The Fugitive's Touch

CHAPTER 1 : ACCUSATION

The evening sky over Crex City was painted in shades of orange, gradually dimming into twilight. The streets were still bustling with people returning from work, including Del Rey. With slow steps, he walked along the sidewalk toward his home, carrying a plastic bag filled with groceries. His right hand still smelled of onions, a lingering scent from his duties as an assistant cook at the restaurant where he worked.

Upon reaching the front of his house, Rey sensed something was off. Usually, the laughter of his younger sister, Sitha, or the chatter of his mother, Dania, could be heard from inside. But that evening, there was only silence. The front door was locked, and when Rey knocked, there was no response.

"Why is it so quiet?" he muttered.

He inserted his key and turned the knob. The door creaked open. The interior of the house felt darker than usual, even though the curtains were not fully drawn. Rey stepped inside, placed the plastic bag on the kitchen table, and began to check each room.

"Sitha? Mom?" he called out.

No answer.

Rey reached for his phone, intending to call someone, but before he could press the dial button, the blaring sound of police sirens erupted outside. Several black cars screeched to a halt in front of his house, and armed officers poured out swiftly.

"Hands up! Don’t move!" one of them shouted.

Rey froze.

A second later, he was forced onto the floor, his arms yanked behind him, and cold metal handcuffs snapped around his wrists. Still trying to comprehend what was happening, he turned his head as a tall, broad-shouldered officer crouched beside him.

"You are under arrest for mass murder," the officer stated firmly.

Rey’s eyes widened in shock. "What?"

He struggled, but the officers held him down tightly. With force, they dragged him outside. Through the corner of his eye, he noticed the gathered neighbors whispering among themselves, their faces filled with horror.

"What are you talking about? I just got home from work! I don’t even know what happened!" Rey shouted, but the police ignored him as they shoved him into the vehicle.

The door slammed shut, and the sirens wailed again.

—

Inside the police station, the interrogation room smelled of paper and sweat. Rey sat on a metal chair, his hands still cuffed. Across from him, an investigator stared at him coldly while placing several documents and a photograph on the table.

Rey looked at the photo. It was his living room, but not as he remembered it. The beige carpet, once familiar under his feet, was now soaked in blood. Several bodies lay beneath white sheets, and the walls were smeared with dark red stains.

"This… this is my house?" Rey’s voice trembled.

The investigator nodded. "Your family was found dead two hours ago. Your father, mother, older brother, younger sister, two close relatives, and a housemaid. All of them were murdered."

A sharp pain clenched Rey’s chest. He wanted to say something, but his mind was blank.

"I… I just got home from work… How could this…"

"We have evidence," the investigator interrupted. He retrieved a transparent plastic bag and placed it on the table. Inside, a bloodied knife.

Rey’s breath hitched. That knife… was his. The kitchen knife he regularly used at both the restaurant and home.

"Your fingerprints are on this knife," the investigator continued. "And a witness saw you entering the house five minutes before the incident."

Rey shook his head violently. "No! That’s impossible! I didn’t do this!"

But the investigator’s expression remained indifferent. "The evidence is sufficient. You will be put on trial soon."

—

A few days later, the trial commenced. The courtroom was packed with spectators eager to witness the high-profile case. Seated at the defendant’s bench, Rey clenched his fists tightly.

The prosecutor delivered the charges in a firm voice, presenting evidence that painted him as guilty. The knife with his fingerprints, a witness who testified behind a black curtain, and the fact that no other footprints were found in the house at the time of the crime.

Rey wanted to scream that this was all wrong, that he was being framed. But who would believe him? Even his lawyer, hired by his restaurant boss, could only give him a sympathetic yet helpless look.

After a long and heated debate, the judge finally struck the gavel.

"Del Rey is found guilty of premeditated murder. The defendant is hereby sentenced to 25 years in prison."

Rey closed his eyes. It was over.

—

In the prison transport vehicle, Rey sat in silence. He didn’t even know where his family had been buried. There was no chance to say goodbye. His heart shattered at the thought of their tragic deaths.

The vehicle finally stopped in front of a massive gray gate. The sign above it read clearly: Crex City Penitentiary.

As the gates opened, two guards pulled him out and escorted him inside. After going through inspections and changing into prison attire, Rey was led to a large cell already occupied by several burly men with hardened faces.

His steps slowed.

In the corner of the cell, a group of inmates chatted casually. But the moment he entered, the atmosphere changed. Some men turned to stare at him, their eyes gleaming with something ominous.

Rey took a step back, searching for an empty corner, then sat down with his head lowered.

But his peace didn’t last long.

The heavy sound of footsteps echoed in the room. A large man covered in tattoos stopped in front of Rey. Behind him, several other men smirked, seemingly awaiting orders.

Rey slowly lifted his gaze.

The tattooed man studied him with intense eyes. "So, this is the kid who supposedly slaughtered his own family?"

Rey clenched his jaw.

The man sneered. "Welcome to hell, pretty boy."

He loomed over Rey, making the already tight space feel even smaller. The other inmates whispered, some grinning in anticipation of what would come next.

Rey, still seated in the corner, remained silent. His eyes remained fixed, showing no fear or anger.

The man cracked his neck from side to side, producing sharp pops. "Is this kid mute?" he asked, prompting chuckles from his lackeys.

Rey remained unresponsive.

"Are you deaf?" the man pressed, now leaning in closer, his tobacco-laced breath brushing against Rey’s face.

Still no answer.

Silence.

The room’s tension thickened. The tattooed man narrowed his eyes, trying to read Rey as if attempting to understand his thoughts. But Rey remained stone-faced… emotionless.

And that made him furious.

Without warning, his fist shot forward.

Thud!

A solid punch landed squarely on Rey’s cheek, snapping his head to the side.

Some inmates whistled, one of them exclaiming, "That was a hard hit!"

But what shocked them wasn’t the punch—it was Rey’s reaction.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t retaliate, didn’t even wince. He didn’t even touch his reddening cheek. He simply stared at the floor, as if the blow meant nothing.

The tattooed man scowled. "Not hard enough, huh?"

Thud!

A second punch struck Rey’s stomach, causing him to slightly lurch forward. Yet, he remained silent. Only his breath grew heavier.

The man chuckled darkly, though dissatisfaction lingered in his voice. "Pretending to be tough, huh? I hate stubborn little punks like you."

Thud!

Thud!

Two more blows landed on Rey’s face and shoulder. Pain spread through his body, but he endured it.

The inmates murmured among themselves, some enjoying the show, while others sensed something was off.

"Is this guy insane?" one whispered.

"He should’ve collapsed by now," another muttered.

Rey remained seated in the corner, blood dripping from his lip, yet still not reacting.

The tattooed man inhaled sharply, then delivered a brutal kick to Rey’s chest. This time, Rey fell to the floor.

"Stop acting tough, you piece of trash!" the man growled.

Rey coughed, fresh blood staining the cold ground. Yet, he still didn’t fight back. He simply lay there, staring at the grimy ceiling.

His eyes held no fear, no anger. Just emptiness.

The man raised his foot, ready to stomp on Rey’s head, but a sharp voice interrupted.

"Hey! What’s going on in there?"

A guard appeared outside the cell.

The man quickly stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Just welcoming the new guy, sir."

The guard frowned. "No trouble. If I catch a fight, you’re all going to solitary."

The tattooed man glanced at Rey.

"You got lucky," he muttered before walking away.

Rey remained motionless.

Inside his mind, only one thought echoed.

"Who framed me?"

###