C2 The Nightmare Begins

Ethan opened his eyes, his whole body throbbing with pain and his head spinning. "Where am I? Hell? They say suicides go to hell."

Stark white hospital walls surrounded him, and bright sunlight streamed through the window. An IV drip was stuck in his arm—he was alive. He hadn’t died. He was in a hospital.

A nurse walked over, checking his vitals with a calm expression. "You’re awake. Just a mild concussion—rest and you’ll be fine in a few days."

"You’re a walking miracle. Jumping off the 102nd floor of the World Trade Center and walking away with just a concussion?"

"I’m really okay?" Regret washed over him like a wave. "I’m totally fine. I should buy a lottery ticket."

"You definitely should. You’re fine, but you crushed three people to death when you fell. The NYPD is waiting outside for you."

The nurse’s voice was laced with schadenfreude. She saw death every day in the ER, but this man had kept her and the entire team busy for 24 straight hours.

It was Ethan’s first time being taken into NYPD custody, and he was driven there in a marked police cruiser. Once, he’d owned five luxury cars—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a BMW 760Li—but he’d pawned them all to pay off debts. Now he was sitting in a cop car, under armed guard, heading to the 1 Police Plaza.

In the interrogation room, a pot-bellied middle-aged cop and a sharp, beautiful female officer sat across from him. The man’s face was red with irritation, and he slammed a folder on the table. "I’m Paul, this is my partner Dana. Interrogation starts now."

"Name?"

"Ethan."

"Age?"

"26."

"Why did you attempt suicide?"

"That’s none of your business, Piggy."

Ethan was furious. He’d failed to end his own pain, and now he was being insulted by a low-level cop. Once, city officials had courted him, asking him to fund local charities and attend business galas. Now he was stuck here, taking flak from a man with a bad temper and a bigger belly.

"Piggy? How dare you call me that!" Paul’s face turned purple with rage. "You killed three people! Three! If you don’t cooperate, the DA will charge you with involuntary manslaughter, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in Sing Sing!"

Dana bit back a laugh at the nickname, a pair of dimples showing on her cheeks. Paul’s glare turned even colder.

"Life in prison? Oh, I’m terrified. Thank god—I won’t have to kill myself after all. By the way, do I have to pay for the electric chair?"

Paul was stunned silent, momentarily forgetting that Ethan had tried to commit suicide just days earlier.

"Mr. Ethan, we’re just following procedure. Please cooperate." Dana stepped in, her voice calm and steady. "The identities of the deceased are still under investigation. We don’t care who you used to be—this is the NYPD, and we need to know everything about what happened."

Ethan sighed. Dana was beautiful, and her voice was a welcome reprieve from Paul’s shouting. He suddenly remembered he’d never married—someone like her would have been perfect.

Dana flipped through his file, her brow furrowed. "You’re the CEO of Ethan Enterprises, the Dream brand founder. You were a millionaire at 24. Why jump?" She was curious. Wealthy men like him were obsessed with living—they never threw their lives away for nothing.

"It was all a dream. When I woke up, I had nothing. I never meant to hurt anyone. Just do what you want with me."

The thought of his debts, his collapsed business, the endless hounding from creditors—all of it filled him with despair again.

"We’ll detain you at Rikers for a few days. Cooperate, and don’t try to kill yourself. You can do that after we sort this out." Paul had no idea how to handle a suicidal accidental killer, so he settled for the only thing he could—lock him up.

"How can you say that? You can’t just tell someone to kill themselves!" Dana shot Paul a glare, feeling sorry for the broken young man in front of her.

Paul had Ethan taken to Rikers Island Detention Center, pulling a prisoner named Baldy aside and muttering, "Keep an eye on him." Then he left, glad to be rid of the troublemaker.

Ethan stared at the other inmates in the cell block—about 30 men, all covered in tattoos and scars, their eyes cold and dangerous. Scum, he thought.

As he stood there, Baldy led a group of men over, surrounding him. Baldy’s voice was low and menacing, laced with a thick Brooklyn accent. "Hey pretty boy, what you in for? Sex crime? You look like a high school kid."

