The bar is too quiet. I can feel them staring. Whispering. Judging.

Then someone says it. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You shouldn’t be here. We know what you did.”

My grip tightens around the glass. My chest feels too tight. My pulse is hammering. I shove my chair back, the legs scraping against the floor.

“That was ten years ago!” My voice is raw, shaking. “I didn’t kill those people!”

Silence. But I can still hear it. The pounding in my head. The flicker of something just out of reach.

Blood on steel. The rasp of breath behind a gas mask. Flashes of red, a heartbeat that isn’t mine.

No. It wasn’t me.

…Was it?

Someone exhales. “Maybe you should go, Tom.”

I swallow hard. Nod. Push through the door into the cold night. My breath fogs the air.

And just for a second, I feel it—a smirk tugging at my lips.

Then it’s gone.