Chapter 7: Justice at Midnight

She was only using this incident to stir up drama and rack up views.

I saw the hunger in her eyes, the satisfaction of a story well spun. I was just another notch on her belt, another tragedy to monetize.

I turned to leave, but she grabbed my sleeve.

Her grip was surprisingly strong. I tried to shake her off, but she clung to me, determined to get her shot.

Annoyed, I shook her off.

My patience snapped. I yanked my arm free, harder than I intended. She stumbled back, eyes wide.

She cried out, “Ouch,” and fell lightly to the ground.

She landed on the wet pavement, her phone still recording. She looked up at me, tears welling in her eyes. I knew it was an act, but it didn’t matter. The camera had caught everything.

I stared at her in disbelief.

I hadn’t used any force…

I eyed her suspiciously, but she ignored me, got up, dusted herself off, and walked away.

She didn’t look back. I watched her go, heart pounding. I knew what would happen next. The video would go viral, and I’d be the villain once again.

A string of events left me exhausted. I dragged myself home.

My legs felt like lead, my head pounded. I just wanted to crawl into bed, to forget the world for a little while. But I knew sleep wouldn’t come.

Just as I reached the building, a scene froze my blood.

Savannah was standing on the balcony!

She stood at the edge, her white nightgown billowing in the wind. Her hair whipped around her face, her hands gripping the railing. I felt my heart stop.

She wore a white nightgown, the hem fluttering in the wind like a bird about to take flight.

The fabric glowed in the moonlight, ethereal and haunting. She looked like an angel—or a ghost. I called her name, but the wind swallowed my voice. The city below was alive with honking horns, far-off music, and the constant buzz of New York nightlife, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart.

We lived on the eighth floor. I couldn’t see her face, but I could sense the deep despair in her eyes.

I raced toward the building, feet slipping on the wet pavement. I screamed her name, over and over, but she didn’t move. She just stood there, silent and still. The wind whipped cold against my skin, the city’s lights blurred by tears.

My heart seized.

Time slowed to a crawl. I saw her lean forward, her toes leaving the edge. I reached the lobby, fumbling with my keys, but it was too late.

But before I could react, she, like a fallen angel, leapt from the balcony and crashed to the ground before me.

The sound was sickening—a wet, heavy thud that echoed through the courtyard. I dropped to my knees, hands shaking. My world shattered. The wind howled, car alarms blared, and the chill of the night bit into my bones.

A sickening sound of bones and flesh shattering, blood everywhere.

The pool of blood spread across the concrete, seeping into the cracks. Her body was twisted, broken, unrecognizable. I couldn’t look away.

In that moment, I didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t faint.

I just stood there, numb.

Shock numbed my senses. I felt detached, as if watching someone else’s tragedy. The world spun around me, voices fading in and out.

Everything around me faded away, as if this was only a bizarre, unreal dream.

I half expected to wake up, to find Savannah beside me, safe and whole. But the nightmare was real, and there was no escape.

The people in the complex reacted faster than I did.

They rushed out of their apartments, drawn by the noise and the promise of gossip. Some gasped, some laughed, some whispered behind their hands.

They immediately swarmed over, pointing at Savannah’s body and murmuring.

Their voices were low, but I heard every word. They circled her like vultures, snapping photos, recording videos, eager to share the spectacle with the world.

“Look, that’s the woman who miscarried online. Tsk tsk, she used to be so glamorous—now she’s lost her child and ended up like this.”

Their words dripped with schadenfreude. They relished our downfall, our pain. I wanted to scream at them to stop, to show some decency, but I couldn’t move.

“Think about how she cursed the old lady. Not pitiful at all—this is what goes around comes around.”

They twisted the story, justifying their cruelty. They called it justice, but it was nothing but spite.

“Now that she’s dead here, won’t our property values drop? What bad luck!”

Their selfishness was staggering. My wife’s death was just an inconvenience, a blip on their radar. I felt sick.

As my hearing returned, the whispers around me swelled like a tide.

The noise grew louder, drowning out my thoughts. I wanted to cover my ears, to run, but I was rooted to the spot.

The faces in the crowd were filled with secret excitement, many raising their phones to record.

They jostled for the best angle, eager to be the first to post the news. I saw my own face reflected in their screens—broken, hollow, lost.

I slowly raised my eyes, looking at each of them in turn, only to find their faces a thousand times more terrifying than Savannah’s bloodied one.

Their eyes were cold, empty, hungry. They fed on our pain, our tragedy. In that moment, I realized the true horror wasn’t Savannah’s death—it was the world that made it possible.