Rain drummed against the cracked windows of a dimly lit café on the edge of town. The smell of stale coffee and wet asphalt filled the air as Aiden Cross stared at the envelope in front of him. No name, no return address—just his own initials scrawled in black ink across the front.
He hesitated, fingers trembling slightly. How did this even get to me? It was left on his doorstep early that morning, sealed with a wax insignia he didn't recognize.
"Aren't you gonna open it?" came a voice from across the booth.
Serena Lane—sharp-eyed, fearless, and Aiden's only real friend—leaned forward, her leather jacket creaking against the seat. Her phone buzzed in her hand, but her eyes stayed locked on him.
Aiden sighed and tore the envelope open. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a short, haunting message:
"You have 72 hours. Don't waste them."
His pulse quickened. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"
Serena grabbed the note and squinted at the handwriting. "Sounds like something out of a bad spy movie. Did you piss off anyone recently?"
"No," Aiden muttered, rubbing his temples. "I'm a college dropout working night shifts at a gas station. Who'd wanna mess with me?"
Before Serena could respond, the café door swung open, and a man in a soaked trench coat walked in. He scanned the room once, his gaze lingering a second too long on Aiden before he turned and walked to the counter.
"Okay, that was weird," Serena said, her voice low.
Aiden's phone buzzed in his pocket. An unknown number. He answered, heart racing.
"You're being watched, Aiden." The voice was distorted, almost robotic. "If you want answers, go to Pier 17 tonight. Come alone."
The line went dead.
Serena's brows furrowed. "Who was that?"
Aiden slipped his phone into his pocket and exhaled shakily. "We're going to Pier 17."
Serena's smirk was instant. "Now you're talking, Cross."
But Aiden wasn't smiling. Somewhere deep in his gut, he knew whatever waited for him at that pier wasn't going to be good.
Outside, the rain intensified, and somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked toward midnight.