Hunter sat on the edge of his bed, the card pinched between his fingers.
He'd read it a hundred times by now. As if staring hard enough might force it to give up its secrets.
Just a location. A date. A time. Nothing else. No name, no message.
Plain, but heavy. Loaded with implication.
The encounter replayed over and over in his mind.
The black sedan easing to a stop.
The window sliding down smooth as silk.
The man's smile: unreadable, polite, rehearsed.
And then the card. Passed like a note across enemy lines.
His words stuck in Hunter's head like splinters. "If you finally want justice."
What the hell did that mean? Did he know something about Kat's death?
Who even was he?
He knew I was tailing David. That I was checking his socials. How?
Come alone, don't bring 'friends', he had said. Hunter scoffed.
Bold of him to assume I had any friends to bring.
There were too many unknowns. Too many question marks.
Hunter sighed as he stood, starting to pace. He wanted to believe it was a lead. The lead.
But paranoia whispered from the corners of his mind: It's a trap. A setup. A sick joke.
The card sat on the bed now, demanding attention. He picked it up again.
He hadn't even taken off his shoes before checking the address online. It was the first thing he did once he got home.
It led to a small internet café in a part of town he hadn't visited in years. He ran a search. It was real. Still running, but barely. Low reviews. Low profile.
His thoughts circled back to the man again.
Driver? Middleman? Part of something larger?
He looked like someone who didn't improvise. He looked like someone with a plan.
If he wanted to kill me, he had plenty of chances.
That man didn't just give me a card. He gave me a choice.
He looked over to the photograph on his side table.
Kat. Her smile caught mid-laughter, frozen in a time before everything went to hell.
Something in his chest twisted. The hesitation cracked and fell away.
He had nothing left to live for, anyway.
Whatever waited for him, couldn't be worse than how he lost his mother.
This might be his only chance. He couldn't ignore it.
Two days later. 8:30 PM.
The card lay face up on his desk.
Hunter stood over it, dressed for the heat but still trying to blend in.
A lightweight zip-up hoodie in charcoal grey, sleeves pushed to his elbows. A faded baseball cap pulled low, casting a shadow over his eyes. Black jeans – not too tight, not too loose – and worn sneakers that made no sound on the floorboards.
He looked like someone deliberately average. Someone made to disappear into a crowd.
He checked the time. Thirty minutes to go. Time to leave.
Hunter opted to travel light.
Cash tucked into his boot. The card and his phone in his pocket. And a small folding knife, just in case.
He hoped he wouldn't need to use it.
Last step before leaving – he slid a slip of paper into a drawer in case something went wrong:
"If I disappear or die, check RetroNet Internet Cafe."
He didn't know who he was leaving this for. Maybe the police, to make their lives easier if something happened to him.
Hunter moved to the mirror, staring at his reflection.
He looked different. Or maybe just unfamiliar. Like someone he might've crossed paths with on the street and never noticed.
That was good. That was the point. His distinctive hair color was, for the most part, tucked under the hood.
One last look around. The apartment looked like it always did. Quiet, dim, depressing.
Kat's photo sat where it always had.
He shut the door without looking back. What waited ahead was all that mattered now.
The sun had vanished beyond the skyline hours ago, but the air still hung heavy, thick with the lingering heat of the day.
A bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck as he kept walking, his steps deliberate, unhurried.
Every few paces, he cast a casual glance over his shoulder. Not too obvious, just enough to confirm: no shadows trailing, no footsteps but his own.
He didn't know what he expected. A car tailing him again? Someone slipping out of an alley with a syringe or a silencer?
The paranoia was ridiculous. Except, it wasn't. Not now. Not after everything.
The twenty-minute walk felt much longer. Bringing his car had not been an option. In this seedy part of town, he didn't want to risk it getting stolen.
Besides, he could be better aware of his surroundings on foot.
No one had followed. By the time he reached the café, the tension in his shoulders hadn't eased, but nothing had gone wrong.
It looked like a relic from the early 2000s. The flickering lights outside the faded signage gave it an almost haunting appearance.
Really lives up to its name, huh.
The windows were grime-smeared and tinted just enough to make the inside unreadable. A handwritten sheet of paper with the opening hours hung crookedly in the door. One corner was curling in the heat.
Hunter paused.
From the outside, it was impossible to tell if anyone was inside. No music, no chatter, no light leaking out from the cracks.
His hand hovered at the door for a moment too long. He had no idea what awaited him inside.
This was the point of no return.
He pushed it open.
The bell above the door didn't jingle. It gave a single, pathetic click, almost like it had arthritis.
He stepped through the door and the city vanished behind him. The stillness inside felt sealed off from the world, like walking into a secret.
The girl at the counter looked up as he entered. Early twenties, red hair pulled tight and wrapped in a braid. Her eyes landed on the card in his hand, and for a split second, something flickered there. Recognition? Pity?
He held it out without a word.
She barely glanced at it before nodding. "Terminal 6," she said, already turning her attention back to her phone.
Hunter lingered a beat too long. Part of him wanted to ask her something. Do you know what this is? Or why me? But he didn't. Something told him there was no point. If she knew anything, she wasn't sharing.
He turned and walked down the row of booths, half-expecting someone to grab him. Nothing. Just dim lights and worn plastic chairs.
The overhead lights buzzed, some flickering faintly like they were struggling to stay alive.
Rows of outdated machines lined the walls, some idle, others humming low, screensavers bouncing silently in the dark.
The carpet beneath his feet was sticky in places.
Awesome. Nothing says 'welcome' like stepping in mystery goo.
He made a mental note to burn his shoes later.
Walking slowly, Hunter scanned the booths as he passed. Terminal 3 had a half-empty bottle of water next to it. Terminal 4 was logged in, the browser open to a chess game left mid-move.
There were no other customers. Not exactly surprising. Who would want to spend their evening in a run-down box like this?
Terminal 6 sat at the far end. Isolated. Tucked between a cracked plastic divider and the wall. A single plastic chair sat in front of it. The keyboard was worn, some of the letters faded from use.
Hunter checked the time. 8:56 PM.
He sat, the chair groaning beneath him. His eyes swept the corners of the room. Nothing moved. The girl at the counter was still absorbed in her phone. Outside, headlights flared briefly against the dirty windows, then vanished.
The screen in front of him stayed black. He tapped the space bar. Nothing.
So he waited.
Every second felt longer than the last. He drummed his fingers once on the desk, then stopped. It felt too loud.
At exactly 9:00 PM, the monitor lit up.
A black screen. White text.
IF YOU WANT ANSWERS, EARN THEM.
Hunter leaned in, pulse quickening.
You have 15 minutes. Solve the case. The truth depends on it.
A single click echoed through the speakers – soft, precise, like a lock turning.
Then the countdown began.
15:00… 14:59… 14:58…