soon know his face.

"Help me," he whispered to no one, his voice trembling. "Somebody, please help me."

But the only answer was the rain, cold and unrelenting, masking the tears that streaked his face.

And the faint sound of footsteps approaching from the shadows.