After days of hell, Bear decided to gamble with his life to regain his freedom.

One evening, when the lights went out, he quietly crawled out of the barn, step by step, listening to the wind and the insects.

His heart pounded, each beat threatening to burst. In front of him was a vast field, behind him a small hell.

But Bear knew: if he didn’t leave, he would die — die slowly, in the dark, with the iron chains strangling his soul.

He had just reached the fence to escape when a gunshot rang out. The bullet hit his arm — blood splattered. Bear collapsed. The field fell silent, except for the sound of gasping breaths, the sound of shaking hearts, the rustling of straw. Ray stood behind him, his face carrying a cold smile: “Rule number one: no locals.” (My rule: don’t touch the locals.) Bear looked up at the sky — eyes wide, scared, like when he first saw the barn light and the sound of the lock locking him.

The police were called. But the farm was empty, silent as if the crime had never happened. Only Bear — trembling, purple, wild-eyed — lay in the straw. The villagers poured in: a mixture of panic, anger, fear. Many looked at Bear, not daring to believe: this was the man they had shaken hands with, had said good morning to.

Rumors spread quickly: Bear had been shot for daring to escape. Some panicked, turned away — afraid of being involved. Others called out to each other, trembling: “Crime can happen to anyone, at any time.” Emmerdale — so peaceful — became a den of suspicion, whispers, shortcuts to lock doors.