The city hummed with its usual chaotic rhythm—honking cars, flickering neon signs, laughter echoing from alleys, and distant sirens wailing like ghosts mourning their own stories. Alison pulled her coat tighter as the wind chased her from her car window, sharp with the sting of oncoming winter, as she stepped out of her car.
Her heels clicked in tempo with her racing thoughts, each step leading her closer to Lucid, the underground club where she was supposed to meet Marcus.
But she felt as if someone was following her.
She didn't want to look. She never looked. That was the rule.
Yet tonight felt different. Heavier. Like the air itself knew what was coming.
She passed the row of closed storefronts, glass shimmering with reflections she refused to check.
Earlier that evening—unseen and silent—the masked figure had already begun.
The black sedan coasted to a stop across the street, a few meters from the club. The man inside waited, motionless. When the hallway lights dimmed and the sound of Alison's boots faded into the night, he moved. Quick. Surgical.
***
She turned, walking in a hurry now. The club's side door was just ahead—security ignored regulars like her, especially when she used the back route.
Her hand reached the rusted handle, pulled and entered the club before casting a paranoid look around the parking lot.
"You really think you can outrun it?" the voice said from the sedan. Calm. Low. Disgusted.
He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her fear. Then he said it, venom coating every syllable:
"Your time is also up."
His voice cut like a blade.
***
He stepped out, dressed in black from head to toe. The mask he wore was smooth and pale, featureless except for the narrow slits that framed his eyes—cold, unfeeling, focused.
He crossed the street, keeping to the shadows, and reached Alison's car. It sat idle beneath a flickering streetlight, unaware of its fate. He crouched beside it, popped the hood open with practiced ease, and slipped inside. Tools emerged from his coat pocket—silent, precise—and within seconds, the brake lines were nothing but shredded remnants. He wiped them clean, careful, methodical.
No fingerprints. No traces. Just death waiting to happen on four wheels.
He closed the hood gently, like a coffin lid.
Then he walked back to his car and slid into the driver's seat just as his phone rang.
A pause. He glanced around, then answered.
"Is it done?" the voice on the other end asked. Female. Controlled. But hungry, like someone who couldn't wait much longer.
The masked figure stared through the windshield at Alison's car.
"Yes," he replied. "Just as planned. Everything is going as we planned."
There was a pause. The faint sound of typing in the background. Then the voice responded, "Good. We're almost done. Keep me updated."
The line went dead.
The masked figure stepped back into the darkness, driving away, his mission complete.
Alison would soon join the others in hell.
He dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and turned his gaze back toward the city street. Alison was already in the club, unaware that death had quietly taken a seat beneath her dashboard.
***************************************************
The neon lights of Velvet Halo flickered behind her like the end of a dream—blurred, pulsing, fading into the night. Alison pushed open the door of her car with a little too much force, the cold air biting her flushed cheeks. She'd had just enough to drink for the edges of the world to feel soft, her thoughts warm and slow like honey.
She checked the time on her phone: 01:46 AM."Shit," she muttered, fumbling her keys into the ignition.
Amber was going to kill her.
Or worse—be worried. Amber didn't do worried very well. It came out in clipped texts and longer silences. Alison knew Amber's fuse burned slow but deep. And tonight was supposed to be their night—Amber's place, wine, a dumb movie neither of them would finish watching. Or just stick closer to each other since they were the only survivors of this entire ordeal.
But Alison had stayed too long, dancing with friends she didn't care much about, sipping one cocktail too many.
The car roared to life beneath her. She backed out, headlights sweeping across the near-empty parking lot, her music low but rhythmic, thumping against the quiet of the late hour.
"Alright," she whispered, gripping the steering wheel, "let's just get there."
The roads were nearly empty, the kind of rural stretch where the trees crowd in and the stars actually come out. She pressed a little harder on the gas. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. The tires hummed. Her heart was trying to beat the clock. She pictured Amber pacing by the window, arms crossed, checking her phone. Again. Again.
"Almost there," she said to herself.
The wind was picking up, howling faintly through the half-cracked window. A sign flew by: Sharp Turn Ahead. She eased off the gas instinctively and pressed her foot gently to the brake.
Nothing.
Her brows furrowed.
She pressed harder.
Still nothing.
The pedal sank, soft and useless under her foot.
"No, no—" she whispered, panic creeping in.
She pumped the brake. The car stuttered but didn't slow. The road ahead twisted, serpentine and cruel, and the trees began to blur. She yanked at the wheel, trying to steady it, but the tires screamed. Gravel spat up violently as the car skidded, swerved—and then she saw the edge.
The guardrail was there—and then it wasn't.
Alison screamed. Not words. Just instinct. Just fear.The world tilted. The sky flipped.
The car hit the edge, and time snapped.
Metal tore. Glass shattered. Her body flung against the seatbelt, a marionette with strings gone wild. The world spun—one, two, three rolls—until the car crunched against the base of the valley like a crushed can. Everything fell silent. No noise, no movement.
The music had stopped. The stars were still above her. The trees watched without blinking.
And Alison was... gone.