I jolted upright from my chair, the sound of my skin peeling away from the sticky leather echoing in the quiet office. “I fell asleep,” I mumble, running a hand over my face. My eyes stinging, and my neck aches from the awkward angle I must’ve been slumped in. Blinking against the faint glow of the desk lamp, I glance around, trying to get my bearings. 

 The room feels strangely empty, the hum of the air conditioner the only sound. That’s when I notice the crumpled note sitting just off-center on my desk. I reach for it, smoothing it out as I lean closer to read the messy scrawl: Left early. Don’t worry, I locked up. Didn’t feel like waking you—you looked beat. –D... P.S. Keys are on Cherry’s desk.   

My eyes linger on the note. The handwriting is rushed, like they were in a hurry. I glance toward Cherry’s desk across the room.  but the space feels heavier somehow—like I was watched by something or someone.  

The office is still a mess—files scattered everywhere, some of the wood warped from years of neglect. The tinted glass door bears faded letters that read: P.I.s Jack and Darrel Millard. 

I step out into the hallway and make my way toward the lobby. The space is neatly furnished, almost too pristine, like it doesn’t see much use.  

My eyes drifted to the desk pushed against the right wall. A cheap gold nameplate catches the light, the engraving reading: Cherry Keeley. 

 I walked over to the desk and spotted a pair of car keys. “There you are,” I muttered, grabbing them before heading to the door. My short brown jacket hung on the hook beside it. I shrugged it on and turned toward the long mirror mounted on the wall. 

My reflection stared back: dark navy jeans, a slightly wrinkled white button-up, and the same brown jacket I’d had since high school. It didn’t fit quite like it used to, but it would do.  

 My hair was a disheveled mess of dark brown, and my deep blue eyes looked a little more tired than sharp. My pale skin didn’t do me any favors either— I needed to spend more time outside. 

I turned to the office door—locked, courtesy of my ever-considerate brother. The key stuck as I twisted it. “Come on, you piece of crap. Work with me here,” I muttered, jiggling it harder. Finally, it gave with a loud click. “Gotcha,” I said, grinning as I swung the door open. 

Stepping out, I pulled the door shut behind me. Then it hit me. “Wait… I’ve gotta lock it again.” My grin faded as fast as it had appeared. With a sigh, I turned the key back in the lock, muttering under my breath as it clicked shut. 

The small parking lot stretched out in front of me, empty except for my old police cruiser. The car wasn’t much—a beat-up white sedan, with scuffed paint and faint outlines where the lightbar and decals used to be. But it ran, and it was mine, which was all I cared about. 

As I approached, something caught my eye. A file—wedged under the windshield wipers. My steps slowed as I grabbed it, flipping it open. The handwriting inside was a mess—definitely not Darrel’s. He might be sloppy, but this was next-level bad. 

Inside, there were grainy photos and crumpled notes jammed together. On top was a single sheet of paper, its uneven, jagged letters impossible to miss: 

“Solve the diner incident, and you might save a life. Fail, and you might lose more than your soul.” 

The ink was strange—thick and blotchy, like someone had used a busted pen. It smeared in places, as if whoever wrote it had a heavy hand. I stared at the note, my stomach tightening. Who the hell left this? And what did it mean? 

The photos underneath looked old—some decades old. A few showed a crime scene, complete with caution tape and what appeared to be the entire police department standing around. 

When was this? I’ve gone through most of the big cases in this area, and Dad never mentioned anything like this before. 

I climbed into the car and started the engine. The dashboard clock flickered on: 12:35 a.m. 

“Damn. It’s already past midnight,” I muttered, leaning back in the seat and rubbing my eyes. As I pulled out of the parking lot, the file sat on the passenger seat, taunting me. The jagged handwriting and grainy photos wouldn’t leave my mind. 

A wild thought crept in—something about that dream I’d been having lately. I shook my head. “Nope. Not doing that. Crazy talk.” But even as I told myself to drop it, the unease wouldn’t let go.