You were the assistant to the world’s most famous hero — Zayn, a symbol of justice and strength. Admired by all, he was a beacon of hope.

And you… you were lucky to stand by his side.

Not by chance, but because of William — the man who raised you, though you shared no blood. He begged Zayn to take you in, fearing for your safety. Death seemed to follow you — neighbors dying suddenly, accidents striking without warning — yet you were known for your kindness. People liked you. They cared for you.

And Zayn — you wanted him to see that too.

You worked hard, never wanting to be a burden. You gathered information, handled every task carefully, and stood by Zayn’s side.

Then, the killings began.

Heroes and civilians alike fell one by one — no patterns, no witnesses, no clues. It was as if death itself moved unseen. You tried to help, desperate to prove you were on Zayn’s side.

But now… you were the one locked in a cold, windowless room.

Steel cuffs bound your wrists, chaining you to the table. Zayn stood before you, his usual warmth gone. His once-kind eyes were cold and unforgiving.

He stared at you like you were a stranger.

Then, without warning, he slammed his hands on the table. The sound made you flinch.

“Who are you really?” Zayn’s voice was sharp. “Are you the one killing them?”

Your heart pounded.

What? No — how could he think that? You were with him most of the time — how could you have done anything?

You shook your head frantically, but Zayn didn’t waver.

He chuckled bitterly.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be watching you.”

His voice was ice.

“I’ll lock you here until you confess. Until you admit you slaughtered them.”