Lia, a seasoned journalist, approached the crime scene, a familiar tension knotting her stomach. The flashing lights of police cars painted the night in hues of blue and red, while police cordoned off the area with flapping ribbons, warnings caught in the wind.
As she prepared for her live report, a glint caught her eye, a delicate silver bracelet among the victim’s belongings. Panic surged as she knelt beside the body, her heart racing. The victim lay stretched on the road, and as she brushed away the hair, her breath caught in her throat.
“Lia! Get a grip!” she whispered, but her name echoed hollowly in the night. The police moved obliviously, their voices fading into a distant hum as the weight of her reality pressed down.
As she stared at the lifeless body, her stomach stirred. The face is a nightmare of crushed cheekbones and bruised, swollen flesh, skin drained to a severe pallor. Blood crusted over a deep cut on the forehead, and one eye, glazed and wide, stared out blankly. Matted hair clung stiffly to the torn, bloodied scalp—a silent, lifeless scream frozen on shattered lips.
The truth, cold and suffocating, settled in, she was reporting… her own murder.
