The morning was unusually silent. Even the city seemed to hold its breath, as if it, too, had noticed him—the one I never wanted to see again, yet couldn't forget.
I didn't know why I left my apartment that morning. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was a need to remind myself that life was still normal. That the past wasn't clawing at me from every corner.
I walked down the quiet street near my building, clutching my bag a little tighter than necessary. My ears were alert to every sound—the squeak of a distant bicycle, the shuffle of feet on pavement, the whisper of wind against the trees.
And then I heard it: the sharp metallic sound of a car door slamming.
I stopped. My breath caught.
I couldn't see much yet—just the dim outline of the street, the silver glow of a streetlight—but there he was. Not him exactly… but someone who carried his shadow.
Daniel.
He was leaning against the hood of a car, hands clutching his throat. His eyes were wide, panicked, and his face pale—ashen. He stumbled forward, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
I froze, unable to move, my mind refusing to process what was happening.
Daniel had been his friend—or maybe more accurately, his accomplice in the chaos he had caused. But he wasn't supposed to die here. Not like this.
Not violently.
I ran forward, my voice caught in my throat. "Daniel!"
He groaned, trying to sit up, clutching at the ground. Blood slicked the pavement around him. A metallic scent filled the air. My stomach churned.
"Help… me…" His voice was weak, strangled, barely audible.
I knelt beside him, hands shaking as I tried to find something I could do. My fingers pressed against his chest, his throat, anywhere I thought might slow the inevitable. But it was too late. Too fast.
His eyes met mine for a moment. Raw, desperate, filled with regret. And then, he gasped—once, twice—and then nothing.
The last thing he reached for, just out of his trembling hand's reach, was an envelope. My name was written across it in jagged, familiar letters.
I froze, staring at it as if it were the key to understanding everything that had just happened. My chest heaved. Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't cry yet. There wasn't time for that—not with the way the world had shifted in the last few moments.
I picked up the envelope with trembling hands, my fingers brushing the smooth, heavy paper. It was sealed. No words beyond my name on the front. Nothing else.
I didn't open it. I couldn't. The act of touching it felt like touching fire.
I backed away from Daniel's body, my mind spinning, heart hammering. The street seemed smaller now, darker. The light from the streetlamp flickered as if uncertain of its own existence.
I sank to the pavement, clutching the envelope, staring at the lifeless form before me. And then the reality hit me: he was gone. Daniel—alive yesterday, full of secrets, guilt, fear, had been erased from the world in one violent stroke.
My hands shook. My knees ached from the cold pavement. My breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
And I knew.
This wasn't a random act.
This was a warning.
The first strike.
I didn't know what force had claimed him, but the signs were clear. Whoever—or whatever—was behind this, they knew I was connected. That I was part of this story now. That Daniel's death wasn't just about him. It was about me.
I finally opened the envelope, carefully, as though its contents could bite me.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. No signature. No explanation. Just words:
"The past isn't done with you.
And neither am I."
I dropped the paper, letting it flutter onto Daniel's body. My stomach heaved, bile rising in my throat. My hands trembled as the street seemed to grow darker, the shadows lengthening and twisting around me.
And then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it.
A figure, distant, leaning against a lamppost. Watching. Waiting. Not moving, but present. And then, as I blinked, it vanished.
I tried to call the police, my voice shaking, my hands trembling as I dialed. But when I reached the line, there was nothing. No signal. Nothing but the oppressive, suffocating silence of the morning that had turned violent.
I sank to the ground, clutching the envelope to my chest. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to deny that I was part of this, that Daniel's death had anything to do with me.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
He—Kian, the boy from my past—was back.
And he hadn't returned alone.
Some force had followed him.
Some force was hungry.
And it was coming for me.
I finally forced myself to stand, brushing the blood and dust from my clothes. I looked at Daniel one last time, the envelope still lying against his chest. I knew I couldn't leave it here. Not now. Not with him dead, not with the world tilted violently on its axis.
I picked it up and tucked it into my bag, my fingers shaking as I gripped it tightly. I didn't dare look back. Not at the body, not at the shadows, not at whatever had been watching from the distance.
I ran.
The street was no longer familiar. Every corner, every shadow, every flickering light seemed to mock me. I ran as fast as I could, but the sound of my own footsteps was deafening. Every heartbeat felt like an echo in a canyon of darkness.
And in my mind, I heard it again. That voice, that echo of the past.
"You don't get to walk away."
I swallowed hard, my chest heaving. Not him, not yet. But it didn't matter. The warning was clear. The first strike had been delivered.
I didn't know who would be next.
I didn't know if I could survive what was coming.
But one thing was certain:
I was part of this story now.
And there was no turning back.