Groups of journalists and reporters surrounded him at every corner, asking the usual intrusive questions. How do you feel? Schtick—just like the nosy people they are—accompanied by the cheers of happy people in the background, calling him a “hero.”

Of course, they would. After all, the serial killer who had brought terror and fear to the area was finally dead, killed by him. No more sleepless, painful nights. No more leeching off people, avoiding being alone. No more paranoia.

But in contrast to the blooming hope in the town, he felt himself withering with each passing second. Every word of thanks, every pair of brightened eyes, was KILLING him inside.

Why did he feel like this? He shouldn’t feel bad. Everyone was finally at peace.

.

.

.

IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.

It was supposed to be a normal hangout—chatting, playing video games, gulping down soda, and munching on chips. Roughhousing. Then everything went cold, the only sound left was the echo of his heartbeat, that buzzing moment where reality cracks. He… he accidentally pushed him down the stairs. It was surreal, each stumble, the creak of wood, the horrifying crunch as his body rolled. His friend’s stairs were old and cheap, and they splintered, crashing into his skin with each thud.

He wanted to scream or puke. But all he felt was hollow, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He didn’t know what to do, so like any sane person would, he called the ambulance.

His friend. His best buddy. His ride-or-die. The one who cracked terrible jokes, the psychopath who put milk before cereal. His brother was now a corpse, and it was all his fault. All because he wasn’t careful. It was so stupid. Even children know it’s dangerous to play rough on the second floor. He should have known.

Then the police came. The investigation dragged on coldly. Every moment was a stretch of anxiety. When it was over, they told him what they’d found. His friend was a serial killer. And no, it wasn’t just because of his unforgivable milk-before-cereal habits—it was the real deal.

In his basement, they found a barely-alive hostage, saved only by the chance visit. He had dropped by unannounced, as usual, which had probably messed up his friend’s sick plans. They found his diary too, filled with the deranged ramblings and detailed descriptions of his victims. The police put it all together and thought the broken stairs and the roughhousing pointed to self-defense.

He lied to them. Every answer was a carefully spun web. He pretended to be just a classmate who happened to stumble upon this nightmare. It wasn’t even hard. His friend had refused to take photos, and his parents… weren’t really around.

But what if they thought he was an accomplice? He was his best friend, after all. People are cruel with their assumptions about those connected to criminals. Even if cleared, he would never live it down. Honestly, the interrogation wasn’t that intense. Whether he lied or not, the outcome would have been the same. Maybe they didn’t care because, to them, a serial killer’s death was a win. All that mattered was the town’s safety.

He knew—he knew—he shouldn’t feel sympathy for his friend. He shouldn’t feel so broken about accidentally killing him. Some would say he was lucky that the truth lessened the weight of guilt.

But it didn’t. Not for him. He had lied, and it wouldn’t change anything. But somewhere, somehow, he felt like it would all go wrong for him. And that made it so much worse.

As he stared at the beaming faces of those surrounding him, he had only one thought:

He was so, so tired.