On January 5th, 2026, three bodies were found beneath the abandoned Bridge of Jordan — once known as the Heavenly Bridge of Peace.
By noon, the riverbank was wrapped in yellow tape. Police lights reflected against cold water. News reporters spoke in careful voices, as if lowering their tone could undo gravity itself.
No one was surprised.
By sunset, the King signed the order.
By nightfall, the bridge was being torn down.
Steel shrieked as machines pulled it apart. Concrete cracked. The structure that had stood for decades fell in hours.
For ten years, people had jumped from it.
For ten years, officials called it "isolated incidents."
For ten years, the city pretended not to notice.
Somewhere along the way, the name changed.
No one called it the Heavenly Bridge of Peace anymore.
They called it Hell Hound.
The question spread faster than the footage of the demolition:
Why now?
Why destroy it today, and not after the first body?
Or the second?
Or the tenth?
The answer was found in the final message left by the last three.
Written in identical handwriting.
Signed the same way.
"We may live again in death — or we may not. Who knows?
Maybe there is no God waiting to repay our pain or punish our final act.
Maybe there is nothing at all.
But believe this: our paths kept crossing this bridge.
Every road led us back here.
We tried to walk away. We tried to pray. We tried to wait.
There was no other way but to walk it.
If this is damnation, then we were damned long before we jumped.
Farewell."
--
Six years earlier.
The sun rose over a city where young men didn't dream big.
They dreamed small.
A minimum-wage job.
A rented apartment.
A wife.
A quiet life.
That was enough.
Corruption couldn't be touched.
Sickness was ordinary.
Poverty was inherited.
Depression didn't exist — unless you were rich enough to afford the word.
The only thing that mattered was the word of God.
But which God?
Honestly, I don't even know anymore.
Alarms rang.
Dogs barked outside.
Walls carried voices like they were made of paper.
"Well! Wake the fuck up!"
The moment I heard my mother, I knew it was morning.
My head felt like it had been filled with wet sand. My eyes burned. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Yeah.
Hungover.
"I'm fucking awake, okay?!" I shouted.
I grabbed my phone — my alarm — and threw it across the room. It hit the wall and dropped to the floor, still vibrating like it was mocking me.
I curled back into bed, pulling my knees toward my chest like a kid refusing school.
I know what you're thinking.
Lazy. Ungrateful. Dramatic.
No.
I just hate waking up.
It's a reminder that I'm still alive.
That there's more shit to do.
More expectations.
More noise.
Wouldn't it be easier to just… not wake up at all?
The door slammed open.
A slipper hit my shoulder.
"What the hell?!" I snapped.
"Now you're listening, you lazy brat? You're late for your first day of high school!"
I stared at the ceiling.
"It's six in the morning."
"And your new school is an hour away!"
I opened my mouth to argue.
The second slipper hit my face.
Perfect aim.
"Go shower. You smell like a homeless screw-up."
The door slammed shut again.
"I hate my life," I muttered into my pillow.
I needed a cigarette so badly my hands twitched.
But if my family caught me smoking?
I wouldn't just get yelled at.
I'd disappear.
The bathroom light made everything look worse.
I stayed in there for half an hour, throwing up quietly so no one would hear. The last thing I needed was suspicion.
If they found out I drank?
Best case, I'd get beaten.
Worst case, I'd get thrown out.
I turned the shower on and let the water hit my face until my breathing slowed.
When I stepped out, I stared at myself in the mirror.
My hair used to be a wolf cut. Now it just looked tired.
My eyes were darker than they should've been at sixteen.
"I could be sleeping right now," I muttered.
From outside, my father's voice thundered through the thin walls.
"His grades keep getting worse! How am I supposed to show my face anywhere with a son like this?"
The house wasn't big.
It didn't need to be.
I grabbed my bag and moved toward the door quietly.
"Where do you think you're going?" my father barked.
"To school," I said, barely audible over my mother yelling at my little brother about his weight.
"Raise your damn voice! Do you think you're a girl? And what's with that hair? It's taller than your mother's!"
Anyone's hair was taller than my mother's.
She had cancer last year.
I kept my eyes on the floor.
"Raise your head and look at me!"
Instead, I opened the door.
"Sorry. I'm late."
And I ran.
Cold air hit my lungs as I sprinted toward the bus stop.
By the time I got there, my stomach churned again.
Only one person stood waiting.
Tall.
Headphones in.
Dressed completely in black — like mourning something I didn't understand.
A cigarette between his fingers.
Green eyes.
Sharp jaw.
Around 6'3.
He didn't look like he belonged here.
He looked like he'd wandered into the wrong city.
Or maybe I had.
I swallowed.
I opened my bag.
Two cigarettes left.
"Lucky day," I muttered.
I placed one between my lips.
And realized I forgot my lighter.
Of course I did.
I sighed.
A hand tapped my shoulder.
"Hey. Need a lighter?"
His voice was calm. Smooth. Almost amused.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
"Yeah," I said quickly.
He handed it to me, smiling like he already knew something about me.
I lit my cigarette and tried not to stare.
Failed.
The sunlight caught in his eyes. They didn't look tired.
That alone made him different from everyone I knew.
He caught me looking.
He smiled wider.
"What's your name?" he asked.
My heart started racing. It made no sense. It was just a question.
"I'm—"
The bus screeched to a stop, cutting me off.
"Sorry, didn't hear you," he said, stepping a little closer. "What's your name?"
I swallowed.
"My name is Well."
He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary.
Like he was memorizing it.
"Well," he repeated softly.
For the first time that morning —
I didn't feel like disappearing.