Holding Grudges

File VI

As I reached the black, heavy metal-framed glass door, a man brushed past me, his hurried steps leaving a trail of tension in his wake. We were like two parallel lines, briefly intersecting before parting ways—he vanishing into the night, me stepping into the heart of uncertainty. My hand hovered, fingers twitching as if about to call out, but then—I saw him.

Detective Thompson.

His piercing gaze locked onto mine from across the dimly lit bar, unwavering, sharp, unreadable. A chill skated down my spine. Something was wrong. The bar should have been alive with laughter, the pounding bass of music vibrating through the air. But the silence was suffocating. The energy had shifted, twisted into something dark, something foreboding.

Inside, the scene was surreal. Patrons lined the booths, their backs pressed against the seats, faces frozen in unease. Conversations had died mid-sentence, bodies stiff with an unspoken fear. It was as if the entire place had been paused, an invisible force holding them captive. Only the restless shuffling of feet and the occasional anxious whisper broke the heavy quiet.

Detective Thompson stood just outside the washroom door, an unsettling aura surrounding him. The people nearby shifted restlessly, some desperate to push past him, their bodies betraying the natural urgency to relieve themselves. But no one dared to cross that threshold. The walk toward him felt...longer than it should have. Like wading through something thick, heavy, unnatural. With every step, my heart pounded harder against my ribs, each beat a warning.

When I finally reached him, he turned to face me, his eyes—those fucking eyes—filled with a storm of emotions. But there were two that stood out, cutting through the chaos like knives:

Rage. And something dangerously close to fear.

"You're not going to like what I'm about to show you..." he murmured, his voice strained, barely holding together. His hand gripped the cold metal handle of the door so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

I nodded, a small, reluctant motion. I didn't want to know. But I had to. The door creaked open. And there he was.Richard Jones. Flat on his back. Unmoving. Unbreathing. His lifeless eyes stared up at nothing, his hair dyed a horrific shade of crimson, blood pooling around him in an ever-growing stain.

We had been here to protect him. And now, the grim reaper had beaten us to it.

"H-How...?" The word barely escaped my lips, a fragile breath of disbelief. Or had I only screamed it inside my own mind? No one reacted—no flicker of acknowledgment, no answering gaze. The world around me moved on, but I was frozen.

Then—

"We're locking this place down. NOW!"

Detective Thompson's voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade, sharp and final. It echoed off the walls, rattling the very air, demanding obedience. The bar, already suffocating under the weight of shock, seemed to shrink furtherbeneath his command. No one spoke. No one dared to move.

Eyes flicked toward the exits—trapped. Every face held the same unspoken question: Who the hell just died right under our noses? Thompson's jaw tightened, his expression shifting into something darker. Regret. Frustration. Maybe even guilt.

"Hey... Junior." His voice was lower now, but the tension was still there, coiled and unrelenting. "Start getting statements from the witnesses."

The weight of his words pressed down hard, as if demanding I drag every whispered truth from the unwilling mouths of the bystanders. They all knew something. Whether it was fear, denial, or deception—I'd have to tear through it. Thompson exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into a white-knuckled grip at his sides.