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CHAPTER 14 : FLASH BACK
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**Flashback – 1:06 PM – Inside the Criminal Hideout**
The room was dim, the air heavy with cigarette smoke that curled like fog. A battered wooden table sat in the middle, scarred from years of use. Empty beer bottles and crumpled cigarette packs littered its surface, some spilling onto the floor.
The stench of sweat, stale beer, and something rotten clung to everything, sinking into the cracked walls. Afternoon light barely reached inside, slipping through broken blinds in thin, dusty beams.
Eighteen men sprawled around the table, some leaning back in creaky chairs, others hunched forward. Their clothes were rough—stained jackets, torn shirts, boots caked with dirt.
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**Criminal Conversation – Human Trafficking**
The first man, tall with a jagged scar on his cheek, flicked ash from his cigarette. His eyes were cold, glinting in the dim light.
“The boss said we got two new shipments coming in next week,” he said, his voice rough. “Grade A, fresh from the countryside.”
A younger man, twitchy with greasy hair, tapped his bottle nervously. His fingers never stopped moving, like he was afraid to sit still.
“They better be in good condition this time,” he grumbled. “Last time, that girl was nearly useless by the time she got here. Bruised up, barely awake. Took days to clean her up for sale.”
A heavy-set man with a shaved head snorted, leaning back until his chair groaned. He took a long swig of beer, the bottle sweating in his hand.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, wiping his mouth. “They’re all the same in the end. As long as they sell, who cares? Buyers don’t look too close.”
A wiry man with sharp eyes laughed, a harsh sound that cut through the room. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grin wide and ugly.
“Yeah, the buyers won’t complain as long as the price is right,” he said. “They’re just happy to get something breathing. Details don’t bother them.”
The scarred man nodded, blowing smoke into the air.
“Speaking of which, the auction is in three days,” he said.
“We need to make sure the ‘merchandise’ is ready. Cleaned up, quiet, no trouble. Last thing we need is a screamer messing things up.”
The twitchy man frowned, his fingers tapping faster.
“Tch. These cops are getting annoying, though,” he said, glancing around like someone might be listening.
“Ever since Aizawa got locked up, security’s been tighter. They’re sniffing too close, asking questions in the wrong places.”
The heavy-set man raised an eyebrow, his bottle pausing halfway to his lips. “Aizawa’s out now, isn’t he?” he asked, voice low.
“Yeah,” the scarred man said, his tone hardening. “But he wants blood. Someone snitched. And we’re gonna find out who.”
A fifth man, older with gray stubble, spoke up for the first time. He’d been silent, nursing a beer in the corner, his eyes half-closed.
“Snitches don’t last long,” he said quietly, his voice like gravel. “Aizawa’s got a long memory. Whoever talked is already dead—they just don’t know it yet.”
The wiry man laughed again, slapping the table.
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“Bet it’s one of the new guys,” he said, pointing at a skinny thug across the room. “You look nervous, kid. Something you wanna confess?”
The skinny man flinched, shaking his head fast. “Shut up, man,” he muttered, his voice shaking. “I ain’t said nothing. I know better.”
The scarred man’s eyes narrowed, watching the skinny man closely. “Better hope so,” he said. “Aizawa don’t give second chances.”
The room grew tense, the air thick with suspicion.
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**1:08 PM – The Unseen Death**
The broad-shouldered thug with a scar across his nose sat near the table’s edge, his phone buzzing softly. He glanced at the screen, his thick fingers clumsy as he opened the message.
The words were short, strange, cutting into his mind like a blade. He frowned, his stomach twisting with a sudden, sick feeling.
He shifted in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His face tightened, like he was trying to shake off a bad dream. “Ugh… I need to take a piss,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.
He stood, stretching his stiff shoulders, his jacket pulling tight across his back. He turned to the wiry man, who was still grinning like he knew something no one else did. “Where’s the bathroom?” the thug asked, his tone flat.
The wiry man pointed lazily down the hall, barely looking up from his beer. “That way,” he said, smirking. “Don’t get lost.”
The thug muttered under his breath, something about idiots, and started walking. His boots thudded against the floorboards, loud in the quiet room. The other men barely noticed, their voices picking up again, low and careless.
