Chapter 3 : Boiling point
Kenneth and Cole, Henry's closest friends, sat under the old neem tree by the dormitory, frustration written across their faces.
"I don't get it," Cole said, shaking his head. "Henry used to care about his grades."
Kenneth snorted. "He must be with Jane again."
Cole sighed. "Alright, let's check the sports building. He hangs around there sometimes."
They hadn't gone far when they spotted Henry and Jane walking hand in hand, heading toward a campus restaurant. Jane clung to his arm, smiling, her head resting lightly on his shoulder.
"You haven't been back to your room in two days," Cole said the moment they approached.
Henry blinked. The question hit harder than he expected. He tried to form a reply, but Kenneth jumped in with another.
"And what about the assignment? You do know the deadline is tonight, right?"
Henry gave a quick nod. "I've been at the library. Working on it."
"Did you finish and submit?" Cole asked skeptically.
"Yes. Of course I did."
Kenneth raised an eyebrow. "Looks like you two are heading to grab food?"
"Sure," Henry replied casually, trying to downplay the awkwardness.
Kenneth and Cole exchanged glances and turned to leave. Henry and Jane continued toward the restaurant.
Inside, the air was cool and filled with soft jazz—Jane's favorite. They took a small booth by the window. The food arrived quickly, and for a while, they enjoyed the quiet. Henry even allowed himself to relax. Then his phone rang.
"Excuse me," he said, pushing his chair back.
Jane nodded, sipping from her glass as he stepped outside.
She hadn't been alone long when a male student strolled in. He glanced around, noticed her, and approached with a familiar grin.
"Hey," he said. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
Jane gave him a polite smile. "Maybe. What's your name?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for his phone. "Can I have your number?"
"My number?" she echoed with a soft laugh.
"Yeah, just in case," he said with a shrug.
Jane considered it. It didn't seem like a big deal. "Well, I'm not alone. My boyfriend's outside on a call."
"Oh, that's fine. I'll just say hi when he gets back."
Jane hesitated, then gave a small nod and began calling out her number. That was when Henry returned.
He paused mid-step, taking in the scene: Jane smiling, the guy standing a little too close, and their phones out. His chest tightened.
Jane glanced up. "That's Henry, my boyfriend."
The student turned and offered Henry a friendly hand. But Henry didn't shake it. Instead, he slapped it away.
"You must be daring me," he growled. "You son of a bitch."
"Me?" the guy replied, shocked.
Before he could say anything more, Henry slapped him across the face—hard, fast, like a lightning strike. The restaurant froze. The slap echoed.
Chaos broke out. Chairs scraped. People gasped. The student lunged, pushing Henry back. A struggle ensued.
Henry reached behind him for anything he could grab. His fingers found a small steak knife on a nearby table.
Without thinking—driven by blind rage—he plunged it into the other student's side. There was a moment of silence.
Then came the blood—rushing, fast, dark.
The student staggered, then collapsed in a growing pool of red.
Henry stared, horrified, the knife slipping from his shaking hand. Around him, people were screaming, backing away. Jane covered her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief. And then Henry ran.
He didn't know where. He just knew he had to get away—from the blood, from Jane's face, from what he'd just done.Henry didn't remember his feet hitting the ground. He only remembered the blur.
Faces turned. Voices screamed behind him. Blood. That image followed him like a shadow—on his hands, his mind, his soul. He didn't know where he was going. He only knew he couldn't stop.
Through the back entrance of the restaurant, across the field, past the basketball court—he ran. His legs burned, his chest tightened, but the fear was louder than pain.
He found an abandoned maintenance shed near the edge of campus, ducked inside, and slammed the door shut. Darkness. Silence. The sound of his breathing—wild and broken. Henry pressed his back against the cold wall, slid down, and buried his face in his hands.
"What have I done?"
At the restaurant, police sirens wailed within minutes.
Security had already arrived. Staff and students stood in small huddles, murmuring, pointing, whispering. Two officers moved through the crowd, their faces firm, one of them kneeling beside the wounded student.
"Still breathing," one officer confirmed. "Barely. We need paramedics now."
Jane stood at the corner of the room, frozen. Her hands trembled. She couldn't stop staring at the blood. The chair. The knife.
"Miss, are you okay?" a female officer asked, stepping beside her gently.
"I—I don't know what just happened," Jane whispered.
"Did you witness the stabbing?"
Jane nodded slowly. "It was Henry. My boyfriend. He… he didn't mean to, but he… he just lost it."
"Where did he go?"
"I—I don't know," Jane said, her voice cracking. "He just ran."
The officer jotted it down quickly. "We'll need a full statement." Jane nodded, wiping her tears.
Elsewhere, inside the shed, Henry sat on the dusty floor, trying to slow his racing thoughts.
His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then again. He pulled it out with shaking hands—20 missed calls. From Jane. From Cole. From an unknown number.
His instincts told him not to answer. But guilt had its own weight. He opened Jane's latest text:
"Please. Come back. The guy isn't dead. Yet. But the police are everywhere. You can't run forever, Henry."
Henry's throat tightened. He read the text again, and again.He's not dead.
That gave him a flicker of hope—but it didn't change what he'd done. By evening, the news had spread. The campus was buzzing with rumors.
"Did you hear? Henry stabbed someone."
"No way, Henry? The quiet guy with Jane?"
"They're saying he's still on campus."
"They found blood on the field."
The police cordoned off several sections of the university. Drones scanned rooftops. Officers moved from dorm to dorm, checking rooms. An alert had been issued.
Back in the shed, Henry stared at himself in a broken mirror.
His shirt had dried blood on the sleeves. His eyes were hollow. His body was trembling.A knock—sudden, soft—at the metal door startled him.
He held his breath. Another knock. Then a voice: "Henry... it's me."
Jane.He hesitated, then slowly opened the door.
She stood outside in the fading light, eyes swollen from crying. She stepped in quietly.
"You shouldn't have come," he whispered.
"You shouldn't be hiding," she replied, her voice firm. "They're searching for you. Everywhere."
"I didn't mean to…" His voice broke. "I just… I snapped."
"I know," she said softly. "But that doesn't erase what happened."
Henry looked away.
Jane took a breath. "The guy… he's alive. Barely. They took him to the hospital. But if he dies…"
Henry flinched. He didn't need her to finish the sentence.
"You have to turn yourself in, Henry. It's the only way."
He looked at her, eyes rimmed red.
"Will you be there?" he asked, almost like a child.
Jane nodded. "I won't leave you. But this... this isn't something you can run from."
Henry closed his eyes and nodded, just once.
That night, Henry walked into the police station—alone, hands raised, eyes downcast. Jane waited outside.
As the doors closed behind him, the weight of his actions settled on his shoulders. And for the first time in two days, he stopped running.