Cyrus had the determination, but not the courage, to go anywhere near St. Grey's. When his eyes drifted to one of the library windows, the night outside had turned pitch black. He didn't want to venture out in the suffocating darkness. It was mid-fall, and though colorful leaves fell from the trees, they only deepened the shadows. Cyrus took a long, shaky breath, trying to steady his nerves. In truth, he wasn't brave enough to keep going, let alone walk. His legs felt like they were made of Jell-O, ready to give out at any moment.
His legs began to tremble uncontrollably, each step threatening to buckle beneath him, as if his body instinctively knew something his mind refused to accept. It was as though every muscle was rebelling, warning him not to venture any further. Cyrus stood frozen for a moment, trying to steady himself, but his thoughts spiraled out of control. Fear clouded his mind as countless scenarios played out, each one worse than the last. What if he uncovered something he couldn't handle? What if the danger was real, lurking just beyond his reach? He didn't even know what awaited him, yet the uncertainty gnawed at him, making him doubt everything.
His breathing grew shallow, and the sensation of second-guessing every decision sank deeper into his chest. He tried to push those thoughts away, but they clung to him like shadows. With shaky legs, Cyrus forced himself to move, wobbling toward the library desk. The air felt thick, almost suffocating, as if the very room was urging him to turn back. His gaze settled on the brass nameplate in front of him, where the name "Ms. Harper" was neatly engraved. The familiar sight should've been comforting, yet it only heightened his unease. The desk, once a place of safety and order, now felt distant, almost ominous, from his findings.
Cyrus averted his gaze, focusing intently on the stack of newspapers and archives he was holding as he approached the librarian. "Can I borrow these?" he asked, his voice barely audible and tinged with nervousness.
Ms. Harper looked up from her desk, her eyes briefly scanning the assortment of brittle newspapers and thick archival folders. Her expression remained impassive as she considered his request. After a moment, she nodded, her voice carrying a firm but polite tone. "You can, but make sure to bring them back by next Tuesday," she instructed, her words carrying the weight of a strict deadline. The deadline was clear—he had exactly one week to sift through the historical documents and news clippings before he needed to return them.
Cyrus felt a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. The archives and newspapers held pieces of the puzzle he was so desperate to solve, but the ticking clock added pressure. He watched as Ms. Harper returned to her work, her attention shifting away from him. With a resigned sigh, he gathered the materials closer, aware that he now had a limited window of time to uncover this confusing jumble of clues, that would tell him what would happen.
As Cyrus carefully set the newspapers and archives down on the cold, tiled floor of the library, he reached for the old, ragged backpack he'd used for the whole weekend that he had gotten in middle school. With a deep breath, he opened the worn leather straps and began transferring the papers into it. The backpack, though battered and faded, was surprisingly sturdy, and he hoped it would hold up until he could switch everything to his high school backpack the next day. For now, it was his only option.
He unzipped the backpack slowly, the familiar metallic sound of the zipper cutting through the quiet of the library. Inside, he found the contents he'd packed for emergencies: a small pocket knife, its blade well-used but sharp, a sturdy flashlight with a few spare batteries tucked into a side pocket, and a set of batteries meant to keep the flashlight running. He took a moment to ensure everything was in place before starting to stuff the newspapers and archives into the backpack. The crinkling of the old newspapers filled the air as he carefully arranged them, making sure they fit without tearing or damaging the fragile pages.
Once everything was packed securely, he zipped the backpack shut with a practiced motion. The weight of the filled backpack felt reassuringly solid against his back as he adjusted the straps. With one last glance around the library, he hurried toward the exit, the urgency in his steps mirroring his growing anxiety.
The moment he pushed open the heavy library doors, the relentless rain greeted him with a harsh slap. The downpour had been unceasing throughout the weekend, and the sky showed no signs of clearing. Rain fell in thick, heavy sheets, drenching him almost instantly. Each raindrop felt like a cold needle against his skin as he struggled to shield himself with his jacket. He could barely see through the torrential downpour and hoped desperately that Monday would bring a reprieve from the relentless weather. For now, though, he had no choice but to brace himself against the storm and make his way through the deluge.
As Cyrus made his way toward his bike, lying on its side on the cracked pavement just outside the towering library doors, he noticed something off. The front tire sagged slightly under the weight of the frame, not fully deflated but just soft enough to catch his eye. He crouched down and pressed a thumb into the rubber—still functional but worn, like everything else he owned.