"Sex crime? High school kid?" Ethan was confused. "Do you need a diploma to get into Rikers?"

"Fresh meat. Rat, teach him the rules."

A weasel-faced man stepped forward, his knuckles cracked. "You first—do the spear. Stick your head between your legs, now."

"What if I don’t?" Ethan had heard the stories about Rikers, about the violence and the cruelty, but he never thought he’d face it himself. He didn’t want to live anyway—why not fight back?

Baldy cursed, his hand curling into a fist. "You wanna die? I’ll send you to hell! Obey, or we’ll beat you until you can’t move!"

"Can you really kill me?" Ethan asked, his voice sincere. He’d never fought anyone in his life—might as well have some fun before he died.

"Damn it!" Baldy had been in and out of prison since he was 12. He’d smuggled drugs, robbed stores, even killed a man once. He ruled this cell block, and no one dared to challenge him—until now. This scrawny, broken kid was standing up to him, and it infuriated him.

"Guys, teach him a lesson! Beat him to a pulp!"

Rat charged first, his fist flying toward Ethan’s face.

Ethan felt a surge of wild excitement. He took the punch, his vision blurring, then kicked Rat square in the groin. Rat screamed, crumpling to the ground. Ethan grabbed another inmate’s hair, slamming his head into the man’s forehead. There were too many of them—Baldy couldn’t get out of the way, and Ethan’s head connected with his face, splitting his forehead open. Blood poured into Baldy’s eyes, and he lashed out wildly, kicking one of his own men in the ribs.

Ethan didn’t know how many hits he took—fists to his face, feet to his stomach, elbows to his back—but he didn’t stop fighting. He bit, scratched, punched, kicked, using every part of his body. Fighting was thrilling, addictive—no wonder Americans loved it so much.

Eventually, his body gave out. He collapsed to the floor, covered in blood and bruises, his vision fading. "I’m going to die," he whispered. Then everything went black.

In a daze, he opened his eyes, the room spinning. He saw a fat, blurry face leaning over him, and he threw a punch on instinct. Then he blacked out again.

Three days later, Ethan woke up in the hospital—again. This time, the pain was worse than ever. Every inch of his body ached, his bones felt like they were breaking, his eyes were swollen shut, and his head throbbed so badly he could barely think. The same nurse from before was standing beside his bed, and for the first time, she was smiling.

"You’re awake. How do you feel?"

"You look beautiful when you smile. I’m still alive—sorry to keep you busy. It’s really hard to die, isn’t it?" Ethan slurred, his head lolling to the side.

"Really? You just barely escape death, and you’re already flirting?" The nurse blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m Icy, by the way."

Icy still couldn’t believe this man. He’d jumped off a 102-story skyscraper, then attacked 30 inmates at Rikers like he was trying to get himself killed. 20 of the inmates were injured—three had half their ears bitten off, one had a broken nose, two had been kicked in the groin. And Ethan? Just bruises and a mild concussion. He was a walking miracle.

Just then, Paul walked in, his left eye black and blue, bloodshot at the corners. His face was even redder than before, and he glowered at Ethan.

"Ethan, you caused a riot at Rikers. 20 inmates injured. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Officer Paul, did you get jumped by a thug? What happened to your eye?"

"Perfect. I’m pressing charges against you for assaulting a police officer."

"What? I hit you? Did you go undercover at Rikers?" Ethan was confused. He couldn’t remember anything after the first few punches.

"Do you want to try it again?" Paul growled, touching his black eye. He’d never been so humiliated in his life. He’d gone to Rikers to check on Ethan, and the delirious kid had punched him square in the face. Now he had a black eye for two weeks, his colleagues were laughing at him, and Dana—his crush—had teased him about it all morning. To make matters worse, the Homicide Division had called—they’d been tracking the three men Ethan killed for three years, and his jump had ruined their entire investigation.

"Wait. I remember punching a fat guy who looked like a pig. Was that you?" Ethan grinned, suddenly proud of himself. He’d hit a cop. A NYPD cop. He might even be a fighting prodigy.

Paul’s face turned purple. "My name is Paul, not Piggy. Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the NYPD Homicide Division. Director Dean wants to see you."

