An Unfortunate Event

The cold air from the AC filled the car, sending a chill down my spine as I sat in the driver's seat, parked in front of a quiet house. I checked my phone—8 p.m. My date should be out any minute. The neighborhood was darker than usual; the streetlights were out, casting long, eerie shadows over the pavement. Just as I was about to send a text, the passenger door suddenly flung open.

Before I could react, three figures in black hoodies and masks rushed inside, slamming the doors shut. My breath caught in my throat. Two in the back, one beside me. My heart pounded as the cold barrel of a gun pressed against my ribs.

"Drive! Or I shoot!" the man with the gun barked.

My hands trembled on the wheel. My mind screamed at me to do something—run, fight, anything—but my body wouldn't move. They were in a hurry, glancing back anxiously, as if expecting someone to appear. I didn't know what they were running from. I didn't have time to ask.

"Drive the car!" he yelled again, jabbing the gun harder against me.

With a shaky breath, I dropped the handbrake, shifted the gear from P to D, and pulled onto the road. My hands were unsteady, gripping the wheel as I navigated the dark streets, struggling to keep control. Every turn felt like my last.

"Turn right!" he ordered.

I flicked my eyes to the right—a narrow alleyway, barely wide enough for my car. "I—I can't—"

"Now!" he snapped, his finger twitching on the trigger.

Praying for a miracle, I yanked the wheel.

The impact was instant. Metal screeched, glass shattered, and the world flipped upside down.

My $10,000 car was gone in an instant.

The wreck left us sprawled in the debris. My body screamed in pain—blood trickled down my forehead, and my vision blurred. But I was alive. And that meant I had a chance. I clawed my way out of the wreckage, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through my limbs. Just as I reached for freedom, a hand clamped around my wrist, yanking me out.

"Agh!" I gasped, pain shooting through my arm. My wrist—it felt broken.

Through the haze, two figures loomed over me, their faces unreadable in the darkness.

I barely had time to process what was happening before my vision faded into black.

At the Same Time…

A young woman stepped out of her house in a sleek black dress, high heels clicking softly against the pavement. A handbag hung from her arm as she checked her phone, rereading the last message she sent.

"Where are you? You said you were waiting outside."

She glanced around, her brows furrowing. No car. No sign of him.

"Did he really just ghost me?" she muttered, though the unease in her voice betrayed her attempt at frustration.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitating before sending another text. Something felt off.

Somewhere Else…

Darkness. But not the suffocating kind. It was strangely peaceful—cool air kissed my skin, soft sheets cradled me, and the faint scent of lavender drifted through the air.

"Is this heaven?" I wondered, floating in the quiet comfort. "Am I dead?"

If so, I wouldn't mind staying here forever.

But good things never last.

A light tapping on my arm pulled me from the abyss. My eyelids fluttered open, and a ceiling light greeted me, too bright, too real. I winced, letting my vision adjust. White walls. Beeping monitors. The sterile scent of antiseptic.

Definitely not heaven.

I groaned as I pushed myself up, a sharp headache pounding in my skull. My gaze drifted down—I was wearing a hospital gown. Bandages wrapped around my arms.

"How did I end up here?" I thought. "I should be dead after that crash… Did someone save me?"

A thousand questions raced through my mind—until the door slid open.

Two men stepped inside, dressed in dark suits. Their sharp, old-fashioned attire, complete with pocket watches and polished shoes, screamed one thing.

Peaky Blinders wannabes.

I watched as they strode over, stopping at the edge of my bed.

"Who the hell are they?"

They looked down at me with serious expressions before one of them spoke—the one wearing a hat.

"I see you've woken up, boy. Then we can begin the interrogation."

Interrogation? Did I hear that right? And did he just call me boy? I'm not that young—I'm 21. Though, looking at him properly, he seemed to be in his 30s.

"Uh… what do you mean? Who are you guys?" I asked, my throat dry.

They exchanged a glance before turning back to me.

"You don't need to know that. We ask questions, you answer. It's that simple. Or…" The hat guy let his hand hover over his waist.

My breath hitched when I saw what was there. A gun.

"Shit. Not again." My chest tightened, the same gut-wrenching fear as last night washing over me.

"Dude, relax. No need to threaten him like that," the other guy—no hat—intervened, grabbing his partner's arm. He looked about the same age as him, but at least he had some sense.

He turned to me, his voice calm and steady. "Sorry about my friend. We can't tell you our names, but you can trust us. Or at least, trust me. We just have a few questions."

His voice had a strangely soothing effect. My heart was still racing, but… I wasn't panicking as much anymore.

"...Okay. I can do that," I agreed. Maybe they knew something about the incident. Maybe I could get answers too.

"Good." The no-hat guy took a seat across from me. "Do you know the Clover Group?"

I frowned. "No. Never heard of it."

Another glance between them.

"Do you remember what happened last night?"

I hesitated. Does he know something?

I recounted the whole story—from the moment I parked my car to the crash, to waking up here. They listened intently, not interrupting once.

When I finished, neither of them spoke. They exchanged a nod before the hat guy muttered, "We've got what we need. But… we can't let you go. You know too much already."

The air turned suffocating. My fingers clenched the bedsheet beneath me.

What? What do you mean I know too much? What the hell did I do?

Ring… Ring…

A ringtone shattered the silence.

The hat guy fished out his phone and answered before stepping out of the room. At least he respected hospital rules.

The no-hat guy stayed behind, silent. The awkward tension lingered between us.

Minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then thirty.

Finally, the hat guy returned, phone in hand. He handed it over. "Boss wants to talk to you."

No-hat guy took it, nodded, and walked out. The hat guy turned to me, arms crossed.

"You're a lucky boy."

The hell does that mean? I stared at him, confusion tightening my chest.

Half an hour later, no-hat guy came back. He handed the phone back before leaning in to whisper something to his partner. Too quiet for me to hear.

The hat guy gave a nod and walked out.

No-hat guy faced me, his expression unreadable.

"You're being discharged right now. My boss wants to speak with you."

…Boss?