The bike itself was an old vintage Schwinn, a relic from a time when craftsmanship mattered. Its once-vibrant blue paint had faded into a dull, weathered hue, with chips and scratches marking its long history. Rust clung stubbornly to the edges of the handlebars, and the worn leather seat had long since lost its comfort. Despite its appearance, Cyrus had grown fond of the bike ever since he picked it up at a garage sale for a price that, at the time, had seemed like a steal. The owner, an old man with a nostalgic smile, had told him stories of long rides through the countryside on that very bike, tales of freedom and wind rushing past as if the bike were some untapped powerhouse of speed.
In its prime, it must have been sleek and fast. Even now, Cyrus knew that if he pedaled hard enough, the bike could still pick up speed and race through the city streets like a forgotten racehorse. He loved that about it—the way it felt under him, the way the chain clinked in rhythm with his heartbeat when he pushed it past its limits. It wasn't just transportation; it was a companion, something he could rely on to carry him wherever he needed to go, even if it looked like it had seen better days.
Cyrus quickly shook off the lingering thoughts that clouded his mind, focusing on the task at hand. He approached the bike, adjusting it carefully, making sure the kickstand was up and the handlebars were straight. He slid onto the seat, his fingers gripping the cool metal frame as he positioned himself for a swift departure. Before setting off, he instinctively reached for his backpack, running his hand over the zippers to make sure everything was sealed tight. Even though he knew it was already closed, a nagging voice in his head urged him to check again—he couldn't afford to lose anything, not with the crucial items stored inside. The idea of an unzipped pocket haunted him; one loose flap, and something important could fall out without him even realizing it.
Once satisfied, he adjusted the straps on his shoulders, feeling the weight of the pack settle against his back, and pushed off. The bike wobbled slightly at first, but as he began to pedal, his movements grew more fluid. The cold air hit his face as he increased his pace, his feet pumping the pedals faster with each passing second. The wind rushed past him, a sharp whistle in his ears as the world around him blurred. He pushed harder, his legs working tirelessly, and the bike surged forward, gaining momentum.
As the speed increased, a dull ache started to creep into his thighs, the burn of overexertion making itself known. But he couldn't slow down—not yet. His calves tightened, each pedal stroke sending sharp pangs through his legs, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. His breath came in short bursts now, ragged and quick, but the urgency in his chest overpowered the discomfort. The streets passed by in a blur of motion as he focused solely on the road ahead, determined to reach his destination as fast as possible."
As Cyrus pedaled down the rain-slicked street, he noticed an alleyway that seemed unusually dark and foreboding. It was a narrow passage, choked with shadows, and the grimy walls seemed to close in on themselves. Squinting toward a faded sign barely visible in the dim light, he saw an arrow pointing toward the direction he needed to go: Home. With a sigh, he slowed his bike to a halt, carefully placing one foot on the pavement to keep the bike steady while the other foot remained on the pedal, stopping the bike from rolling further.
He contemplated the alley for a few minutes, weighing his options. Should he take the shortcut through this ominous passage, or should he stick to his usual, well-lit route? The alley's dark, oppressive atmosphere reminded him of scenes from a horror movie, evoking a deep sense of unease. The thought of navigating its narrow, shadowy confines made his heart race with anxiety. Cyrus was no stranger to danger, but the memory of the man—if it really was a man—he had seen two days ago, killing a woman in a similar alleyway, weighed heavily on him. That gruesome event had left a lasting mark on his psyche, making the thought of entering such a place all the more daunting.
It felt like the weekend had dragged on endlessly, stretching time so that the events of just two days ago seemed like they had happened weeks ago. The weight of everything that had happened was pressing down on him, intensifying the sense of fatigue that now pervaded his body. His legs were sore from the bike ride; his calf and thigh muscles ached with every movement. Realizing he needed a break, he decided to take a moment to rest.
Cyrus dismounted his bike and sat on the curb, the cold, damp pavement providing a slight relief to his aching legs. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his tired muscles. The rhythmic sound of the rain hitting the pavement created a soothing backdrop to his moment of respite. Without his phone, there were no digital distractions, so he focused on the sensory experience of the rain and the street's subdued noises. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the rain's gentle patter to calm his nerves.
As the minutes passed, Cyrus began to feel a bit more composed. He stretched his legs, feeling the dull ache of his muscles begin to ease, and mentally prepared himself for the decision he had to make. The alley still loomed dark and menacing in his peripheral vision, but he knew he had to either face the fear and take the shortcut or ride the extra distance home, staying in familiar, safer territory. With a final deep breath and a sense of determination, he stood up, made a decision.
He swung his leg over his bike and pushed off, deciding to take the shortcut home. As the wheels turned beneath him, he tried to reassure himself that the murder he had witnessed was an isolated incident. After all, the odds of stumbling upon another violent crime seemed improbably slim, like winning the lottery twice in a row. He had always been intrigued by crime documentaries and the minds of infamous killers, occasionally even daydreaming about what it might be like to walk on the dark side of the law. But the notion that he could be a psychopath himself—well, that was a bit too much like something out of one of those cheesy TV thrillers.
