Jalen couldn't sleep.
The torn note burned in his pocket like it carried heat. *"You're not done with the ink. Not yet."* Damon's words—or at least his style—lingered like ghosts in the back of his mind. The handwriting wasn't familiar. But the message? That was personal. That was a challenge.
Back in his apartment, the lights stayed off. He preferred the city glow bleeding through the blinds. It felt honest—raw. Like the kind of stories he used to write before the fame, before the betrayal.
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the old red journal. The one with the rough sketches, unfinished lines, late-night thoughts scribbled after too much coffee and too many dreams. The one Damon had once called "their archive of madness."
He flipped through pages until he found it—a draft of the opening line from years ago:
> *"Some truths hide in shadows. Others spill like blood from an open pen."*
They had toyed with that version during their final collaboration. But it had never made it into the final draft. Only Damon could have had a copy of this page.
Jalen's phone buzzed.
*Unknown Number. One Message.*
> *"If you want to finish what we started, come to the old train station. Midnight. Come alone."*
No name. No details. But Jalen already knew. Damon was leading him through a breadcrumb trail—one made of stories, lies, and half-truths.
The train station was abandoned, forgotten by the city's progress and left to rust at the edge of town. Its broken windows and graffiti-covered walls gave it an eerie charm. Jalen arrived early, leaning against the cold concrete wall, heart thumping louder than the silence.
Footsteps echoed.
From the shadows, a figure emerged—tall, lean, wearing a black coat and scarf pulled high.
Not Damon.
A woman.
She stopped several feet from him, eyes hidden beneath the hood.
"You're not supposed to be here," Jalen said.
"I'm exactly where I'm meant to be," she replied, her voice calm, almost musical.
"Then who are you?"
She pulled something from her coat—another torn page. She handed it over.
It was another passage. But this time, it wasn't something he recognized.
> *"The final chapter doesn't belong to the writer. It belongs to the one who survives the story."*
"I'm not your enemy, Jalen," she said softly. "But if you want the truth about Damon… about the manuscript… about what really happened back then… you're going to have to be willing to lose everything."
The train whistle screamed in the distance.
And just like that—she was gone.
Leaving Jalen standing in the dark, holding the next clue, and wondering how deep this story really went.