Chapter 1: 8:57 PM

Chapter 1: 8:57 PM

The last three minutes of a shift are the longest.

For Leo Martinez, they were a sacred countdown, a quiet prayer to a god he didn’t believe in. He watched the second hand on the wall clock stutter its way around the dial, each tick a tiny hammer chipping away at his confinement. 8:57 PM. One hundred and eighty seconds until he could flip the open sign to closed, kill the overhead lights, and escape the lingering smell of burnt sugar and stale coffee grounds that clung to his clothes like a second skin.

His world had shrunk to the four walls of the "Perk Up," a name whose relentless cheerfulness felt like a personal insult. The linoleum floor was a mosaic of scuffs and mysterious stains. A single fluorescent tube above the condiment bar flickered with the inconsistent rhythm of a dying heart. It was a place where dreams came to get a caffeine fix before dying quietly in a cubicle.

Leo’s knuckles were white around the portafilter he was scrubbing. The motion was automatic, a muscle memory carved into his hands by thousands of near-identical days. Tamp, pull, steam, wipe. Repeat. His reflection in the polished chrome of the espresso machine was a smudge he tried not to look at—dark circles under his eyes like bruises, a faded t-shirt for a band he hadn’t listened to in years, all framed by the slightly stained black apron that served as his uniform.

Just go home. The thought was a mantra. Home to the cramped apartment that always smelled faintly of his mother’s medicinal herbs. Home to check on her, to make sure she’d eaten, to sit in the quiet dark and feel the day’s exhaustion settle into his bones. That was the goal. That was the finish line.

The clock ticked to 8:58. Almost there. He could almost taste the stale air of his apartment, a flavor he’d come to associate with freedom. He dumped the last of the day’s drip coffee down the drain, the gurgle of the pipes a satisfying sound of finality.

That’s when the little bell above the door chimed.

The sound cut through the quiet hum of the refrigerators like a shard of glass. Leo’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t turn around, not yet. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that if he concentrated hard enough, he could will the moment out of existence. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was a ghost. A ghost would be preferable to a customer at 8:58 PM.

But the silence that followed was heavy, expectant. He couldn’t ignore it. With a sigh that felt like it came from the soles of his feet, Leo turned.

The man standing just inside the door didn’t seem to have entered so much as coalesced from the shadows. He was gaunt, his age impossible to guess, and wrapped in a heavy, worn brown trench coat that seemed to drink the already dim light of the shop. It was too warm for a coat like that. His face was a roadmap of exhaustion, his eyes shadowed and mournful. He stood with an unnerving stillness, not looking at the menu, not looking at Leo, but at some fixed point in the space between them.

“Closing in a minute,” Leo said, his voice flat. He gestured vaguely at the clock.

The man didn’t seem to hear him. He moved with a slow, deliberate glide toward the counter, his worn boots making no sound on the linoleum. He slid into the nearest booth, the faux-leather sighing under his weight. He placed his hands flat on the table and waited.

A strange prickle of unease crawled up Leo’s spine. This wasn’t the usual late-night straggler, twitchy and desperate for a caffeine hit. This was something else. The man’s stillness was a void.

“Look, man, the machines are already cleaned,” Leo tried again, a little more force in his tone. “I can sell you a pastry, but that’s it.”

The man finally lifted his gaze, and his eyes found Leo’s. They were like looking down a deep, empty well. “Coffee,” he said. His voice was a dry rustle, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. “Black.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a statement of fact.

Every instinct screamed at Leo to say no, to point to the door and tell the man to get out. But his non-confrontational nature, worn smooth by years of customer service, took over. Arguing would take longer. Arguing would be a hassle. It was faster to just make the damn coffee.

Muttering under his breath, Leo turned back to the espresso machine. He pulled a clean mug from the rack, the ceramic cool against his skin. He couldn’t use the drip machine, so he’d have to make an Americano. The hiss of the machine felt unnaturally loud in the tense silence. He worked quickly, his hands moving with practiced efficiency, but he felt the man’s eyes on his back the entire time. It felt like being watched by a statue.

He placed the steaming black mug on the counter. “Two fifty.”

The man didn’t move. Leo slid the mug across the counter until it was directly in front of him. The man reached out, his long, pale fingers wrapping around the cup. He didn’t seem to notice the heat. He simply sat there, holding it, staring down into its black surface.

“That’ll be two fifty,” Leo repeated, his patience fraying into a thin, buzzing wire.

The man finally looked up from the mug, his gaze distant. “It’s already been paid for.”

Leo opened his mouth to argue, to ask what the hell he was talking about, but the man wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was lifting the mug to his lips. He took a slow, deliberate sip. His throat worked, but his expression remained unchanged. He lowered the mug, cradling it in both hands as if for a warmth he’d never feel.

A long, thick silence stretched between them. The clock on the wall now read 9:01 PM. So much for closing on time.

“Well?” Leo asked, his irritation making him bold. “How is it?”

The man stared into the black liquid for another moment before answering. His voice was low, and every word landed in the air with a chilling weight.

“It tastes like rainwater in an empty grave.”

Leo froze. The words didn't compute. They were nonsense, but a specific, poetic kind of nonsense that made the hairs on his arms stand up. He stared at the man, searching his lined face for any hint of a joke, any sign of madness. He found neither. There was only a profound, bottomless melancholy.

“Right,” Leo managed, forcing a dry laugh that sounded like a cough. “Well, uh… sorry you don’t like it.”

He turned away, busying himself by wiping down the already-clean counter. He just wanted the man to finish his morbidly-described coffee and leave. He wanted this night to end.

Jingle.

The bell. Again.

Leo’s head snapped up. His heart hammered against his ribs. A woman stood in the doorway, framed against the streetlights outside. Her hair was a wild, frizzed halo, and her eyes were too wide, fixed in a state of permanent alarm. She wore a canvas coat that looked like it had been soaked and dried a dozen times, and a strange, cloying scent wafted in with her—the smell of wet fabric and old, wilting flowers.

She paid no attention to Leo. Her gaze swept the room, not like a customer looking for a place to sit, but like a surveyor mapping a fault line. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, landed on the man in the booth. A flicker of recognition passed between them, a silent conversation held in a single glance.

Then, she began to walk. She ignored the counter, ignored the tables. She moved to the edge of the room, her fingers trailing along the peeling, stained wallpaper. Her head was cocked, as if she were listening to a conversation no one else could hear.

Leo watched, his breath caught in his throat. The annoyance he’d felt moments ago had evaporated, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. These weren’t customers. He didn’t know what they were, but they weren’t here for coffee.

The man in the booth spoke again, his voice still a dry whisper, but it cut through the room. He wasn’t looking at Leo, but at the woman tracing the walls.

“Macy.”

The name hung in the air. The woman, Macy, stopped her patrol. She turned her head slowly, her wide, terrifying eyes finally settling on Leo. She wasn't just looking at him. She was looking through him, as if he were a pane of dirty glass, and what she saw on the other side was something awful.

The clock on the wall read 9:02 PM. The night, Leo realized with a sudden, sickening certainty, was not ending. It was just beginning.