The truth was, his preoccupation with violence and murder had started when he was just five years old. His earliest memories were clouded by flashes of trauma, mostly involving the brutal murder of his mother. While he used to mull over her death in the quiet moments between school and life, he hadn't had much time to dwell on it recently. His schedule was so packed, he barely had time to eat, let alone obsess over his unresolved past. Even now, a part of him believed that if he were to commit a murder and make it look like a suicide, the police would probably just shrug and call it an open-and-shut case—because who doesn't want their murder mysteries to be neatly tied up with a bow?
His grasp of criminality came from a very personal place. The only memory he had of his mother's killer was a shadowy figure in a black hoodie, looking like a discount ninja. He knew it was murder, but as a child too young to speak coherently, his attempts to help the police were about as effective as trying to use a spaghetti noodle as a weapon. To make matters worse, his father, Richard, had been adamant about keeping the investigation away from him, probably because he thought the kid might spill his cereal instead of useful information. Now, whenever he thought about the man who had killed that woman, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that the face was disturbingly familiar. The killer was tall, which was about all he could recall. He had always wondered about the identity of his mother's murderer, but his list of suspects was as blank as a new notebook.
Cyrus was never quite the epitome of normal. His best days could only be described as "mildly acceptable," and even that was stretching it. His mental state was, to put it mildly, a "spectacular train wreck on a collision course with absurdity." Picture a circus juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle on a tightrope strung over a pit of quicksand—that's the level of disarray we're talking about. Honestly, Cyrus was miles away from "okay" and even further from "normal."
He knew he had to pedal his way into the alleyway, but seriously, couldn't he just buy himself a five-minute breather? It's not like the alleyway was going anywhere. Maybe he could take a moment to mentally prepare for the grand adventure ahead, or at least, to question his life choices in a slightly more relaxed state. A few minutes wouldn't make a difference, right? Or so he told himself as he stared at the alleyway with a mix of dread and exasperation.
After about five minutes of fruitlessly trying to get everything under control, he decided to roll with his role as the quirky outsider. With a blend of desperation and overconfidence, he took a gamble and veered into the alleyway. It was like watching a lost child on a tricycle attempting to navigate through a labyrinth designed by a mischievous architect. He didn't even notice that the sign he had ignored wasn't pointing to a shortcut but to a completely different route. Who knew signs could be so deceptive?
Pedaling furiously down the alley, he began to feel like he was trapped in a scene from a bad detective movie where the hero never gets the memo about the plot twist. The alley seemed to stretch out endlessly, each corner leading to yet another corner, like a never-ending episode of "Lost in the Urban Jungle." Fifteen minutes later, he finally checked his watch—only to discover that he had been pedaling in circles longer than it took him to finish a marathon. He was still stuck in the alley, and the only thing that was clear was that his so-called shortcut had transformed into an epic quest for the world's longest dead-end.
At that moment, he was at the peak of hating his life, and honestly, most of the time he fantasized about just collapsing on the ground and never getting up again. But, hey, that was more of a dramatic daydream than something he had the guts to follow through on. Besides, his life wasn't exactly a blockbuster hit either. He used to have a stepmom—
Ah, the stepmom from hell. If you had asked him, he'd swear his dad must have found her on some obscure corner of the dark web. She had that classic "lifetime of poor choices" look, with wrinkles that seemed to have their own zip code. She looked like she'd been through the wringer a few times, aged about 80 years, while his dad, who was already nine years her senior, looked like he was still in his prime. The age difference was like a permanent scar on his psyche, a reminder that his dad had a talent for making questionable decisions.
But, of course, what could he do? His dad was still nursing a broken heart from when his mom died when he was just 2. Marrying her was his dad's way of filling the void, like trying to replace a vintage watch with a cheap knockoff. Spoiler alert: The marriage lasted only as long as a soggy paper bag, ending with her infidelity—a plot twist Cyrus hadn't seen coming, given her appearance. It was as if she had the charisma of a wet blanket and the allure of a faded old couch.
