The Dead Man and The Framed Boy

Ezekiel's anguished cry cut through the air, tears streaming down his face as he desperately sought help from the approaching police officers.

"Good, you guys are here. Someone or something just killed my father!" Ezekiel exclaimed, his voice choked with grief.

A skeptical officer responded harshly, "Nice try. You murderer! You killed your own father and want to pin it on someone else."

"What the hell are you talking about? Why the hell would I kill my own father?" Ezekiel retorted, disbelief and shock evident in his voice.

"Ezekiel Jones, you're under arrest for the murder of Christopher Jones," announced a stern police officer as fifteen officers filled the room. 

As the room descended into chaos, the narrative plunged into the past, revealing a mysterious tale that had unfolded before this let's go back 10 years before now. 

The sleek black car glided to a smooth halt, raindrops dancing on its polished surface. In the path of the vehicle stood a young boy, his ebony hair glistening in the relentless downpour. A man in his forties emerged, briskly yanking open the car door and striding toward the boy.

"Wait, sir, the rain is pouring. Take the umbrella," the concerned driver suggested, extending the sheltering accessory.

"No need, it's fine," the man replied dismissively, ignoring the offered umbrella. He crouched down in front of the boy, his gaze intense. "Tell me something, boy. Do you like mysteries?"

"Huh? What? Of course not," the boy responded, bewilderment evident in his piercing blue eyes.

"I see," the man uttered with a hint of sadness. Raindrops clung to his dark hair as he continued, "Where are your parents?"

"I don't have any," the boy admitted, a trace of vulnerability in his voice.

"You know, I will be dead soon," the man revealed, his words hanging heavily in the damp air.

"Huh? What?" the boy gasped, a mixture of shock and confusion written across his face.

"What is your name, boy?" the man asked, peering into the boy's eyes.

"I don't have one," the boy replied, his response tinged with a sense of emptiness.

"Well, my name is Christopher Jones, and exactly ten years from now, I will be dead. Won't you solve my murder, Ezekiel?" he pleaded, the gravity of his request echoing in the rain-soaked atmosphere.

Now back to the present [10 years have passed in the illustrious headquarters of Harbor Heights Logistics]

In an office cloaked in dim light, shadows danced around Mr. Jones as he sat amidst an ocean of paperwork. The air in the room bore a weighty ambiance, a blend of anticipation and secrecy. Ezekiel, the impeccably dressed young man in his late teens, known by the alias The Shepherd, stood at attention.

"Yes, sir?" Ezekiel responded, his unwavering gaze fixed on Mr. Jones.

[Ezekiel Jones, alias The Shepherd, holds the rank of one of the six commandants within the clandestine criminal organization CODE.]

"You're aware that today is my last day on earth, aren't you?" Mr. Jones disclosed, his voice carrying a unique blend of solemnity and anticipation.

"You've been saying this for the past few months. Trust me, you won't die. I'm here, and you have the other five commandants and the whole organization to protect you," Ezekiel reassured him, his voice carrying a note of conviction.

"Hmm-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Mr. Jones chuckled eerily, the sound echoing through the dimly lit space.

"What's so funny, sir?" Ezekiel inquired, his expression a blend of curiosity and concern.

"You, Ezekiel, because one cannot escape death. Even if I could, I wouldn't let you save me because I want to die. I want to experience the sensation of death. I've killed over a thousand humans and trinities combined. I deserve to die," Mr. Jones confessed, his revelation hanging in the air like an unspoken truth.

"Do you really know who's going to kill you?" Ezekiel asked, genuine concern etched on his face.

"I do," Mr. Jones replied cryptically, leaving an air of mystery lingering in the room.

"Then why not tell us, so we can eliminate them before they get to you?" Ezekiel suggested, his practicality cutting through the heavy atmosphere.

Mr. Jones rose from his chair and walked toward Ezekiel, embracing him tightly. "Because of the future, Ezekiel. Please, don't be afraid. Stop pretending and show your emotions," he pleaded, the weight of his words resonating.

"What are you talking about? I do show emotions," Ezekiel insisted, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

"Yes, when you're around your sisters, brothers, and me, of course. But I want you to experience love, you know," Mr. Jones imparted, his words carrying a sense of paternal concern.

"Are you serious? I'm a murderer, and so are you. We've to suppress our emotions; that's what you taught us," Ezekiel argued, pushing back against the unconventional sentiment.

"Well, I'm teaching you differently now," Mr. Jones declared, a determined gleam in his eyes.

As the clock struck twelve, Mr. Jones interrupted their conversation. "Oh, it's tea time. Could you—" he began, but Ezekiel cut him off.

"Sure, I'll be back," Ezekiel said, leaving the room. Five minutes later, the narrative continued.

[Kitchen]

Ezekiel balanced the tray with the tea, realizing he had forgotten Mr. Jones's penchant for admiring flowers while sipping his tea. "I almost forgot. He loves those flowers. I should get them. Damn it, where are they?" he pondered to himself.

[Office]

The office door opens and someone steps into the office.

"Oh, so you finally showed up," Mr. Jones remarked casually, his expression inscrutable.

The person Mr. Jones was talking to wasn't Ezekiel but instead someone dressed in full black and wearing a smiling mask hiding his face. He didn't reply to Mr. Jones.

"Don't worry, I want you to kill me," said Mr. Jones.

The masked figure in all black, swiftly draws his gun that had on a silencer and unleashing a barrage of shots. Mr. Jones crumpled to the ground, fatally wounded.

Ezekiel pulled open the door, "Hmm I couldn't find the flowers you like that's why I took so long." As he entered, he was confronted with a scene of chaos Mr. Jones bleeding on the ground and the mysterious man that shot him next to the window.

The tray slipped from Ezekiel's grasp as he observed the unfolding tragedy, his heart pounding. Retrieving his own weapon, he fired at the assailant, who shatters the nearby window and escapes, sprouting wings and taking flight. Ezekiel rushes to the window, gazing at the retreating figure in disbelief.

Turning back to Mr. Jones, Ezekiel frantically called for help. "Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, help! Someone, help me! What the hell...?" he pleaded, his voice filled with anguish.

"Ezekiel," Mr. Jones weakly utters, his voice fading.

"Huh?" Ezekiel responded, tears welling up as he listened to Mr. Jones's weakening voice.

"There are mysteries in this world you should solve, and this is one of them," Mr. Jones whispered. 

"Shut the hell up, please, and stop with the mystery nonsense! I hate mysteries!" Ezekiel exclaimed, his grief-laden voice ringing in the room.

"But you will be good at it," Mr. Jones murmurs before taking his final breath.

Mr. Jones's parting words echoed in Ezekiel's mind as the police burst into the room, fifteen officers filling the space.

Ezekiel's anguished cry cut through the air, tears streamed down his face as he desperately sought help from the approaching police officers.

"Good, you guys are here. Someone or something just killed my father," Ezekiel exclaimed, his voice choked with grief.

A skeptical officer responded harshly, "Nice try. You murderer! You killed your own father and want to pin it on someone else."

"What the hell are you talking about? Why the hell would I kill my own father?" Ezekiel retorted, disbelief and shock evident in his voice.

"Ezekiel Jones, you're under arrest for the murder of Christopher Jones," Another police officer announced sternly.