Chapter 1: The Night Everything Broke

The wife's boss used the excuse of a company gathering to invite her out for karaoke, kept her there until nearly two, plying her with drinks and crude jokes, refusing to let her leave.

In the dead of night, she swallowed an entire bottle of sleeping pills and never woke up again.

She sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the silent glow of her phone, her thumb hovering over Derek’s contact. But the words wouldn’t come. Not tonight. Not ever again.

Under her pillow, she left a suicide note—just a handful of words, her pain squeezed between the lines—enough to haunt, but not enough to explain.

The next morning, the house was eerily silent. The glow from the hallway nightlight barely reached the edge of the bedroom. The emptiness felt heavy, like the world itself had paused, holding its breath in mourning. A chill hung in the air, as if the very walls were absorbing her pain.

1

Derek, I'm sorry, but I have to go first.

I can't bear to face you anymore, but please remember, I will always love you.

If you can, please avenge me.

Her handwriting was small and precise, the kind of penmanship she used to write grocery lists or birthday cards. Even as she faced the end, she was careful, not wanting to burden him with a mess. The note’s corners were slightly crumpled, like she’d hesitated before tucking it under the pillow.

The police questioned, the coroner examined, and everything moved quickly. Before long, my wife was laid to rest.

Her funeral was a simple affair—a handful of friends, a few coworkers, and the scent of lilies crowding the small chapel. The lilies’ perfume was so thick it made my stomach turn. Someone coughed in the back row, the sound echoing off the stained glass. The pastor spoke in soft tones, but I barely heard him over the dull roar of my own guilt and rage. The sky outside was gray, the cemetery grass muddy under my dress shoes.

As for that suicide note, I didn't mention a word of it to anyone.

I kept it folded tightly in my wallet, the paper softening at the edges as the days blurred together. Her parents called every night, begging for answers. I lied. My brother asked if she left a note. I said no. That scrap of paper was the only thing that still felt like her.

Why couldn't my wife face me anymore? Why did she want me to avenge her?

I think anyone with eyes can guess.

Late-night karaoke, boss, female subordinate—those words alone paint a scene that torments me endlessly.

Images flashed in my mind: her sitting alone at the end of a sticky vinyl booth, fluorescent lights flickering overhead, forced laughter echoing from some jerk at the mic. I imagined the way her shoulders would tense, her polite smile, the way she’d grip her phone under the table. All of it seared into me, sleepless and relentless.

In my wife's Facebook Messenger, I quickly found the people who invited her out that night.

There were two: the company's finance director, Brian Summers, and the general manager, Mark Evans.

That morning, someone messaged my wife's Facebook.

Finance Director Brian Summers: "Why haven't you shown up for work these past two days? Did we wear you out that night?"

The message notification lit up her phone like an accusation. I stared at the little profile picture—Brian with his dumb forced grin, sunglasses on top of his head like he thought he was hot shit. My pulse hammered in my temples.

Suppressing my fury, hands shaking, I typed: "Director Summers, meet me on the rooftop. Just you. Don't tell anyone else."

He replied almost instantly: "Wow, I used to ask you to talk alone and you always refused. One lesson and you finally get it, huh? Wait for me, see you in half an hour."

By then, I was already waiting downstairs at the company.

The street was crowded with people. Soon, a man stepped out of a rideshare.

Morning traffic buzzed by, headlights bouncing off puddles from last night’s rain. Across the street, a food truck sold burnt coffee and sausage biscuits to a line of office workers shuffling toward their day. I ducked into the shadow of the building’s awning, hands jammed in my pockets, heart pounding.

He looked like he’d once been athletic, but now his skin was the color of printer paper and his eyes darted, rabbit-fast. When he saw me, he greeted me right away: "Derek."

His name was Caleb Foster—my fellow patient and my partner in revenge.

Caleb wore a faded bomber jacket, the collar turned up against the morning chill. His eyes, sunken and rimmed with exhaustion, met mine without flinching. We didn’t need words. We’d planned this in the gray hours when neither of us could sleep.

We entered the office tower together and soon reached the rooftop.

The elevator creaked all the way up, the doors groaning open onto a gravel-strewn roof. HVAC units hummed, the city’s skyline smeared by clouds. I could taste the metallic bite of adrenaline on my tongue.

About ten minutes later, the rooftop door swung open. A man in a suit with greasy, center-parted hair walked in.

I recognized him immediately: Brian Summers. This narcissistic, slimy guy was always posting selfies on his Instagram stories.

His suit jacket was too tight across the shoulders, and his cologne hit the air a second before he did. He checked his reflection in the shiny elevator doors as he stepped onto the roof, smoothed his hair, then scanned the space for someone more important than us.

He looked around, disappointment flashing across his face, then cursed under his breath: "You think you can screw with me? You’re dead meat."

Just as he turned to leave, Caleb jumped out from behind and slapped a strip of heavy-duty tape straight across his mouth. Brian’s hands flew up, wild, but Caleb pinned his arms fast, muscle memory from a thousand bar fights.