The courtroom was too quiet. Too clean. Too real.

Sal Fisher sat with his hands chained, orange prison jumper draped over his frame like a skin that didn’t belong. The mask—his mask—had been taken, replaced by the stares of strangers dissecting his every breath. Without it, he felt exposed, raw. He imagined their eyes crawling over his scars, over his past, over his truth.

He wasn’t a murderer.

But no one believed him.

The judge’s gavel struck like a hammer to his ribs.

Judge: “Mr. Fisher, please recount the events of the Addison Apartments one final time.”

Sal’s voice trembled, but not from fear. From the weight of it all.

Sal:“They were already dead,” he said, tone flat. “There was no saving them.”

The jury didn’t flinch. They’d heard it before. But he continued, anyway.

Sal: “You don’t understand,” he said, eyes burning. “Something... something was living beneath us. A darkness. Not metaphorical—real. It took them. Larry, Todd, my father—they didn’t just die. They were devoured.”

He saw a flicker in someone’s eyes. Pity? Doubt? It didn’t matter. The court saw madness. Sal saw the truth.

They played recordings of his confessions, warped and hollow without context. They showed photos of the bodies. They asked how a boy who once helped neighbors could end up with so much blood on his hands.

He thought of Larry, his best friend. The last time he saw him. The way his ghost lingered. The cigarette smoke curling around nothingness. Until his eyes met yours...