Chapter 1- The Echo in the Chest

One Day Prior

Danny was walking toward the office, the pavement cold beneath his feet, when his life fractured once more.

For two agonizing years, he had fought tooth and nail to suture the wound left by the loss of Alex—his dearest friend, his first love. Alex had been killed protecting him, shielding him from a killer whose target was Danny. The last thing Danny ever saw of him was the sorrow and fierce determination burning in those brown eyes. Alex had soundlessly motioned for him to stay hidden, to be silent, to let him face the brutal cost alone.

Danny had heard the sickening thud, then the rustle of the killer’s hurried retreat. When he finally moved, pushing open the adjoining room door Alex had slammed shut behind him, the sight was a scene ripped straight from a nightmare. His scream had been primal—a sound he hoped he’d never have to hear again.

Even now, the memory was a clawing terror. A silent scream tore at the back of Danny's throat, and his heart pounded a frantic rhythm against the armour of his ribs. Therapy had finally subdued the nightmares six months ago, but it did nothing for the gaping, empty space in his chest.

The police had made him the prime suspect back then. Unable to describe the killer, Danny became a convenient target; his grief was dismissed as guilt. It was only his uncle’s ferocious intervention that finally forced them to look elsewhere, but by then, the crucial evidence had been compromised. The leads had gone cold, and the promise of justice was reduced to a dusty cardboard box in a police lockup. Since then, the very sight of a uniform curdled Danny's blood. He trusted them less with each passing year.

But today, all that brittle peace that Danny had built and fought to protect was shattered. The past didn’t just catch up—it ambushed him once again.

He stopped at the Sunshine Cafe on his route to the office. It was an everyday decision: stopping for his usual caramel frappe. The outside was normal, bathed in the gentle glow of morning light. The warm, comforting scent of roasted coffee beans spilled into the chilly air as he approached. He pulled his AirPods out, slid them into their case, and had his wallet ready for a quick transaction.

The moment he pushed the door open; the normal world vanished. The cafe was a slaughterhouse.

It was not chaos, but a tableau of frozen horror—a perfect, silent echo of two years ago. Customers were sprawled across tables and floors; servers lay behind the counter. They looked like they were sleeping, except for the grotesque reality of their wounds: every single chest cavity had been precisely cut open. There was one terrifying detail that made Danny's breath hitch: no blood.

Just like Alex.

Danny staggered backward, dropping his wallet and ran to the curb. He was violently sick, emptying his stomach onto the pavement. The acid burn in his throat was nothing compared to the searing fusion of memory and reality. The two scenes—Alex’s murder and this massacre—had become one hideous, undeniable sight.

His fingers shook so badly he could barely unlock his screen to call emergency services.

"Hello, this is 999. Would you like fire, ambulance, or police?" The dispatcher's voice was calm, a sickening contrast to the panic that was drowning him.

"Police, please," Danny choked out, barely audible. After a moment of struggling to be heard, he managed to shout the word again. "Police!"

A new voice clicked in, professional and measured. "Hello, this is the police. Please could you describe your emergency?"

"Please send the police to the Sunshine Cafe on Remo Street. There has been a murder."

"Sir, please repeat the address and the nature of the emergency."

"Send the police to the Sunshine Cafe. Everyone inside is dead," Danny replied, shivering uncontrollably.

There was a long, cold beat of silence on the line. He pulled the phone away, needing to confirm the call hadn't dropped.

"I have dispatched officers, and they should be with you shortly," the voice returned, sharper now. "Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"I... I was heading to work... stopped for a drink... and when I went inside, I saw..." Danny's stomach rebelled again. He doubled over, retching the last dregs of bile until he could finally speak. "I saw everyone inside. They were... dead."

"How do you know they were dead, sir? Perhaps it was a hoax?"

Danny's temper flared, an irrational spike of fury. "No. Impossible."

"How so?"

"Because their chests were ripped open."

"What did you say?" The professional tone finally cracked, replaced by disbelief.

"Their chests... all of them... were ripped open."

Danny collapsed onto the cold ground, sobbing uncontrollably as the weight of the present collided with the trauma of the past. He lay there in a hysterical loop of past and present merging and replaying unwanted scenes in his mind until he became aware of someone kneeling in front of him.

"Breathe... with... me... sir..."

A uniformed officer was demonstrating slow, rhythmic breaths. Danny copied him until his vision cleared.

"Are you okay to answer some questions now?" the officer asked, sitting down carefully beside him. "My name is Officer Net. I'm going to take care of you for a while, is that okay? Please may I have your name and occupation?"

"My name is Danny Bowen. I’m a freelance journalist," Danny mumbled, his institutional fear of the badge already re-emerging.

Officer Net took out a small notebook. "You're the one who called this in? Why did you visit this cafe?"

"It is my usual cafe. On my way to work I often stop here and buy a drink."

As the questioning continued, Danny’s mind raced. He feared another setup. When asked how he knew they were dead, Danny pointed to his own chest. "Holes. They had holes in their chests."

The colour drained from Officer Net's face. The kind mask evaporated, replaced by dawning horror. Nearby, other officers exiting the cafe were muttering about how they had never seen anything like it.

"I have," Danny whispered.

Officer Net snapped back to attention. "Have what?"

"I've seen something similar to this. Two years ago."

Urgency electrified the officer's voice. He grabbed his pen, ready to demand details, but a familiar, chilling voice cut through the police chatter.

"AHHHH... We meet again, Bowen."

Danny spun around.

Standing behind Officer Net, arms crossed, was Detective Ote. His smirk was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of pity. The sight of him—the man who had tried to bury Danny with his grief two years ago—sent a deep, terrible shiver down Danny's spine.