Fake Death の小説・ストーリー

​Buried beneath the bedrock. ​A strange, hollow laugh threatened to tear through my chest, but I choked it down, forcing my jaw to remain locked. Julian Vane had faked his death in a column of fire on a luxury yacht, and now he had buried his shadow under three hundred tons of Alaskan granite. The world would write his obituary in federal court files, labeling him a dead psychopath who had broken his own empire out of pure, obsessive spite.

And I will pay you for it without question. I saw his pupils flicker. Money. Temptation. I pressed again, in a lower voice: —All I want is a fake death. You stop my heart for a few minutes, you make them believe that I am dead. Then you announce my death to my family. The rest... I'll take care of it. He swallows hard. — But… what about the body? What will we do with the… body, in the coffin? A cold smile appeared on my face.

"Where is Damien? Real Damien?" "Dead. Really dead this time. Killed him myself. Three weeks ago. Switzerland. Before you arrived. Body you saw—real. Everything after—puppetry. Recorded messages. AI reconstruction. Deep fake. Whatever you want to call it. Point is—Damien died. You did not know. Did not suspect. Too busy surviving. Too busy—grieving." The pain was physical. Real. Crushing. Damien. Dead. Weeks ago. And I—I never knew. Never felt it. Too distracted. Too—

I heard the clicking of camera shutters, but no one called the ambulance. My blood drained dry. My body became cold. Finally, Yvette Skye was no more. I died all alone at the corner of the street. No one cared. My corpse was not a pretty sight. My eyes were wide, unseeing, and there was a large hole in my stomach. My legs were twisted together. One of my arms was flung by the side of the road. My legs were useless now. I was ugly. No wonder the little girl cried. Floating in the air, I stared at my mutilated corpse.

She chuckled as she stole a glance at Mateo who was currently looking like he had seen a ghost. "So I ran. From the hell.” She declared. "Six years ago, the world thinks Isabella Santiago died in a car crash on North Cliff Road. "You found a body. You found dental records. You held a funeral." She took a step closer to the lens. "I faked it. I faked my death to destroy my husband." The live had hit millions of views. Hundreds of comments ran up expressing total shock.

Feigning innocence, I replied, “What are you talking about? I have no idea what you mean.” “Don’t play dumb! With your stubborn personality, there’s no way you would’ve given up the inheritance so easily. And you’ve been fanning the flames online, making sure everyone knows I’m ‘dead’!” “Now that’s unfair,” I said, with mock sadness. “You were declared legally dead after going missing. What if you weren’t really dead? It’s only right to let everyone know, just in case. And see? It worked perfectly. Here you are, alive and kicking, back from the ‘dead’!”

"Tell me it's fake. The death certificate—it's fake, right? He's not dead!" Danny exhaled hard, eyes already heavy with the answer. He pulled out a stack of papers and slid them over. "I'm sorry, Dr. Foster. It's real." On top—plain and brutal: [William Wright. Date of Death: March 17, 2020. Cause: hemorrhagic shock.] Delia jerked her hand back like it burned, then snatched the page again, her fingers shaking. A tear hit the corner, smearing the ink. "No... this isn't possible..."

Nora said, "Henry suddenly said a few days ago that he wanted to be a groom. I was just trying to help him recover quickly. Don't worry, once we're registered and done with the wedding, I'll immediately apply to the court to revoke the declaration of your death and restore our marriage." I let out a cold laugh and shrugged her hand off me. Staring at the marks all over her body, I said icily, "A fake wedding? If it's just a fake wedding, who gave you all those marks on your body? It seems like our marriage is the fake one!"

I had a bright future ahead of me, but they destroyed it. Mom still did not recognize that the clothes were mine as she used tweezers to move the fragments aside. Then she examined me and reported, "The deceased was likely between 19 to 22 years old and male. It appears that he has previously undergone surgery on the skull, as there is a hole."

“You didn’t kill him.” There was a pause on the other end of the line for a brief moment. “Man, I know I fucked up. I thought people were tripping when they told me that he was around.” Grimm’s annoyed voice echoed from the other end of the line. “But they had a funeral.” I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, he faked his death. He just wanted us to forget about him or something……he wanted to get us off guard.” “Damn, that’s fucked up.”