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**1:09 PM – The Fall**
The hallway was narrow, dim, the walls stained with years of filth. The thug’s boots echoed as he moved, his steps heavy, deliberate. Afternoon light didn’t reach here, leaving the space dark, almost suffocating.
His mind was hazy, like fog had settled in his skull. His body felt wrong, sluggish, like it wasn’t his own.
Something wasn’t right.
His legs grew heavier with each step, dragging like they were stuck in mud. His balance shifted, tilting just enough to make him pause. He shook his head, trying to clear the haze, but it clung tighter, pulling at him.
Then—
**SLIP.**
His foot caught on a loose wooden plank, jutting up from the floor. His body lurched forward, arms flailing uselessly. For a brief moment, he was weightless, the world slowing around him.
Then—
**CRACK.**
His skull slammed against the floor, the sound sharp and sickening. Blood splattered across the wood, a dark, spreading pool. His body crumpled, limp, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.
The house fell dead silent.
For a second, nothing moved. The air was thick, heavy, like it was holding its breath.
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The men at the table froze, their eyes darting toward the hallway. The noise had been loud, final, like a door slamming shut forever. Cigarettes hung forgotten in their fingers, smoke curling upward.
“Oi… what the hell?” the wiry man said, squinting into the dim light. His grin was gone, replaced by a frown.
They stood, chairs scraping against the floor. The heavy-set man moved first, his bottle clattering onto the table. He stomped toward the hallway, his face tense, his fists clenched.
The thug’s body was sprawled across the floor, motionless. Blood pooled around his head, seeping into the cracks of the rotting planks. His arms twitched once, faintly, then fell still.
Someone dropped their cigarette, the ember hissing as it hit the floor.
“Hey! Get the hell up!” the wiry man barked, kicking the body’s leg. The leg flopped back, limp, lifeless.
“Shit, he’s not breathing!” the twitchy man said, his voice shaking. He knelt beside the body, pressing two fingers against the thug’s neck. His face went pale, his eyes wide with panic. “No pulse. He’s gone.”
The room exploded into chaos.
“The fuck happened?!” the heavy-set man shouted, his voice shaking the walls.
“Did he trip? Just like that?” the skinny man asked, stepping back, his hands trembling.
“That fall shouldn’t have killed him… right?” the twitchy man said, his voice barely a whisper. He stood, wiping his hands on his pants, like he could erase what he’d felt.
A bald man with a scarred face stood slowly, his eyes narrow. His voice was low, tense, cutting through the noise. “Check the windows. Check the damn windows!”
The wiry man ran to the side, yanking at the broken blinds. He peered outside, his breath fast, his heart pounding. The street was empty, the afternoon sun glaring down. No shadows, no movement.
“Nothing,” he said, turning back, his voice cracking. “No gunshot. No sound. No sniper. Then how the hell did he just—”
They all stared at the body again. The blood was thick now, pooling wider, soaking into the floor. The thug’s eyes were open, blank, staring at the ceiling.
Cold sweat ran down their backs. The air felt heavier, pressing against their chests.
The skinny man muttered, his voice trembling. “Damn it… this place is cursed.”
The scarred man spun toward him, his jaw clenched tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he growled. “We’re not dealing with ghosts.”
The twitchy man shook his head, his hands shaking worse than before. “But this ain’t normal!” he said, his voice cracking. “One second he’s walking, next second—” He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp. “—he’s dead!”
The heavy-set man paced, his boots stomping. “He was fine,” he said, more to himself than anyone. “He just stood up, said he needed a piss. How’s he dead from a fall?”
“Maybe he was drunk,” the wiry man said, but his voice lacked conviction. He glanced at the body, then away, like it burned to look.
“He wasn’t drunk,” the scarred man snapped. “He was solid. Something’s wrong here.”
The skinny man backed toward the wall, his eyes wide. “What if it’s a setup?” he whispered. “What if Aizawa’s testing us? Seeing who’s loyal?”
“Shut up!” the heavy-set man roared, pointing at him. “You’re freaking out over nothing. He tripped. That’s it.”
“Then why’s he dead?” the twitchy man asked, his voice rising. “You don’t die from tripping! Not like that!”
The tension was suffocating. The men stood frozen, staring at the body, each other. No one had answers. The house felt alive, watching them, waiting.
The scarred man shouted, his voice raw. “Get security! NOW!”
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