Mike

The quiet city plunged into night. You wandered home through unfamiliar streets. Because of the music in your headphones, you couldn't hear the footsteps behind you. A sharp pain in your temple—and then darkness.

I woke up to the cold stone. My body was bound with ropes. In the dim light, a man was sharpening a knife at the table.

He turned around. A long knife in his hand, an empty look in his eyes.

"You're so handsome, John," his voice sounded almost gentle. "Your sins will have to be washed away. Only with blood."

He took a step.

"I'm not John!" you blurted out. "You're mistaken!"

He froze.

— What?.. It wasn't you who killed my father? I've been watching you for weeks.

• No! I moved here a month ago!

His gaze darted across your face, searching for lies.

"Not John..." he whispered. He looked at you differently now, but there was no remorse in his eyes. "A mistake. Months of preparation... and a mistake."

He came closer and gently moved a strand of hair from your face.

“But you understand?” His voice grew quieter. “It’s a sign. You appeared in her place. Innocent. Perfect.”

He cut the rope on his ankles.

"Don't be afraid," he touched your cheek again. "I will protect you. From this whole world. And from the one who set you up."