The casket

The night pressed down on Manhattan like a living thing. Fog rolled off the Hudson, thick and wet, wrapping the city in gray shadows that swallowed everything but the distant flicker of streetlights. On the pier, far from the crowded streets and high-rise lights, a group of figures moved silently. They carried ropes, boots, and knives, and their faces were pale with fear and excitement. Among them stood Daniel Johnson, his twin, watching helplessly. His hands shook. His heart pounded. He knew what was coming, but he could not stop it. Not now. Not ever.

David struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles, but they were tight. Every movement tore at his skin, bruised his arms, and left marks he would carry forever. The night air was cold and biting, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were a storm of confusion, betrayal, and disbelief. These were the people he trusted—or at least thought he could trust. And now, they were here to kill him.

The first blow landed before he could even blink. A fist slammed into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. The next followed, then another, and another, each one carrying not just physical pain, but the weight of treachery. They wanted him broken. They wanted him gone. And they were succeeding.

Daniel stepped forward, trying to help, but a sharp command froze him in place. “Hold him still!” a voice hissed. He did as he was told, forcing his hands against his brother, feeling the guilt clawing at his chest. David’s eyes found his own twin’s, and in that moment, something inside him shattered. This was not just a beating. This was betrayal. This was the end of everything he had ever known.

Knives flashed. Pain stabbed through his side, sharp and fleeting, but enough to make him stumble. The group worked with methodical precision, ensuring David’s body would not survive the night. He was beaten, stabbed, and broken, but the worst part was knowing that Daniel had been there, unable to save him. The cold truth burned more than any blade: his own twin had done nothing.

Finally, when David could barely lift his head, they threw him into the coffin. The wood was rough and splintered, the smell of varnish mixed with blood. He barely had time to process the terror before the lid slammed shut. Darkness swallowed him, suffocating and complete. He pounded on the walls with useless fists, scraping his skin raw, but the coffin was sealed tight. The sound of water lapping against wood echoed in his ears as the casket was lowered into the Hudson River. The icy water surged around him, cold and unyielding. He struggled, lungs burning, body broken, consciousness fading.

For hours, he drifted between life and death, the city lights blurred and distant, the sound of the waves muffled and strange. Time lost all meaning. His body ached, his lungs screamed, and every breath was a battle. He thought of Daniel’s face, frozen and pale in the moonlight, and of the others who had participated in his destruction. The rage that had been simmering within him finally boiled over. He would not die. Not like this. Not for them.

Somewhere deep in the darkness, a spark of awareness returned. Pain was still there, but so was clarity. His vision sharpened in the gloom. His thoughts aligned, precise and focused. He remembered every blow, every stab, every look of fear and satisfaction in the eyes of those who had come to kill him. And then, a single, undeniable thought formed: they had to pay.

The water dragged the casket through the river currents, tossing it against rocks and debris. One side cracked. A sliver of moonlight cut through the darkness. David moved instinctively. He pushed, shoved, and twisted, every movement fueled by desperation and rage. The wood groaned. Splinters pierced his skin, sharp but insignificant compared to the fire within. Finally, with a final surge, the lid gave way. Cold water surged in, washing over him in sheets, but he clawed himself free. He gasped, lungs burning, water filling his throat, but he was alive.

David emerged onto a forgotten dock, soaked and shivering. The city behind him was indifferent. Manhattan’s lights twinkled as if mocking his suffering, unaware that one of its own had returned from death. He stood there, water dripping from his clothes, his body bruised and battered, but his mind was clear. He was not the same boy who had been thrown into the river. The boy who trusted his twin, the boy who believed in justice, was gone. In his place stood something colder, sharper, and more determined than anyone around him could imagine.

He thought of Daniel, frozen and guilty, and the others who had participated. His rage was no longer blind—it was methodical. Every step he took would be deliberate. Every action calculated. The city would feel his vengeance, whether the streets, the docks, or the shadows of their luxury apartments. Nothing could stop him. He had nothing to lose. Nothing.

For the first time since the night began, he allowed himself to take a breath. The fog rolled past him, mingling with the river spray. The air smelled of salt, iron, and decay. His heart still beat, steady and relentless, fueled by hatred and the certainty of what he must do. Manhattan would remember the night David Johnson was buried alive. And the city, in its arrogance and wealth, would soon pay for its sins.

David took one last look at the pier, then turned toward the city. The lights glimmered across the water, oblivious to the shadow moving toward them. They would not see him coming. They would not survive him.

And with that, he disappeared into the fog, a living ghost of revenge, ready to reclaim the world that had tried to bury him.