Winter, 2006.
Michael Wakeham stood at the entrance of the morgue, his whole body trembling — and it had nothing to do with the freezing wind.
His face was stiff, blank, like his mind had just shut down.
An hour ago, he got a call.
"Are you Rachel Wakeham’s brother? I'm sorry... she took her own life."
The voice on the other end was cold — sharp, like a dagger stabbing straight into his chest.
“That’s impossible! You’ve got the wrong person!”
But when they read out Rachel’s ID number and her school’s address, his legs gave out. He fell straight off the scaffolding at the construction site.
Just days ago, Rachel had tugged at his arm, grinning like always. “Mike, when I get back this weekend, I’ll make your favorite — sweet and sour ribs!”
How could *she* end her life?
Michael clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. No pain—just numbness and confusion.
One thought screamed in his head, louder and louder: “Rachel, please tell me this isn’t real… come on, say something…”
At the door of the cold room, he froze.
His clothes were soaked in mud and sweat, torn and filthy. He tried to wipe the gunk off his hands, only to realize there wasn't a clean patch left on him.
He took a shaky breath, forced down the burn in his throat, then stumbled in.
The stink of disinfectant hit like a brick wall, but he barely noticed.
In the center, under a white sheet, lay a body. Still. Silent.
His heart stopped. Legs frozen like they weighed a ton.
He took a step closer, hands twitching as he rubbed them on his jeans—smearing more dirt. He didn’t care.
All he saw was the white sheet.
He reached out slowly, his hands shaking badly, and pulled it back—
His breath caught. His whole body tensed.
Rachel’s skin was horrifically pale, covered in bruises and cuts.
Rope marks around her wrists and ankles, deep purple, angry-looking.
Burns—cigarette burns—scarred her arms, raw and ugly.
"This... what happened..." Michael whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief.
He uncovered her fully and staggered back, gasping.
Stitches lined her stomach — knife wounds, recent but already sewn up.
He spun around, red-eyed, and glared at a staff member nearby. “You’re telling me this was *suicide*?!"
The man backed up fast, clearly rattled. "T-that’s just the initial report... we’re still figuring things out..."
Michael lunged and grabbed his collar. “She’s beaten black and blue! You’re telling me she did that to herself?!”
Just then, someone in uniform walked in.
“Sir, please calm down. The autopsy suggests suicide. As for the injuries…”
He hesitated. Then said with a stiff face, “Most are old wounds... looks like she might’ve gotten them during... intercourse.”
“Bullshit!” Michael snapped. “Rachel was *eighteen*! There’s no way—”
He let go of the staff member, turned to face the officer as his voice cracked from rage and grief.
“My sister was *tortured*. She didn’t do this to herself. Someone *killed* her.”
The officer sighed but said nothing.
The silence in the room stretched on. Heavy. Suffocating.
No one believed him.
Michael dropped to his knees beside her and broke down, crying uncontrollably.
…“Mike, honestly, you should've been the one going to college. Your scores were better than mine... and you're so smart…”
“Mike, working on that site must be tough, huh? When I graduate and find a job, I’ll take care of you…”
“Mike, stop always giving me the meat. You need to eat more too…”
“Mike, what really happened to Mom and Dad?”
“Mike…”
Each memory felt like a knife slicing through Michael Wakeham's mind, flooding him with unbearable agony.
“AAHHH!”
He suddenly threw his head back and screamed, pouring out all his grief and despair. His bloodshot eyes were overflowing with torment.
In front of everyone present, he wrapped Rachel’s body in the white cloth and lifted her in his arms, step by step walking out of the morgue.
Every step felt like stomping on his own heart.
“Wait… you haven’t…” someone tried to stop him.
The officer nearby sighed and said, “Let him go.”
As he stepped out of the funeral home, light snow began to fall from the sky—like the world itself was mourning her passing.
Snow drifted silently.
Every flake like a tear from the heavens.
Michael walked on the icy asphalt, holding his sister’s lifeless body. His face was pale, his eyes empty, as if his soul had long gone with her.
“Yo!”
A few flashy-looking punks blocked his path.
The one with bleached yellow hair, Henry Brown, sneered, “You’re Rachel Wakeham’s brother, yeah? She owed us money, and now she’s dead. How do you plan to pay it back?”
Michael slowly looked up, pain and confusion swirling in his eyes. His voice had turned hoarse. “Rachel borrowed money… from you?”
“No shit,” Henry said with a wicked grin. “And to borrow from us, she even took some nudes. Don’t try to deny it, or I’ll post those pics all over her college. Let them all see what kind of girl your sister really was.”
“Damn shame,” said another punk, glancing at Rachel’s corpse. “Back then, I told her one night with me and I’d waive the interest. She refused. Now look at her—dead.”
“Gross,” muttered a third. “Bet she was filthy anyway. Don’t let that pretty face fool you—she was wild behind closed doors…”
“Oh, like you know?”
“Hell yeah, I know!”
As they laughed and talked nasty, Michael’s face turned grimmer by the second.
He fixed his eyes on Henry. His voice low, full of frost and fury, he asked, “What… did you just say?”
Every word came from clenched teeth, barely more than a growl.
“You deaf or what?” Henry spat. “I said—”
Before he could finish, Michael slammed his forehead into Henry’s nose with a crack!
Henry hit the ground screaming, blood gushing from his shattered nose.
“Motherfu—” the others shouted and swarmed him.
Michael spun around, shielding Rachel’s body as their fists rained down.
Every hit hurt like hell—but it couldn’t touch the pain clawing at his heart.
“I’m sorry, Rachel… just wait for me a bit,” he whispered to the lifeless girl in his arms, as if she could still hear.
He gently laid her down, and before he could even move, someone kicked him hard in the back, nearly knocking him over.
But he bit down, dug his heels into the cold ground, and got back up.
When he rose again, his eyes were blazing with fury.
It was the kind of rage that only a man with nothing left could feel.
In a flash, he lunged and grabbed the nearest punk by the arm.
Years of hard labor on construction sites had built his body like a machine—and that moment, all his strength exploded!
Before the punks could even react—
Snap!
Michael broke the guy’s arm in one brutal twist!
A scream tore through the winter air, but his eyes were like steel.
Snow swirled wildly around them, and the whole world seemed to shudder.