Deadline Is Death
Late one night after getting off work, I was scrolling through my company group chat when a colleague shared a piece of news. The headline was horrifying.
"Night-Shift Courier Murdered During Delivery, Police Suspect Robbery."
I zoomed in on the crime scene photo that had been partially pixelated, and a chill ran straight down my spine.
Lying in a pool of blood, the courier who had been hacked to death was unmistakably me.
I had scrolled into news of my own death.
Almost at the same time, my delivery app began vibrating violently.
"Urgent pickup! Destination: Unit 704 Hawthorne Ridge Apartments, Building 7. Time limit: 15 minutes. Penalty for timeout: Death."
As I stared at the notification that read "Pickup failed three times", the searing pain of my brutal death surged through my body.
So that was it. I had already died three times.
When I forced open the half-closed security door of 704 for the fourth time, a thin delivery envelope lay quietly inside.
I tore it open. A photograph slipped out.
It was a picture of my dismembered body. The timestamp showed tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.
On the back was a single line written in fresh blood: "Next time, remember to pick it up on time."
At that moment, the red indicator light on the hallway surveillance camera suddenly went dark.
I looked up.
From the ventilation opening in the exact same spot, a single eye was staring straight at me. The mole at the corner of that eye was identical to mine.