Let me tell ya, things got weird after the whole parking lot incident. Not "alien invasion" weird, but weird enough that I kept checking my back pocket to make sure my wallet hadn't turned into a frog or something. You ever have one of those days where you keep waiting for the other shoe to drop? Yeah, that was me.
First off, Maria – remember the barista with the tattoo of a phoenix on her wrist? – she cornered me before I could even exit the shop. "You're that guy," she said, leaning against the counter like we were old pals. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she smelled like cinnamon and frustration. "The one who argued about the oat milk."
"Uh… hi?" I said, backing towards the door just in case.
She laughed. Not a friendly laugh. More like a "I'm-about-to-ask-you-something-you-don't-want-to-answer" laugh. "What's your deal with lattes anyway? You looked like you'd seen a ghost when I asked if you wanted an extra shot."
"It's… uh… personal," I mumbled.
"C'mon, man. We're all just trying to get through the day without spilling espresso on strangers. Mine's usually the result of trying not to trip over this damn apron strap." She yanked at the frayed fabric. "So. Spill it. Why the drama?"
Before I could answer, the bell above the door jangled, and in walked him. The guy from the parking lot. The one who'd been staring at my latte like it owed him money. He was wearing the same ratty hoodie, now with a coffee stain on the sleeve. Great. Just great.
Maria followed my gaze. "Oh, him? That's Rick. Local weirdo. Hangs around here 'cause he thinks the wi-fi's better than his apartment's. Don't mind him."
Rick? Rick? The guy had the vibe of someone who'd once tried to pay for a burrito with a handful of pennies. Definitely not the kind of name you give a guy who looks like he's one bad day away from writing manifestos on bathroom walls.
Anyway, Rick spotted me, did that neck-cracking thing people do when they want to seem intimidating, and made a beeline for the counter. "Same as usual," he grunted at Maria.
"Your usual's decaf," she called back, already reaching for the grounds. "And before you ask, no, I won't put an extra pump of vanilla in it. It's decaf. Have some self-respect."
Rick scowled. "Whatever. Just hurry up."
I retreated to my table, trying to look busy by scrolling through my phone. Spoiler alert: I wasn't actually reading anything. My brain was stuck on rewind, replaying the whole "you looked like you'd seen a ghost" comment. What was that supposed to mean? Did I look like I'd seen something? Or was she just messing with me?
About five minutes later, Maria slid a fresh latte across the counter to Rick. He snatched it up, took one sip, and froze. Like, literally froze. His eyes bulged out, he dropped the cup (thankfully into the nearby trash can), and then he did this weird spasmy thing with his hands, like he was trying to swat invisible bees.
"What the—?!" Maria yelled, rushing over.
Rick was jabbering something incomprehensible. "It's… it's moving!" he sputtered. "The… the foam… it's—"
And then he face-planted into the counter. Not dramatically, like in the movies. Just… thud. Out cold.
The whole shop went silent. People stopped what they were doing. Someone dropped a muffin. I swear, time slowed down. Maria looked at me, I looked at Maria, and somewhere outside, a seagull squawked like it knew something we didn't.
"Did… did you do something to that coffee?" she whispered.
"Me?! I was sitting right there!" I hissed back. "I don't even know how to make foam move on command!"
Maria knelt down next to Rick, checking his pulse or whatever. "He's alive. Just… passed out. Probably a sugar crash or something."
"A sugar crash? From decaf?!"
She shrugged. "Hey, weird stuff happens. Last week, a guy drank our matcha latte and started reciting Shakespeare. In Klingon."
"…Okay, that sounds made up."
"Believe me, it wasn't." She stood up, brushing flour off her apron. "You wanna help me drag him to the back room? Or should I call an ambulance?"
I stared at Rick's prone form. His leg was sticking out at a weird angle, and his mouth was slightly open. There was a strand of drool connecting his chin to the counter. Somewhere, a child started crying.
