The Bloody Knife

# The Bloody Knife

**By Vijay Sharma Erry**

---

I blinked as I regained consciousness. I had hit my head hard, or had someone hit me? Then I realised I was holding a bloody knife in my hand.

My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. The knife felt heavy, impossibly heavy, as if it carried the weight of something I couldn't yet comprehend. Blood dripped from the blade onto my trembling fingers, warm and sticky. 

*Whose blood is this?*

I tried to piece together the fragments of memory scattered in my mind like broken glass. The last thing I remembered was walking home from the office, taking my usual shortcut through the alley behind Maple Street. It was Tuesday evening. Or was it Wednesday? The days had been blurring together lately.

My head throbbed with a sharp, pulsing pain. I raised my free hand to my temple and felt a wet, tender bump. When I pulled my hand away, my fingers were stained crimson. So I was bleeding too. But the amount of blood on the knife... that couldn't all be mine.

Panic surged through me. I looked around frantically, trying to orient myself. I was in a room—no, a basement. Concrete walls, a single bare bulb swinging overhead, casting dancing shadows. The air smelled of dampness and something else... something metallic and wrong.

Then I saw him.

A man lay crumpled against the far wall, his white shirt blooming with red like some grotesque flower. His eyes were closed, his face pale as chalk. I didn't recognize him. I had never seen him before in my life.

"Oh God," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Oh God, oh God, what did I do?"

But even as the words left my mouth, something didn't feel right. The fog in my head was slowly clearing, and with clarity came questions. If I had stabbed this man, why couldn't I remember it? Why was my head bleeding? And most importantly, why would I hurt someone I didn't even know?

I forced myself to think logically. I'm David Morrison, a 34-year-old accountant. I live alone since my divorce last year. I have no criminal record, no history of violence. I don't even kill spiders in my apartment—I catch them and release them outside.

*This doesn't make sense.*

Carefully, I set the knife down on the concrete floor, wiping my hand on my pants. I needed to check if the man was alive. As much as every instinct screamed at me to run, I couldn't leave someone to die.

I crawled toward him, my legs still shaky. As I got closer, I noticed something odd. The blood on his shirt had a strange pattern—too neat, too deliberate. And when I pressed my fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse, his skin felt wrong. Too cool, too waxy.

That's when his eyes snapped open.

I jerked back with a yelp, falling onto my rear. The man sat up smoothly, far too smoothly for someone who had been stabbed. He reached up and peeled away what I now realized was a fake blood-soaked shirt, revealing a clean t-shirt underneath.

"Congratulations, Mr. Morrison," he said, his voice calm and measured. "You passed."

"What... what is this?" I stammered, my mind reeling.

The man stood up, dusting off his pants. "A test. We needed to see how you'd react under extreme psychological pressure. We needed to know if you'd run, if you'd check on the victim, if you'd call for help. Your response tells us everything we need to know about your character."

"Who are you? What kind of sick test is this?"

The bare bulb stopped swinging, and suddenly the basement was flooded with bright light. Hidden panels in the walls slid open, revealing cameras and monitoring equipment. Three more people emerged from a door I hadn't noticed before—two men and a woman, all dressed in black suits.

The woman stepped forward, extending her hand. "My name is Director Sarah Chen. I'm with a specialized division of the government. We've been watching you for three months, Mr. Morrison."

I ignored her hand, getting to my feet. "You've been watching me? This is insane! This is illegal!"

"Technically, you volunteered," said Director Chen, unfazed by my outburst. "Do you remember filling out a survey at the DMV six months ago? You checked a box consenting to participate in 'future government research studies.' You should read the fine print."

My mind flashed back to that boring afternoon at the DMV, clicking through endless forms on a tablet. Had I really agreed to this?

"But why? Why me?"

"Because you're exactly what we're looking for," she replied. "Someone with an exceptionally clean record, high ethical standards, and most importantly, someone who maintains rationality even in the most disorienting circumstances. You didn't panic. You tried to help. You questioned what was happening instead of accepting the obvious narrative."

"The obvious narrative that I'd murdered someone," I said bitterly, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

"Exactly. Most people would have run. Some would have had a complete breakdown. A few would have tried to cover it up. But you? You kept your head. That's rare."

The man who had played the victim walked over, now holding a tablet. "Your vitals were fascinating, by the way. Elevated heart rate, of course, but your cortisol levels stabilized much faster than anticipated. Your decision-making remained relatively clear despite the trauma."

"I want to leave," I said firmly. "Right now."

"Of course," Director Chen nodded. "But first, I'd like to make you an offer. We're recruiting for a very special unit—one that deals with situations that require both physical capability and unshakeable moral judgment. Situations where the truth isn't always clear, where pressure is extreme, and where the wrong decision could cost lives."

"You mean you want me to be a spy? An agent?"

"We want you to be someone who can walk into chaos and find the truth. Someone who won't be manipulated by what they see, but will dig deeper. Someone like you."

I looked around at the basement, at the fake blood still on my hands, at these people who had orchestrated an elaborate psychological torture just to test me. Part of me wanted to tell them exactly where they could shove their job offer. But another part—a part I didn't know existed until tonight—was intrigued.

"And if I say no?"

"You go home. We compensate you generously for your time and distress. You sign a non-disclosure agreement, and you never hear from us again. Your life goes back to normal."

Normal. My quiet apartment. My predictable job. My routine that had become a rut after the divorce. Was that really what I wanted?

I looked down at my hands, still trembling slightly. Tonight, I had believed myself capable of murder. Tonight, I had faced the worst possible version of myself and had still tried to do the right thing. Maybe I was stronger than I thought.

"I need time to think," I finally said.

Director Chen smiled slightly. "Of course. We wouldn't expect any less. But David? One more thing."

"What?"

"The knife—the blood on it was synthetic, but the knife itself was real. At any point, you could have used it to defend yourself, to threaten us, to try to escape. But you didn't. You put it down and tried to help. Remember that about yourself."

As they led me out of the basement and into the night, my head still aching, my clothes still stained with fake blood, I realized something profound. I had learned more about myself in the past hour than in the previous year.

The question now was: what would I do with that knowledge?

Three days later, I found myself sitting in Director Chen's office, signing paperwork. My life as an accountant was over. Whatever came next would be dangerous, unpredictable, and probably terrifying.

But when I had woken up with that bloody knife in my hand, I had passed their test.

Now it was time to find out what I was really capable of.

---

**The End**