Icy bit back a laugh, and Paul stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ethan stared at Icy, his smile softening. "Icy. Beautiful name. Fits you." He paused, then added, "By the way, where’s Dana? I kind of miss her."

Icy rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "You’re impossible. She’s at the precinct, working on your case." She checked his vitals again, then left, leaving Ethan alone with his thoughts.

The next day, Ethan was driven to the NYPD Homicide Division in Lower Manhattan. He was led into Director Dean’s office—a large, lavish room with floor-to-ceiling windows, an imported Italian leather sofa, and a mahogany desk the size of a small car. Corruption, Ethan thought to himself.

Two men were in the office: Director Dean, a big-bellied man with a crew cut and a cold stare, and Eric, a sharp, lean detective with bright eyes and a tense posture.

"Ethan. Sit." Director Dean gestured to the sofa, his voice flat.

Ethan sat down, running his hand over the soft leather. He’d had a sofa just like this in his office, back when he was rich.

"Mr. Ethan, we called you here about the three men you killed when you jumped." Director Dean leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Eric, explain the details."

Eric stepped forward, pulling three photos out of his folder and laying them on the desk. "These are the three men. First: Taro Yamamoto, a high-ranking member of the Yamaguchi-gumi—Japan’s largest yakuza clan. He was in New York to meet with local gangs. Second: Anya Volkov, a Russian Mafia enforcer, here to broker a drug deal. Third: Chen Wei, the leader of the Black Tiger Hall, the most violent branch of New York’s Dragon Tiger Gang—our top target for three years. We were staking out the Waldorf Astoria, waiting for them to meet, so we could take them all down. Then you jumped. You crushed all three of them to death. Our investigation is dead. All our leads are gone."

Ethan stared at the photos, stunned. He’d killed three gangsters—two international, one local. He’d ruined a three-year NYPD investigation. And he was still alive. Why couldn’t he just die?

"This is your problem, not mine. It was an accident. Involuntary manslaughter, at worst. I didn’t mean to kill them."

"Besides, I killed three pieces of garbage. I did the city a favor. You should give me a medal, not interrogate me." Ethan no longer felt guilty. If anything, he felt proud. He’d taken out three dangerous men.

Director Dean smiled, a cold, calculating smile. "We’re not charging you. Not yet. But Yamamoto was in the US on a tourist visa—this could turn into an international incident with Japan. And the Dragon Tiger Gang? The Russian Mafia? They don’t forget. They’ll come for you. They’ll make you suffer."

"I don’t care. I want to die. Let them come." Ethan leaned back in the sofa, his expression blank. He had nothing left to lose.

Director Dean’s smile faltered. He’d planned to use Ethan as bait, to lure the gangs out of hiding, but a man who wanted to die was useless. He signaled to Eric, who stepped forward quickly.

"Someone’s bailed you out. Mayor Mayo even called—he wants to meet with you. You’re a local celebrity now, Ethan. A millionaire who lost everything, a suicide survivor who killed three gangsters. The city loves you."

"Someone bailed me out? Who?"

"You can leave now." Eric handed him a newspaper, the front page featuring a photo of Ethan being led out of the hospital. The headline read: MIRACLE SURVIVOR: ETHAN KILLS 3 GANGSTERS IN PLUNGE. The article praised him as a hero, a brilliant young entrepreneur who’d faced unimaginable hardship. Mayor Mayo’s quote was front and center: "Ethan is a symbol of New York’s resilience. We’ll stand by him as he rebuilds his life."

Ethan stared at the newspaper, then laughed—a bitter, hollow laugh. "Creditors. All of them. They don’t want me to die. They want their money back."

He looked up at Director Dean, seeing the calculating glint in his eye. "It’s a conspiracy. You wrote this article. You’re using me as bait. You want the gangs to come for me, so you can catch them."

Director Dean didn’t deny it. He just smiled. "Smart man. Stay alive, Ethan. For your own sake. And for ours."

Ethan left the Homicide Division, stepping out into the bright New York sunlight. He knew Director Dean was right. The gangs would come for him. The NYPD was using him as bait.

The real nightmare had just begun.