The rain lashed against the grimy windowpane like a thousand accusatory fingers, blurring the neon lights of the city into smeared accusations. Alex Thorne sat rigid in the sagging armchair of his one-bedroom apartment, the air thick with the stench of stale takeout and unwashed fear. His laptop screen cast a pallid glow on his gaunt face, the photo still open: Mr. Hargrove, impeccably suited even in the shadows of the warehouse dock, gripping the rival executive by the throat before hurling him into the churning black river below. The splash had echoed in Alex’s nightmares ever since. He’d captured it all—irrefutable proof of corporate murder. Fingers trembling, he’d uploaded it to anonymous servers and fired it off to every major news outlet he could think of. Whistleblower. Hero. That was three hours ago.
His phone vibrated on the coffee table, skittering like a trapped insect. Unknown number. He stared at it, pulse thundering in his ears. Answer it? Ignore? The vibration stopped, then started again. With a curse, he snatched it up.
“Alex,” a voice rasped, distorted but familiar. “You saw too much. They’re coming.”
“Who is this? Hargrove?” His voice cracked.
Laughter, low and venomous. “Run if you can. But you can’t hide what you know.” The line went dead.
He bolted to the window, peeling back the blinds a fraction. There—a black sedan idled across the street, headlights off, wipers slashing rhythmically. The driver was a silhouette, unmoving. Watching. Alex’s breath fogged the glass. Coincidence? No. They knew where he lived. Hargrove’s reach was long; the company tentacles wrapped every shadow in this godforsaken city.
He dragged the armchair against the door, then the kitchen table, piling chairs atop until a fortress of furniture barricaded the entrance. The walls seemed to close in, peeling wallpaper whispering secrets. His apartment, once a sanctuary, now a cage. Claustrophobia clawed at his chest; every creak of the old building was a footstep ascending the stairs.
Hours bled into night. He paced the twelve-foot length of the living room, phone clutched like a lifeline. No return calls from the news outlets. Had they been intercepted? He tried his best friend, Mike, from college days. Voicemail. “Mike, it’s Alex. I’m in deep shit. Call back ASAP.”
A knock rattled the door. Soft at first, then insistent. Alex froze, heart slamming. “Who is it?”
“Maintenance,” a muffled voice replied. “Leak reported in the unit above.”
Bullshit. No leak. He crept to the peephole, eyes watering from strain. A man in overalls, face obscured by a cap, toolbox in hand. Ordinary. Too ordinary.
“Come back tomorrow!” Alex shouted, backing away.
The knob rattled. “Sir, it’s urgent. Water damage.”
Footsteps retreated, but Alex didn’t relax. He wedged a chair under the knob for good measure. Paranoia? No, survival instinct. That photo could topple empires. Hargrove’s empire. Billions in shady deals, bodies in rivers to protect it. And now Alex was the body.
Midnight. Another call. Same unknown. “We’re close, Alex. Can you hear us breathing?”
He smashed the phone against the wall, shards scattering like broken trust. Landline next—unplugged. No internet; he’d severed the router cable. Alone, truly alone, in this suffocating box.
Dawn crept in gray and reluctant. Exhaustion tugged at him, but sleep was death. He slumped against the wall, replaying the warehouse scene. The rival, Mr. Ellis, begging. Hargrove’s cold eyes. Alex had been working late, overtime slave, when he’d stumbled on it. Why him? Wrong place, right time. Or wrong time.
A thud from the fire escape. He lunged to the window. Footprints in the rain-slick metal, leading up. Someone climbing. Panic surged; he grabbed the baseball bat from the closet, knuckles white.
The windowpane shattered inward, glass exploding like gunfire. A gloved hand reached through, fumbling the latch. Alex swung the bat, connecting with bone-crunching force. A yelp, then the hand withdrew. But the door—they’d circle back.
“You can’t escape!” a voice snarled from outside.
He barricaded the window with the mattress, sweat stinging his eyes. The room shrank further, walls pressing, air thinning. Every shadow hid a killer. His reflection in the cracked mirror twisted mockingly—haggard, hunted.
Mike finally called from the landline payphone down the block? No, he dialed Mike’s office line, got secretary.
Wait, build more.
The building groaned as if alive. Scratches at the door now, like nails on wood. Alex pressed his ear to it. Breathing. Heavy, patient.
“I know you’re Hargrove’s dog,” he whispered. “Tell him the photo’s out. It’s over.”
Silence, then: “The photo lies, Alex. You lie.”
Chills raced his spine. How did they know?
He retreated to the bathroom, smallest room, door locked, tub filled as barrier. Huddled, bat ready, mind fracturing. Memories flickered: Ellis’s face, not pleading—smirking? Hargrove’s grip, hesitant?
Crash! The front door splintered. Footsteps pounded. Alex gripped the bat, breath ragged.
The bathroom door buckled under a shoulder. Wood cracked, hinges screamed. A figure burst in—hooded, masked, knife gleaming.
Alex swung wildly, bat glancing off arm. They grappled, knife slicing his forearm, hot blood spilling. He headbutted, tasting plastic mask. The intruder staggered, hood falling back.
Mike. His face, bruised, eyes wide with horror.
“Alex, stop! It’s me!”
Betrayal burned. “Traitor!”
Another swing, bat cracking Mike’s skull. He crumpled, blood pooling.
Panting, Alex searched him. No ID, but Mike’s wallet. Proof.
Sirens wailed distant, closing.
He stumbled to the living room, laptop open. The photo—stare. Zoom in. The ‘victim’ Ellis wore Alex’s watch. The hand shoving—his tattoo on the wrist. Not Hargrove. Him.
Flashback crashed: Anger at Ellis for stealing promotion, confrontation at warehouse. Push. Splash. Guilt buried deep, emerging as hallucination—Hargrove as scapegoat. Calls? His own voicemails, distorted. The sedan? Delivery truck. Maintenance? Real. Mike came to check on him, worried after frantic message.
The predator was inside. Always had been.
Door burst open. Police swarmed. “Mr. Hargrove? Hands up!”
Alex blinked. Hargrove? Mirror across room shattered his illusion. Same suit, same eyes. Dissociative fracture. He was Hargrove, Ellis his alter or vice versa? No—he was Alex Thorne, but Thorne killed Ellis, and Hargrove was fabricated persona from guilt.
“You know too much,” he whispered to his reflection as cuffs clicked.
The rain continued, indifferent.