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[Scene: Night into Morning – Small Florida Town, May 30th, 2025]
The Florida night was thick, humid, but beginning to cool as the hours ticked past midnight. Crickets pulsed in waves from the wet grass outside, mixing with the distant hum of the freeway. The rain had passed earlier, leaving behind that post-storm shimmer on the pavement, puddles catching streetlamp reflections like smeared paint.
Along the backyard fences, an opossum waddled slowly, its silver-gray fur twitching with each step. It paused near a tipped-over trash bin, sniffed, then continued its silent patrol along the wooden slats like a tired ghost on a familiar path.
Inside Oliver's new place, the box fan was pushed near the open window, blades spinning at full blast, pulling in the rare treat of cool air. The breeze moved the curtains gently, rhythmically, like the slow breathing of a tired house. The room smelled faintly of damp clothes and the leftover pizza box under the desk.
Oliver lay half-awake on his mattress, one leg off the edge, shirt bunched under his head. His phone screen glowed beside him—CapCut was open. A half-edited video sat paused in the timeline, a jarring reverse track playing at full volume for no good reason. The audio glitched and whined, chopped pieces of a slowed-down synth and someone's distorted voice—his attempt at editing some ironic TikTok or maybe just noise art.
The volume was maxed out, but Oliver didn't move. His tired brain barely registered the sound, the sensory overload blending with the heat exhaustion and sleeplessness.
The digital clock blinked 12:03 AM.
A new day had arrived: May 30th.
It didn't feel like anything.
Outside, the opossum vanished into the shadows.
Inside, the curtains fluttered once more.
The fan droned.
The reversed music screamed and spiraled, unheard.
And Oliver blinked at nothing, in a room no one visited.
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[Scene: 5:00 AM – Street Outside Oliver's Apartment]
The early morning sky over Florida was dark blue and colorless, like ink just beginning to thin out. The crickets were quiet now. A few birds had started calling in the trees, and the air still held that pre-sunrise chill—brief, fragile, like it would burn away the moment light touched it.
Down the narrow street, a beat-up white pickup truck rolled in slow, its headlights casting long yellow beams over cracked sidewalks and dew-covered mailboxes. The driver, a man in his forties, heavy-lidded and clearly exhausted, sipped on something from a styrofoam cup while one hand gripped the wheel.
He pulled up outside Oliver's unit—no words, no knock—just stepped out, placed a medium-sized box on the ground in front of the door, then slid back into the truck. The vehicle gave a soft rumble and faded down the road again, swallowed by the dim horizon.
Inside, Oliver stirred on the mattress. The fan had long since stopped, the outlet loose again. The reversed CapCut audio had glitched out and stopped playing sometime during the night.
The soft thump outside was what woke him.
He blinked, groaned, slowly sat up. His body felt stiff, sore in the ribs, neck, and back. He dragged himself to the front door, opened it, and found the box sitting there like a message left by a ghost.
He bent down, squinted.
A shipping label on top.
The name: EVAN MILLS SMITH
From: some small warehouse address in town.
Oliver frowned. He picked it up—lightweight—and brought it inside.
He sat on the floor with it, staring for a second. The room was dim with early gray light, shadows stretched tall. Oliver reached for the old kitchen knife near the counter—blade a little rusted—and sliced the tape open.
Inside?
Just a green jacket. Folded. New. Still had the tag.
He lifted it. Looked it over. Cotton blend, zip-up, no logo. Plain. It was a dull forest green, like military surplus or something you'd wear in the fall when you weren't trying to stand out.
He slipped it on.
It fit. Perfectly.
Not too tight. Not too loose.
Oliver stood there in the center of the room, fan off, phone dead, staring at himself in the dusty mirror nailed to the wall.
Why a green jacket?
No note. No explanation.
He picked up his phone, plugged it in, waited for the screen to flicker back to life. Then he called Evan.
No answer.
Just voicemail.
He stood there, jacket on, surrounded by the stillness of 5:17 AM, wondering if this meant something.
Or maybe… it didn't.
Just another thing dropped into his life without a reason.
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