"Let's… uh… just prop him up against the wall," I suggested. "Make it look like he's… meditating or something."
Maria stared at me. Then she laughed. Not the evil laugh this time. More like a "you're-an-idiot-but-this-is-funny" laugh. "You're something else, you know that?"
"Hey, I'm just trying to survive until lunchtime."
We eventually got Rick propped up in a chair near the restrooms. Maria gave him a wet napkin to the face and told him to "wake up before I start charging you for the privilege of passing out in my shop." He mumbled something about "government conspiracies" and "the foam knows too much" before passing out again.
By then, the crowd had dispersed. People went back to their laptops and their lattes, pretending nothing weird had happened. Except for this one old lady, who kept glancing over at Rick and muttering, "Ain't nothin' but trouble, that one. Mark my words."
I finished my coffee – which, for the record, tasted completely normal – and prepared to leave. Maria waved me off. "See ya around, Mr. Mysterious Latte Guy."
"Yeah, see ya," I said, walking out the door.
But as I stepped onto the sidewalk, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was… off. Not just with Rick, but with the whole day. It was like the universe had hit the "random chaos" button and then gone for a snack.
Plus, there was that lingering question: Why had Maria thought I looked like I'd seen a ghost?
Was it possible she'd seen something too?
Or was I just losing it?
Either way, I decided to skip the afternoon coffee run. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Especially when it comes to mysterious baristas and guys named Rick who hate decaf.
I left the coffee shop feeling like someone had dumped a bucket of confetti in my brain. Weirdness doesn't even cover it. Rick's weirdo foam-spasm, Maria's too-casual "weird stuff happens" act, and that lingering feeling someone was watching me—even when I ducked into the subway.
My phone buzzed again as I walked. Same number. Text: "Check the radio. Tonight. Midnight."
I stared at the screen. Midnight? Who sends a text like that? Probably a prank, but… my gut said otherwise. Ever since I found that box under the floorboards, my gut had been yelling at me to trust it—even when my brain screamed "run."
So I did what any sane person would do: I went home, locked the doors, and stared at the ceiling. My apartment smelled like old books and takeout, which was normal. My walls were covered in posters of cats wearing hats, which was normal. My arm? Still had those blue veins, now glowing a faint green under the lamp light. Not normal.
Midnight came faster than I wanted. I swapped my pajamas for a hoodie (because "disguise"), grabbed a flashlight, and headed back to the coffee shop. The streets were empty—too early for drunks, too late for hipsters. The shop's windows were dark, but the door was unlocked. Maria was behind the counter, wiping mugs with a rag that looked like it'd seen better days.
"Didn't think you'd show," she said without looking up.
I froze. "How'd you know I'd come?"
She finally glanced up, and her eyes were… different. Pupils a little too big, like she'd taken a nap in a neon light. "You think this is the first time someone's gotten a midnight text from a dead girl?"
Wait, what?
"Dead… girl?" I stammered.
Maria nodded, leaning on the counter. "Seventeen of 'em. All named Lena Voss. All with the same blue veins, same coffee phobia, same habit of staring at their teeth in the mirror." She winked. "Don't act shocked—you do it. A lot."
I backed up a step, knocking over a chair. "Who the hell are you?"
"Maria. Barista. Part-time timekeeper." She tossed me a key. "Basement. Third shelf. The radio's there."
I caught the key, my hands shaking. "Why are you helping me?"
"Same reason I helped the others." She gestured to the mugs. "Every Lena leaves a note. A warning. A plea. You're the first one who didn't try to run screaming."
I thought of 7A's note: "Burn the labs. Destroy the towers." "What happens if I do what the note says?"
Maria's smile faded. "Then you die. But maybe… maybe you save the rest of us."
I stared at the key. It was rusty, with a tag that read "7B." "Why 7B?"
"Because you're the 17th clone. The 'B' stands for 'backup.' The original Lena—7A—she's the one who started this. The one who's still fighting."
