Her Shattered Trust

"You killed him?" The voice echoed through the dark night, sharp and accusing.

Zane Campbell clutched the lifeless body, shaking it desperately. His voice broke with pain. "Don't die, please!" He begged, his heart pounding.

"Zane, you killed him," the voice came again, slicing through him like a knife. His scream tore through the night, raw, filled with unbearable grief.

"I didn't kill him! Help me! They killed him!" Zane pleaded, but the stranger just stood there, unmoved.

"You stabbed him! You shot him, Zane Campbell!" The words hit him like a punch, fueling his rage.

With a surge of fury, Zane stood to face the man. But his anger froze into fear when he saw the camera. The man clicked away, capturing every moment.

"What are you doing?" Zane's voice trembled.

"Collecting evidence. You killed him," the stranger's cold voice sent a chill down Zane's spine.

Sweat beaded on Zane's forehead. His whole body shook. "They killed him," he whispered, but before he could say more, footsteps thundered behind him.

He spun around. Police officers, their uniforms stark in the dim light, guns aimed at him.

"You're under arrest, Zane Campbell, for the murder of-"

"No! No!" Zane's agonized scream ripped through the night. He turned and ran.

"Get him! Find him! He murdered him!" The shouts chased after him.

Zane dove into the shadows beneath a tree, his breath ragged, his body trembling uncontrollably. Then, lights flooded the darkness, exposing every hiding place.

He looked down at his hands and shuddered. Blood. His fingers, his palms, everything was drenched in it.

His eyes dropped to his clothes. It wasn't left out, completely soaked in blood.

A wave of panic crashed over him. His chest tightened.

"He died... he died," Zane whispered, his voice breaking under the weight of his horror.

A massive screen lit up, displaying a chilling headline: Zane Campbell murdered Bob Campbell.

"No!! No!! Stop it!!" Zane's anguished scream echoed through the air.

Then, numbers flashed on the screen. 13567.

In a dimly lit room, Stan George thrashed violently in his sleep, his hands flailing. "No! Stop!" His voice cracked with terror as he jolted awake.

His heart pounded fiercely, his pulse a wild drumbeat against his skin. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His breath came in ragged gasps.

That dream. The same nightmare that had tormented him for two years.

Grabbing a pillow, he hugged it tightly, his body wracked with silent sobs. "When will this end?" he choked out, his voice heavy with despair.

And those numbers, 13567, seared into his mind. It had registered there for long.

He didn't know how long he lay there, trembling, tears soaking the fabric beneath him. But slowly, his heartbeat steadied, and his breath evened out.

His gaze shifted to the clock. 6:05 AM.

Swallowing his emotions, he forced himself out of bed. Straight to the bathroom and took a cold shower. He dressed up, ready to leave for work.

Because every time the dream came back, there was only one way to bury it. Work.

Sliding into his car, he gripped the wheel and stepped on the accelerator. But before he could push the memories down, an image flared in his mind.

A speeding car.

A bloodstained phone clutched in his shaking hands.

Not his blood. His. That man's.

Stan's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his breath ragged. The past he thought he had buried surged back, raw and merciless.

"Fuck you all!" His roar ripped through the car as he slammed his fist against the wheel.

His face twisted in agony. Pain. Grief. A storm raging inside him. His body trembled violently.

Why was the dream back? Why now?