His stepmom was the stuff of nightmares—if nightmares came with a side of cheap plastic surgery and a lifetime supply of sunscreen. She looked like she'd been cast in a low-budget horror film as the aging ghoul, with wrinkles so pronounced they could double as road maps for lost travelers. Her face had more craters than the moon, and it was clear that her skincare routine involved a combination of too much sun and questionable life choices. She was a walking cautionary tale of what happens when someone combines excessive hard living with zero self-awareness. Despite being nine years younger than his dad, she looked like she'd been around since the dinosaurs roamed, and her presence alone could make a person reconsider the notion of beauty sleep—or sleep altogether. When she ended up cheating, it was less of a surprise and more of a confirmation that she was, in fact, a walking disaster area
Her idea of a romantic evening was probably sitting in front of the TV, eating processed snacks while reminiscing about the good old days of her dubious youth. She had the kind of charm that made you wonder if she was actively trying to repel all human contact. In public, she had a knack for blending into the background, not because of subtlety, but because people instinctively avoided making eye contact. Her life choices were a masterclass in how not to age gracefully, and her company was like being trapped in a never-ending rerun of a terrible soap opera where every plot twist was worse than the last. When she finally walked out, it was like watching a tornado leave town—messy, destructive, and a relief to see go.
The best part? Her presence was so grating that even her reflection seemed to avoid looking back, and her departure was akin to watching a circus pack up and leave town—everyone left with a sense of relief, a bit of headache, and the lingering memory of something you'd prefer to forget.
Cyrus exhaled a heavy sigh, his mind struggling to erase the vivid memories of his old stepmother—the woman he had long deemed a step-monster rather than a stepmother. She had been a figure of disdain in his life, marked by her age that defied logic. Despite being nine years younger than his father, she had wrinkled and aged in a manner that made her appear decades older than her actual years. Her skin was lined with deep, relentless creases, giving her the look of someone in her 80s, while his father, who was in his 40s, still retained a youthful vigor and an appearance that belied his age. The contrast between them was jarring, an almost cruel reminder of the wear and tear she seemed to carry with her, both physically and emotionally.
This harsh reality had etched itself into Cyrus's memory with a painful clarity. He could still remember the shuddering realization of their relationship dynamics and how they had solidified his resolve. The moment he first encountered her, he had made a silent vow—a promise to himself that he would never be drawn into the destructive habits that seemed to be her legacy. He swore to stay away from drugs, alcohol, and any other forms of addiction, not just as a way to escape the shadow of her influence but as a declaration of his own strength and autonomy. It was a commitment forged in the fires of his disillusionment, a way to distance himself from the uninviting specter she represented in his life.
The mere thought of his old stepmother made him gag. Even after their divorce, the memories of her—those that weren't tainted by the animosity that had characterized their relationship—still left a sour taste in his mouth. She had been a constant source of tension in his life, her presence as unwelcome as a storm cloud on a sunny day. He had always felt her eyes scrutinizing him, judging him with a harshness that bordered on cruelty. Now, as he stood in the dimly lit alleyway, the bitterness of those memories was like a cold knot in his stomach. But as much as he wanted to indulge in his loathing, he knew he had more pressing matters at hand.
He turned his attention to the task at hand: getting back home. He had already spent too much time wandering the city, lost in thoughts both mundane and unsettling. His watch ticked steadily on his wrist, its face glowing faintly in the dim light of the streetlamp overhead. He checked it, frowning as he saw that it was 8:53 PM. The evening had slipped away from him far quicker than he had anticipated.
It was clear now that he had misjudged the time it would take to reach the library and the time he would spend there. What had seemed like a straightforward visit had morphed into an unexpectedly lengthy endeavor. The library, with its musty aisles and towering stacks of books, had absorbed him completely, and the minutes had slipped by unnoticed as he delved into the archives and newspapers. His quest for information had taken longer than he had planned, and the growing pile of notes and clippings only added to the feeling of time slipping through his fingers.
Moreover, the 15-minute bike ride from the library to his current location in the alleyway had further compounded his delay. The alley itself was an echo of his frustrations—narrow, shadowed, and filled with the distant hum of city life that seemed to mock his predicament. As he stood there, a sense of urgency gnawed at him, urging him to abandon his contemplations and focus on getting home.
He took a deep breath, pushing aside the remnants of his irritation and focusing on the immediate task. The chill of the evening air prickled his skin, a reminder that he needed to get moving if he wanted to make it home at a reasonable hour. With one last glance at his watch, he turned and started back through the alley, determined to rectify his delay and put the night's frustrations behind him.
Cyrus hadn't even started pedaling yet, but he was already feeling the weight of his impending journey. The clock was ticking, and his bike seemed to have its own agenda about how fast it was willing to go. If he had decided to walk instead, he could've been a permanent fixture at his destination—like a statue of eternal tardiness. Walking would take him ages, given his leisurely pace, which was akin to watching paint dry in real time.
Most people found his slow speed a source of frustration, but what was the big deal? If anyone was in a rush, they could always give him a nudge or even a gentle shove. After all, a little push might just be the motivation Cyrus needed to achieve something close to a brisk pace, or at least a slightly less snail-like crawl.