I wanted to ask more, but my phone buzzed again. Same number. Video this time.
It was 7A. Or at least, a version of her. She was in a room that looked like a dungeon, walls covered in wires, a machine beeping next to her. Her face was bruised, her eyes wild. "Lena," she said, voice cracking. "Don't trust Maria. She's not a barista. She's a guardian. The coffee shop's a front. The real lab's under the subway."
Maria's smile turned sharp. "She's lying."
7A ignored her. "Find the machine. The one with the blue light. It controls the code. Shut it down, and you shut down the experiment. But hurry—tonight's the eclipse. If you wait till dawn…" She winced, clutching her chest. "If you wait till dawn, you'll be too late."
The video cut out.
Maria sighed. "See? Dead girls lie. Especially the ones who think they're heroes."
I didn't move. "How do I know you're not lying?"
She reached under the counter and pulled out a gun. Not a toy, not a prop—a real, shiny, loaded gun. "Because if I was lying, I'd shoot you. And I don't want to. You're the closest thing I've got to a friend these days."
I stared at the gun. Then at her. Then at the key.
"Basement's that way," she said, pointing to a door behind the espresso machine. "Third shelf. Don't touch anything else. And whatever you do, don't let the code get to your head."
"What's that mean?"
She smirked. "Ever seen Inception? The code's like dreams. It'll mess with your memories. Make you forget who you are. Stick to the plan: find the radio, shut it down, and get out."
I nodded, though my stomach felt like a washing machine. I headed for the basement door, the key cold in my hand.
The stairs were steep, the air thick with dust. The third shelf was crammed with old newspapers, a rusted toolbox, and a cardboard box labeled "Do Not Open—7B's Stuff." I opened it. Inside: a journal, a pair of leather gloves, and a walkie-talkie that looked like it belonged in a spy movie.
The journal was filled with 7A's handwriting. "Day 12: The code's in the radio. The radio's in the subway. Maria's not my friend. She's his." "Day 20: I found the machine. It's connected to the twins. The original twins. The ones who started this." "Day 27: They're coming for me. I can feel it. The code's eating my brain. Tell Lena… tell her to run."
I closed the journal, my head spinning. Twins? Original twins? What the hell was going on?
The walkie-talkie crackled. Static, then a voice: "Lena. This is Dr. Shen. Don't trust Maria. She's not a barista. She's a guardian. The coffee shop's a front. The real lab's under the subway."
Wait, that was the same as 7A's message. Was Dr. Shen 7A? Or was 7A Dr. Shen?
The walkie-talkie buzzed again. "Meet me at the subway entrance. 11:45 PM. Bring the earring. We need to shut it down together."
I stared at the device. Then at the gun. Then at the stairs.
Somewhere, a clock ticked.
I took a deep breath, tucking the walkie-talkie into my pocket. "Maria!" I yelled up the stairs. "I'm going to the subway. Be back in an hour!"
No response.
I ran down the stairs, my heart pounding. The subway entrance was two blocks away, the sign flickering like a dying star. As I approached, I saw a figure waiting by the turnstile. Tall, with a lab coat flapping in the wind. Dr. Shen.
Or 7A.
Or whoever the hell she was.
"Lena," she said, smiling. "Glad you could make it."
I froze. "How'd you know my name?"
She held up a jade earring—identical to mine. "Because I'm you. Or… I was. Before the code got to me."
I stared at her. Then at the earring. Then at the subway entrance.
Behind her, the ground rumbled. Lights flickered. A low, mechanical hum filled the air.
"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "We don't have much time."
I let her pull me forward, my mind racing. The code. The twins. The experiment.
And for the first time, I wondered: maybe 7A was right. Maybe I shouldn't trust anyone.
But then again, maybe that was exactly what the code wanted me to think.
Either way, I was in too deep.
And the eclipse was just hours away.