"Everything is going according to plan."
A man opened his eyes, still confused. A voice echoed through his mind, familiar and calm. He was standing in a room, and when he looked down, his vision still blurred, he saw that he was holding a short blade stained with blood.
His hands trembled. When he raised his head, he came across a scene that would mark him for the rest of his journey: half a dozen bodies, all dead, some men, others women, one of them still bleeding heavily.
Two people, a couple, lay on the sofa, sharing a final moment, while the others were scattered across the floor without any order.
He tried to remember why he was there. Some of the faces seemed familiar, but nothing came to mind, not a moment, not a voice, not a gesture, not a smell, nothing. Except for the strong metallic scent that filled the entire room, the bodies had not yet begun to decay. They were fresh, unarmed, incapable.
It was a living room. There were shelves full of portraits, paintings, medals, and trophies to his right. It was difficult to see much because of the blood, but there was a beautiful red carpet on the floor, and a set of three beige sofas facing a fireplace to his left.
The portraits seemed to stare at him, as if they were judging him. He felt that he should know why, but he had no idea. Those bodies thrown across the room caused a new sensation in him, a coldness in his stomach different from anxiety, a heavy discomfort over something he barely understood.
He should have felt something while looking at all of that, but he did not, and that confused him. He wanted to leave that place. He wanted to stop looking at it.
Right in front of him, there was an open window, through which a strong wind entered, along with the late afternoon sun, its orange light striking directly against his face.
What did I do?
The entire room, soaked in blood, shook something inside him. He knew he had done that. He did not remember it, but his body and instincts screamed one single, undeniable truth: he, the only one still standing, was the cruel murderer who had killed those people.
Slow footsteps approached from behind. He turned immediately, but saw nothing. The footsteps had stopped. A strong smell of washed hair reached him for an instant, while he felt a hand run along his arms. His vision gave him nothing, only that sensation that brought him a strange nostalgia.
There was a door behind him, and he went in that direction. He passed by more bodies, walking through the kitchen, then through several other rooms, until he reached what seemed to be the entrance hall.
It was clean there, strangely clean. There was an enormous door that seemed to be the way out of the place. The man approached it and heard footsteps. There were many of them. Some circled the room, coming from every direction, until they stopped. Only a few faint metallic sounds could still be heard by him.
The man stopped as well, trying to hear even the smallest sound. He instinctively felt a great danger. As he focused, he heard murmurs behind the door, growing steadily louder, until the door burst open with a crash.
Several men entered, all armed with pistols and long swords in sheaths, dressed like English policemen, with round hats and capes. They arranged themselves in a circle around the man. There were ten of them. One went deeper into the house, and another raised his weapon and fired.
The man was not surprised or frightened. He knew why the policemen were there. He was only waiting for them to confirm it.
"A report was made! It says that Luke Varyn murdered the entire Varyn household! Cooperate and tell us everything we need to know!"
Hm…
Luke Varyn raised his hands, moving his eyes over all those men, feeling an abnormal urge, something he had never felt before in his distorted memories, until a screen shimmered before his vision, with straight and organized text.
[Executioner System: Activated]
[Mission: Leave the house alive.
Obstacles: 0/10]
[Reward: Memory fragment.]
[Neutralize them.]
Ah, of course.
"Luke… is that my name?"
"Do not play dumb!" the same man said. "Tell us what happened here!"
The men kept their weapons pointed at Luke, and Luke directed his gaze toward the one who had spoken to him, his eyes calm and serene.
"I do not know if I was clear, officer. I asked you a question."
"Do you think pretending you know nothing is going to save you from this? That filthy knife covered in blood says everything!"
The man who had entered the house came running back, his face terrified, his hands stained with blood, and his arms trembling like twigs in a strong wind.
"Chief! They… they are all dead! Every single one of them! They were all slaughtered!"
All the policemen went into shock and pointed their weapons at Luke again, some of their hands trembling. One of them whispered to the colleague beside him.
"Hey… are these weapons going to work? He has to be one of them, right?"
"Shut up and do not take your eyes off him."
"But what if he is?"
"Then we are screwed, that is what will happen."
The man who had shouted at Luke before, the chief, imposed himself once again.
"There is no logic left that can save you now! We are taking you into preventive custody!"
"Luke Varyn, you are under arrest for the now confirmed murder of the Varyn household. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Luke lowered his hands and tightened his grip around the dagger he was holding. He moved his eyes across the entire room, looking at each of the guards, analyzing who was afraid, who was brave, who did not want to be there, waiting for the smallest mistake.
Even armed, none of them seemed willing to shoot first. They were too close to one another, and Luke realized that before they did.
"So that was my family, then? I don't know..."
"ENOUGH WITH THE JOKES! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! YOU FILTHY MURDERER! YOU ARE DEFYING AN AUTHORITY! FIR—"
The shot never came, because Luke moved first.