Scene 1: The Aftershock

I don’t move.

I can’t.

The man lies at my feet, his body crumpled on the cold pavement, his breath barely audible over the rushing river. His blood stains the concrete beneath him, pooling in uneven patterns.

My heart pounds. My grip on my notebook tightens.

I should call for help. I should run. I should do something—anything—except stand here, frozen, staring at a stranger whose last words to me were Kill me.

But I don’t move.

Instead, my mind does what it always does—it starts asking questions I don’t have answers to.

Who is he?

What happened to him?

Why would someone like him want to die?

Another breath rattles from his lips, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His skin is too pale beneath the flickering streetlamp.

I take a step forward. Then stop.

I shouldn’t get involved. This isn’t my problem.

But if I walk away now… he’ll die.

The thought grips me harder than I expect. My fingers twitch at my side, my pulse roaring in my ears.

He wanted to die. He asked for it. Wouldn’t I just be granting his wish?

I swallow hard, pushing the thought away.

I drop to my knees beside him, my fingers hovering over his shoulder before finally pressing down, shaking him gently.

“Hey,” I say, my voice uneven. “Can you hear me?”

No response.

My stomach tightens. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never dealt with something like this before. But I force myself to act—pressing my fingers against his neck, checking for a pulse.

It’s there. Weak. Unsteady. But there.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Then, I make a choice.

Scene 2: Taking Him Home

I don’t think. I just move.

Sliding an arm beneath him, I brace myself as I try to lift him. He’s heavier than he looks—dead weight against me—but I manage to shift him enough to keep him from collapsing completely.

“What the hell am I doing?”

I should leave him. Call an ambulance. Call someone who actually knows what to do.

But my phone stays in my pocket.

Step by step, I half-carry, half-drag him away from the river, my breath hitching with the effort. My apartment isn’t far, but every second feels longer as I struggle to support him.

What if someone sees us?

What if he wakes up and fights me?

What if I just made the biggest mistake of my life?

By the time I reach my door, my arms are shaking.

I fumble for my keys, shifting his weight awkwardly. If he suddenly regained consciousness now, I’d be completely screwed.

The moment I lower him onto the couch, I take a step back and stare.

For the first time, I get a proper look at him.

The blood. The bruises. The way his face, even in unconsciousness, looks like someone who has seen too much.

I should be afraid. I don’t know who this man is, what he’s done, what kind of trouble follows him.

But standing there, looking at him—

I just feel tired.

 Scene 3: The Weight of a Decision

I move on autopilot.

My hands find the first aid kit in the bathroom. A damp towel. A bottle of antiseptic. My thoughts swirl, but I push them aside.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I don’t even know who he is. He could be dangerous. A criminal. Someone with people looking for him.

I hesitate, the damp towel hovering above his wound.

I could still walk away.

This isn’t my responsibility. His life isn’t mine to save.

But then I think of the way he looked at me.

“Kill me.”

I exhale sharply, pressing the towel against his bloodstained shirt. He doesn’t stir, his breathing shallow but steady.

And then, as the weight of everything settles in my chest, I realize—

It doesn’t matter.

Because for some reason, I couldn’t walk away.

And now… it’s too late to turn back.