Deadline Is Death

"Huff—"

The eye in the ventilation opening blinked. A dull thud sounded from inside.

My legs gave out. I collapsed against the door of Unit 703, flinging the bloodstained photo aside.

There was no time to think. I scrambled to my feet and ran. The stairwell filled with the pounding of my footsteps and my ragged breathing.

When I burst out into the lobby, my phone screen read 02:08.

Seven minutes left.

I remembered now.

The first three times, I had received a pickup task at exactly two in the morning, one that sent me to Unit 704, Building 7 in the apartment complex next door.

However, that building never had a Unit 704.

What was worse was that every time I tried to abandon the delivery, I would die on schedule at 2:15 a.m. sharp.

This time, though, I made it back to my rental four minutes early.

02:11.

I locked the door, splashed cold water on my face, and forced myself to stay awake.

When I looked up at the mirror, I froze.

At some point, a thin scratch had appeared at the corner of my right eye. I leaned closer and touched it with my fingertip.

The reflection copied my movement, but when its finger reached the wound, it stopped.

Then it smiled. That smile was not mine.

I staggered backward and slammed into the sink.

At the same time, a sound came from the bedroom. The door was half open. Light spilled out from the gap beneath it.

I moved closer, step by step, and saw a photograph spread across the bed.

It was not the one I had picked up outside Unit 704. It was another one.

In the image, I was still lying in a pool of blood, but the location had changed. It was not outside Unit 704. Instead, it was on the floor of this bedroom.

The photo had been taken from above, from the ceiling. I could clearly see the dagger buried in the back of my neck, and my hand splayed open on the floor. My index finger was dragging something through the dust.

The resolution was too low to make out what it was.

As my hands shook, I flipped the photo over. There was no blood on the back, only a single line of printed black text.

Recipient: Resident of Unit 703. Sender: Noah Vale

Another delivery.

But what was the package? Or was the package this photo itself?

So was this the death notice for this life?

Knock, knock!

Someone was at the door.

"Noah! Are you home?"

It was the elderly woman who lived next door, Mrs. Connie Calder who stayed alone. She was wearing her nightie and holding an empty milk carton, clearly on her way downstairs to throw out the trash.

I yanked the door open.

When she saw me, she froze, then frowned. "Noah, who were you talking to in the middle of the night?"

She muttered, "All that shouting, smashing things around… it sounded like two people arguing."

Her voice cut off abruptly. Her eyes slid past my shoulder, toward the living room behind me. With a scream, she spun around, bolting down the stairs. Her slippers slapped wildly against the steps.

I turned around, stiff as stone.

The TV in the living room turned on by itself. Snow filled the screen, and the static hissed loudly.

I unplugged it, but the screen stayed lit. The snow flickered, slowly pulling itself together into a blurry image.

It was my door. My front-door security feed.

A shadowy figure was standing there, placing a package on the floor.

Suddenly, the static surged and the image warped. In the final clear moment, the figure lifted his head. He was looking straight into the camera, staring right at me, and watching the TV.

I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, pressing my back against the wall as I edged toward the door.

I looked through the peephole.

The hallway was empty, but the moment my eye touched the lens, another eye pressed against it from the other side.

He slowly stepped back. A face identical to mine came into view. His smile stretched wider and wider, tearing all the way back toward his ears.

And on his feet…

Were the same slippers Mrs. Calder next door had been wearing. They were soaked in blood.