Chapter 520 Murder
The basement was dark and damp, with the musty smell of mildew hanging in the air.
A teenage boy was tied up in the corner. He hadn't eaten in three days, and his stomach felt like it was glued to his spine from hunger.
To make things worse, the kidnappers, frustrated by the lack of a decent ransom, had beaten him up to vent their anger.
He leaned against the wall, his head hanging low, feeling like his bones had been taken apart. The pain made his breathing weak.
He heard the squeaking of rats nearby and instinctively frowned, hating those filthy creatures.
But soon, he had no time to think about that.
The basement door creaked open, and the kidnappers returned.
They looked at the half-dead boy and splashed water on his face.
Then they yanked him up. One of the kidnappers grinned, revealing a set of yellow teeth, and his breath was foul.
"Hey, Percy, what am I gonna do with you? I went through all this trouble to kidnap you, and it turns out you're worthless. Your rich dad won't even cough up a measly fifty million dollars. Your life must be pretty cheap!"
Charles frowned and slowly opened his eyes. Despite facing the vicious kidnappers, he showed no fear.
"I told you, he's not my dad. If you want a ransom, you should have kidnapped his youngest son. That's his real treasure. My stepmother would gladly pay for him."
The kidnapper slapped him hard, and Charles's face quickly swelled.
"Do you think I'm stupid? Your brother is always surrounded by people. I already exposed myself to get you. You want me to go on a suicide mission?"
He paused for a moment, then flashed a sinister smile.
"But your grandma is willing to pay for you. How much should I ask for?"
Grandma...
Hearing that word, Charles's body trembled. The shock was so intense that his ears started ringing, and his vision blurred. It felt like he was drowning, unable to breathe.
No, he didn't want to die! He still had his grandma!
Charles's eyes snapped open. It was still dark, but he quickly realized he wasn't in the basement anymore.
The smell of disinfectant replaced the mildew, and he was lying on a soft bed, not a cold concrete floor.
He blinked, his vision gradually focusing, and he heard the beeping of machines.
A hospital? Had he been rescued?
Charles tried to move his arm, but the pain was still there.
Suddenly, the door to his room creaked open, and a shadow slipped in.
Charles frowned at the figure. As the person approached, they pulled a syringe from their pocket.
In the dim light, the needle was about to pierce the IV line in his arm.
If it were a doctor or nurse, they wouldn't be dressed like this!
Charles's pupils contracted. The nightmare and reality overlapped, the kidnapper's mask and this stranger's face flashing before him.
Adrenaline surged through him. He instinctively yanked the needle out of his hand, the plastic tube arcing through the air, spilling liquid on the white sheets.
"What are you doing?" the man hissed, his eyes flashing with panic.
Charles wanted to shout, but his throat was too dry to make a sound.
Realizing Charles was awake, the man lunged at him, hands wrapping around his throat, trying to silence him for good.
Oxygen was quickly cut off, and Charles struggled, knocking over the bedside machine. The loud noise drew the attention of a nurse making rounds.
"What's going on?" the nurse shouted urgently, her voice echoing down the hallway.
The man's grip tightened, and Charles's vision began to darken. On the brink of unconsciousness, a fierce will to survive made him knee the man hard in the stomach.
The man grunted and let go. Charles seized the chance to roll off the bed, the IV stand crashing to the floor.
The man was about to chase him, but the door burst open.
"Freeze! Don't move!"
Two nurses rushed in, one immediately pressing the emergency alarm on the wall.
The man cursed, shoving the nurses aside and fleeing.
Charles lay on the floor, looking disheveled. He wanted to move, but his left leg wouldn't cooperate.
The burning pain in his throat reminded him that this was no hallucination. His eyes fell on the syringe at his feet, the clear liquid inside glinting ominously in the daylight.
"Mr. Percy, are you okay?" The older nurse helped him back to bed, checking his pulse.
"You finally woke up. I'll get the doctor. Your heart rate is fast. Are you in pain anywhere else?"
"Who... who was that?" Charles's voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like his own.
The younger nurse picked up the syringe, her face turning pale. "I'll get the doctor and call the police."
Soon, an orderly arrived, lifting him back onto the bed.
The doctor arrived quickly, examining the bruises on his neck, while the police began questioning him.
Charles answered mechanically, his mind drifting.
Hadn't he been kidnapped? Why was he suddenly in a hospital? Had he been rescued? But by whom?
"Mr. Percy, do you remember how you ended up here?" The doctor's question brought him back to reality.
Charles hesitated before speaking.
"I was kidnapped, then rescued? Who saved me? Where's my grandma?"
The doctor and nurse exchanged a worried look before the doctor spoke.
"You were caught in an explosion and hit on the head by debris. Your left leg was also shot. You've been in a coma for a week. If you hadn't woken up, you might have become a vegetable."
"Fortunately, you pulled through. But it seems you've lost some of your memory. Can you tell us about yourself?"
Explosion? Charles had no memory of that. But to cooperate, he answered seriously.
"My name is Charles Percy. I'm from Evergreen City. I'm 17 years old. My father is..."
Before he could finish, the doctor interrupted, seizing on a key detail.
"You believe you're 17?"
Charles frowned, not understanding the question.
"Of course."
The doctor made a note on his chart, then spoke softly to a colleague.
"Possible retrograde amnesia. Further tests needed."
He turned back to Charles.
"Mr. Percy, your self-awareness is good, but you've lost some memories. You're actually in your thirties."
"In my thirties."
Charles repeated the words, stunned. He looked at his hands, and the nurse handed him a mirror.
In the mirror, he saw a familiar yet unfamiliar man.
It was definitely his face, pale and gaunt, but with defined features, more mature than his 17-year-old self.
A fresh scar on his brow still oozed blood. His hair was messy, and his expression held a sternness that replaced the clarity of youth.
He moved his lips and asked, "What about my family?"
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