THE TRUTH CHAPTER 3- HANGING PROTECTOR

 

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CHAPTER 3

THE TRUTH

    The night was heavy, the kind of silence that presses against your chest. I sat alone in my room, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, trying to drown the chaos in my head. My mind kept replaying the horror I had witnessed earlier that day—three murders in a single day, one of them so brutal that the image refused to leave my eyes.

A sudden knock at the door broke the silence. It was Johnny. He stepped inside without a word and sat beside me. For a long time, we didn’t speak. The silence between us wasn’t empty—it was loaded, heavy with the weight of everything we had seen. Finally, Johnny turned to me, his voice low and rough:

“Kid, I’ve been in this field for more than fifteen years. The last time I faced a case this twisted was the GT case—the thief one. Since then, nothing has shaken me like today. But I’m glad you’re here. I need your support.”

I looked at him, my hands trembling slightly as I held the cigarette. “I’ve only been in this field for two years, right after the GT case. I’m just twenty-one, Johnny. Facing things like this… it’s hard. But if I solve this, I’ll finally earn respect—not from others, but from myself. That’s what matters.”

We didn’t say anything more. Exhaustion pulled us under, and we fell asleep on the sofa. What I didn’t know was that, from the darkness outside, a shadow stood at my window, watching.

 

The Next Morning

We woke early, each of us getting ready separately, trying to shake off the unease of the night. Our first destination was the house of the man whose skull had been crushed. His wife met us at the door, her eyes swollen from crying. She told us something that made my blood run cold:

“He was a police spy. He said tomorrow he would give you information that could solve the case. But he never made it. He died before he could speak.”

The question gnawed at me—who was the killer? Why was he doing this? Was there a reason, or was this the work of a pure psychopath?

We returned to the police station, but something was wrong. The gates were locked. Confused, we circled around and found a guard lying on the ground, bleeding and barely conscious.

“What happened?” Johnny demanded, kneeling beside him.

The guard’s voice was weak, trembling. “They… they took them. All of them. The police… kidnapped. Last night.”

My stomach dropped. Twenty-nine officers gone. Johnny’s eyes burned red with fury, his fists clenched as if he could crush the killer with his bare hands.

Then I noticed a note pinned to a flower pot nearby. A location was scrawled across it. Without hesitation, we gathered fifty officers and headed there.

 

The place was an abandoned house, its walls cracked, its windows shattered. But inside was a nightmare that would haunt me forever.

Twenty-nine police officers hung from the ceiling, their bodies mutilated. Some were already dead, others clung to life, their eyes bulging in agony. The stench of blood and decay filled the air.

Johnny’s voice was grim, steady despite the horror: “This isn’t the work of one man. It’s a group. A whole network of psychopaths.”

The weight of responsibility fell on us. We weren’t just solving a case anymore—we were fighting a war. Johnny gave the order, his voice echoing like a death sentence:

“Kill them. Every last one. In the city, in the jails, in the hospitals, in the rehabs. No mercy. By the commissioner’s authority, we end this now.”

It was the boldest, most dangerous step ever taken.

 

But before we could move, before we could even breathe, the world exploded. A bomb was hurled into the room. The blast tore through the air, shattering walls, throwing bodies across the floor.

The nightmare had only just begun.

 

               TO BE CONTINUED……………..