A Thriller
A city that never listens.
A crime meant to stay buried.
One witness who should not exist.
By
Onaivi Shedrach
✍️ CHAPTER ONE
The Night That Wouldn't Let Go
Daniel Kade did not mean to stay out that late.
The night had swallowed the campus long before he realized how quiet it had become. The usual laughter, the distant hum of generators, the echo of footsteps—everything had thinned into silence. Daniel adjusted the strap of his backpack and checked his phone. 11:47 p.m.
Too late.
He quickened his pace, shoes scraping softly against the pavement. The streetlights flickered as he passed beneath them, casting uneven shadows that stretched and twisted like living things. He told himself he was tired, that his imagination was working overtime. Still, a knot formed in his stomach.
Daniel wasn't a coward. He was just careful.
The shortcut behind the abandoned printing press would save him fifteen minutes. He hesitated at the entrance, staring down the narrow alleyway. It smelled of damp concrete and old paper, a place forgotten by everyone except stray cats and the occasional drunk.
He stepped in.
Halfway through, he heard it.
A voice.
Low. Urgent. Angry.
Daniel froze.
At first, he thought it was an argument—students, maybe. Then he heard a sharp sound, like metal striking metal, followed by a short gasp. His heart skipped. His instincts screamed at him to turn around, to leave quietly, but his feet refused to move.
He edged closer, careful not to make a sound.
The alley opened into a small loading space behind the building. Two men stood there. One was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark jacket. The other was on his knees.
Begging.
Daniel's breath caught in his throat.
"Please," the kneeling man said, his voice cracking. "You don't have to do this. I gave you everything."
The tall man said nothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out something that glinted under the weak light.
A knife.
Daniel's pulse thundered in his ears. His mind screamed run, but fear locked him in place. He watched, helpless, as the blade flashed once.
The sound that followed was not loud. Not dramatic. Just a wet, final noise that Daniel would never forget.
The man collapsed.
The killer stood still for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he looked around.
Daniel stepped back.
His foot brushed against a loose bottle.
Clink.
The sound was tiny. But in the silence, it was deafening.
The killer turned.
Their eyes met.
Daniel ran.
His backpack bounced against his shoulders as he sprinted through the alley, lungs burning, vision blurring. He didn't look back. He didn't stop until he burst onto the main road, gasping for air, his hands shaking violently.
People walked past him, laughing, scrolling through their phones, unaware that just meters away, a man lay dead.
Daniel blended into the crowd and kept moving.
That night, sleep did not come.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the knife. The blood. The killer's face—calm, controlled, already forgetting what he had done.
By morning, Daniel convinced himself to report it.
At the police station, the officer barely looked at him.
"You didn't see the face clearly?" the officer asked, chewing gum.
"I did," Daniel insisted. "I can describe him."
The officer sighed. "Son, we get stories like this all the time."
Daniel left feeling smaller than when he arrived.
That evening, he noticed the black car parked across from his hostel.
The same car was there the next day.
And the next.
Daniel understood then.
The killer had not forgotten him.
He had been seen.
And silence, he would soon learn, was something people were killed for.