White lights

The world returned to David in pieces. Light first. Blurred, blinding, white light that stabbed through his eyelids. Then sound: faint beeping, the shuffle of shoes, the murmur of voices. Then pain — deep, throbbing, crawling through his body like something alive.

He gasped, jerking upright, but a firm hand pushed him back onto the bed.

“Easy,” a nurse said softly. “You’re in the ER. You’re safe.”

Safe.
The word almost made him laugh.

His vision cleared. He was surrounded by machines. Cold IV tubes snaked into his arm. His clothes were gone, replaced by hospital fabric. His chest ached, ribs screamed when he breathed, but he was alive. Against all intention… against everything they had done… he had survived.

The nurse checked his vitals, speaking gently. “You were found near Pier 47. Hypothermic, bruised, dehydrated. You’re lucky someone saw you.”

Lucky.

David stared at the ceiling, empty and silent. His voice, when it came, was quiet and controlled.

“…How long have I been here?”

“Just a few hours. You were unconscious when they brought you in.”

He nodded slowly. Every word she spoke drifted past him like background noise. His mind wasn’t in that room. It was back in the casket. Back in the river. Back with Daniel. Back with the people who tried to erase him.

Footsteps approached. Heavy, deliberate.

A man in uniform stepped into the room, badge shining beneath the fluorescent lights.

NYPD.

“Morning,” the officer said, pulling up a chair. “I’m Detective Cross. I’ve got a few questions, if you’re up for it.”

David didn’t react. His heartbeat stayed steady. Calm. Controlled.

“Can you tell us your name?” the detective asked.

David blinked slowly, eyes cold and unfocused. “I… I think so,” he whispered. “David. David Johnson.”

Cross wrote it down. “Alright, David. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

Silence.

The nurse looked at David with sympathy. “He’s still in shock—”

David cut her off, his voice small, trembling by design.

“I don’t… remember.”

The detective leaned forward. “You don’t remember anything?”

David swallowed hard, letting his eyes drift, unfocused. “Lights… cold water… then nothing. I woke up here.”

Cross narrowed his eyes. “That’s it?”

“I… I can’t remember the rest,” David whispered. “It’s all blank.”

Inside, his thoughts were razor sharp.

Of course I remember.
I remember every punch.
Every stab.
Every voice.
Every face.
Every betrayal.
Every second inside that coffin.

But he kept his expression soft, confused, fragile. The perfect victim with the perfect lie.

“Do you know who might’ve done this to you?” Cross pressed.

David’s breathing hitched, another calculated act. “I… don’t… know. I can’t think straight.”

The detective studied him for a long moment. David didn’t blink.

Finally, Cross leaned back. “Alright. We’ll take your statement again when you’re stable. For now, just rest. The doctors say you’re lucky to be alive.”

The word again.
Lucky.

David forced a weak nod. “Okay.”

Cross stood and motioned to another officer just outside the curtain. They whispered to each other, throwing glances at David before walking away.

When they were gone, the nurse touched his shoulder gently. “You really don’t remember? Anything at all?”

David’s lips curled into a faint, hollow smile.

“No,” he said softly. “Nothing.”

The nurse sighed. “Well… if anything comes back, the detectives need to know.”

“I’ll let them know,” David replied.

She walked away, leaving him alone in the ER room with only the machines for company.

The moment the curtain slid shut, David’s expression changed. His eyes sharpened, shifting from blank innocence to cold calculation.

Of course he wouldn’t tell the police.
Not yet.
Not ever.

If he told them the truth, the community would lawyer up, hide behind money, power, and influence. They would bury the case just like they buried him.

No.
They didn’t deserve a trial.
They didn’t deserve due process.
They didn’t deserve mercy.

They deserved him.

He let the quiet hum of the machines fill the silence. His body hurt, but pain was familiar now, almost comforting. It reminded him of what he’d escaped. It reminded him of what he had to do.

He whispered to himself:

“They think I’m gone. They think it’s over.”

His fingers curled into a slow fist.

“But I’m not done.”

He looked toward the doorway, where the officers had stood.

“They won’t stop what’s coming.”

He closed his eyes, letting the darkness settle into him like an old friend.

Daniel’s face flashed in his mind — guilt, shock, fear.

“We’re not done, Daniel,” he muttered. “Not even close.”

Then he thought of Mr. Hargrow.
The socialites.
The wealthy cowards.
The entire rotten high-class circle that had fed off corruption and thrown him into the river without hesitation.

A faint smile crept across his lips, cold and merciless.

“Memory loss,” he whispered. “That’s what they’ll believe.”

He knew exactly what he was doing.
He was playing the long game.
Quiet. Patient. Hidden.

And when he left this hospital, when his body healed, when he could walk without pain—

Manhattan would tremble.

One by one, they would fall.
Not quickly.
Not peacefully.
But the way they deserved.

He stared at the ER ceiling, listening to the beep… beep… beep of the monitor beside him.

Each beat was a countdown.

Each breath was a promise.

“I’ll kill every last one of them,” he whispered.

Then, softer, colder:

“And they’ll never see me coming.”