Chapter 1: The Fall and the Mob

My wife jumped from our apartment building. She leapt from the eighth floor and landed hard, right in front of me, the city’s night air humming with the distant thrum of traffic and the sharp, acrid smell of wet asphalt rising from the street below.

The world seemed to freeze for a moment, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and rain. My knees buckled as I stumbled forward, her white nightgown now stained a deep, horrific red. The city lights flickered above, indifferent, and the distant wail of sirens seemed impossibly far away. I could barely breathe. My hands trembled, reaching for her, but I stopped short—afraid to touch, afraid to accept what was right before me.

The residents of our complex immediately swarmed over. As they muttered, “Guess she finally snapped,” and “Figures, with the way things were going,” their faces twisted with a smug, secret delight—expressions even more chilling than my wife’s broken body. My stomach churned, nausea rising in my throat, and for a moment, I felt like I was floating outside my own skin, dissociated from the horror unfolding before me.

Some of them held up their phones, recording, their eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. A few whispered behind cupped hands, voices barely above a hiss, but the words still cut through me. The glow of the screens cast harsh, blue-white shadows on the concrete, and in those faces, I saw nothing but a hunger for gossip, for a story to tell. It was as if my wife’s death was just another trending topic, a momentary spectacle to be consumed and discarded.

Just two weeks ago, I had a happy, perfect family, and those same neighbors were all smiles and neighborly hellos.

Back then, they’d wave from their balconies, ask about Savannah’s pregnancy in the elevator, drop off extra brownies at our door. I remembered the block party last month, when Mrs. Turner from 7B complimented our nursery paint color, and Mr. Jenkins from 6C offered to help with the crib. The warmth felt so real—until the storm hit.