Each night, after his children went to bed, Richard would sit alone at the kitchen table. The smoke was always there, curling around his head like a noose.
It grew denser with every passing day, and Richard began to wonder if anyone else could see it—if they could feel the weight of his sins in the air.
But when he asked Lily to come closer or waved his hand to disperse it, no one saw anything. Only he could feel the thick, choking presence.
And the more it loomed, the more his boss's cruel voice echoed in his mind. The nights he dragged another body out of the office replayed like a nightmare that wouldn't end.
He could see the face of the man Michael had killed, the way his eyes had gone cold, the way Richard had helped clean up the blood without a word.
One evening, after yet another dirty job, Richard sat on the edge of his bed, the smoke now fully engulfing him. He felt its weight on his shoulders, pulling him down, pressing him into the mattress.
