Afterdeath

Chapter 1: Mortis

I should have seen it coming. She was following me so obviously, as if she wanted me to know she was there, her footsteps echoing behind me through the empty streets. The night was thick, darker than I had ever seen, like the heart of her soul—cold and unfeeling. No one was around. I could feel the quiet press in, my skin prickling as the realization settled over me: Is this really how I'm going to die?

( A DAY EARLIER )                              

It was 5:30 AM. Arvis dragged himself out of bed, eyes heavy with the weight of another sleepless night. His small apartment was quiet, but the muffled sounds of voices gathering outside started to creep through his walls. With a resigned sigh, he shuffled into the kitchen, trying to ignore the chants growing louder. The smell of coffee filled the room, a faint comfort amid the brewing chaos outside. But today, like every other day, peace would be short-lived.

He glanced out the window, seeing the crowd swelling below. People held signs with hateful slurs, their faces twisted with anger as they demanded his punishment, even his death. He muttered to himself, "These people just won't give up."

Arvis continued his routine, forcing himself to go through each motion: pouring coffee, scrambling eggs, pretending the world wasn't waiting for him to fall apart. But the anger outside never faded; it was a living, breathing thing, consuming every part of his morning. By the time he stepped outside, the mob's frustration had reached a fever pitch. Their eyes locked onto him, and without hesitation, a few charged forward, fists clenched and faces hard with disgust.

He barely raised his arms to defend himself before the blows began to rain down, striking his shoulders, his face, anywhere they could reach. No one stopped them. His cries were swallowed by their rage, his voice drowned in a sea of accusations he couldn't defend against. This had become his life—an unending routine of hate, of punishment for a crime he hadn't committed, at least not the way they believed. He had only seen his sixteenth year, but it felt as if his soul had aged a lifetime, beaten and bruised daily under the weight of falsehoods and rumors.

Arvis Iscariot: a name that once held innocence now reduced to a whispered curse, the target of every cruel allegation that surfaced. They blamed him for every story they spun, every rumor they spread, turning him into a monster he barely recognized.

Arvis felt the weight of the allegations pressing on him like a storm he couldn't escape. His reputation was slipping through his fingers, each accusation eating away at his credibility and casting shadows over his life's work. He knew his objective was now painfully clear: erase these fake allegations and uncover the truth, or risk becoming a social outcast—a man condemned by a crime he didn't commit.

He moved through the city with a sense of urgency, seeking out anyone who might have seen what had truly happened. He stopped at bustling street corners, visited local shops, and knocked on the doors of hesitant witnesses. But each time, he was met with cold eyes and wary glances, as though they feared associating with him would stain their own names. Conversations turned curt, hands pulled children inside, and shopkeepers looked through him, pretending he didn't exist. The allegations seemed to hang over him like a curse, alienating him from the very people he'd once called neighbors.

Every refusal felt like a nail in the coffin, a painful reminder that with each closed door, his chance to prove his innocence slipped further away.

Arvis stood still and had an idea, letting the weight of the evidence and the tension of the room settle over him. He needed to be sure, to see every angle of the incident for himself. With a thoughtful look, he turned to the officers and officials gathered around him.

"I want everyone here," he said, his voice steady but commanding. "Victims, suspects, police—everyone involved. We're going to recreate exactly what happened."