The consultation room smelled of aggressive antiseptic and stale coffee. It was a cold, windowless box painted a shade of white that hurt the eyes, illuminated by a fluorescent strip light that buzzed with a low, headache-inducing hum.

  David sat on the edge of the hard plastic chair, his body tense. His elbows dug into his knees, hands clasped tightly together, his nose buried against his knuckles.

  It had been a day since the body was taken. A day since the silence settled in.

  But his mind wasn't on the grief. It was stuck on something else.

  *What the hell is happened?*

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the timeline to make sense. He remembered collapsing on the sofa. He remembered the texture of the cheap fabric against his cheek. But he had woken up in his bed, under the duvet, head on the pillow.

  *I’m pretty sure that wasn't me.*

  *Did I sleepwalk?*

  He chewed on the side of his thumb. It was the only rational explanation. Stress, trauma, exhaustion, maybe his brain had just short-circuited and piloted him to the bedroom.

  But the logic fell apart when he thought about the clothes.

  When he woke up, his black shirt and pants weren't just thrown on the floor. They were folded on the desk. And not just folded, they were aligned with military precision. Sharp creases. Perfect squares.

  *That can’t be me,* he thought, staring at the scuffed linoleum floor. *No one sleepwalks and does laundry. I’ve never sleepwalked a day in my life.*

  And then there was the water.

  He remembered waking up to a roar. A sound like a dam breaking.

  At first, in his half-asleep haze, he thought it was a storm hammering the roof. But when the fog cleared, he realized it was coming from inside. He had stumbled to the bathroom to find the sink and the shower blasted wide open.

  The water wasn't just running; it was thundering against the porcelain.

  He had scrambled to shut the valves, drenched in cold spray, completely baffled. The water had been cut off yesterday. And even when the bill was paid, the pressure in that house was low, a sad, sputtering drizzle. The water then was violent.

  *It doesn't make sense, he thought, rubbing his sweating palms against the denim of his jeans. *Even if the city turned it back on, the pipes shouldn't be able to do that.*

  He sat up straight, the plastic chair creaking under him. He looked up at the ceiling tiles, counting the little dots to steady his breathing.

  *Could it be that someone broke in?*

  Paranoia pricked at the back of his neck.

  *But I checked.*

  He had run to the drawers immediately. The cash was still there. The TV was still there.

  A robber wouldn't break in, leave the cash and the Tv. The thought left a cold knot of unease in his stomach.

  The door clicked open.

  David turned. A man roughly the age of his uncle stepped in. He wore a white coat and thick glasses, sporting a small, neatly trimmed mustache.

  "Sorry," the man said, looking a bit breathless. "I was busy with something."

  "Oh, no, it's fine," David said.

  *Right,* David thought, straightening his posture. *Focus. This is important. James just died. They’re going to tell me the cause of death and ask questions. I need to be ready.*

  The man sat on the chair across the desk.

  Immediately, a smell hit David.

  It wasn't unpleasant, in fact, it was expensive, but it was strong. It was a specific brand of body spray, the one with the glorious ad campaign that was everywhere right now. David knew it instantly because he was mildly allergic to it.

  His nose started to tickle. A sharp sting pricked at the corners of his eyes.

  *Oh no,* David thought, trying not to blink too much.* Is that what I think it is?*

  "So," the man said, clasping his hands. "How are you doing today?"

  "Oh, well... I am, uh..." David rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, my uncle just died, so..."

  The doctor’s eyes widened behind his lenses. "Wait. Your uncle died?"

  David blinked. "Huh? What? So... is he alive?"

  "Wait." The doctor froze. He looked around the windowless room, then down at his clipboard. "What room am I in?"

  He looked back at David, horrified. "Oh, my goodness. I am so sorry, I’m not supposed to be here. Aren't you David Walker?"

  "No," David said. "I'm David Sanchez."

  "Ah." The man stood up abruptly.

  He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small orange bottle, shook two pills into his palm, and threw them into his mouth. He swallowed them dry, without a drop of water.

  "It must be acting up again," the man muttered to himself. "I’m actually supposed to be in the psychiatric ward. There is another consultant office over there. I need to get going. I apologize, I got confused."

  "Oh... no, it's fine," David said, watching him.

  Is he sick? David thought. How do you get rooms and people confused like that?

  "I'll make sure you get attended to." the man said.

  He hurried out, and the door clicked shut.

  David sighed, letting his breath out in a rush. He was relieved as the cloud of body spray began to dissipate, though the chemical tang lingered in the stale air. His eyes hadn't started fully watering yet, but he could feel the tears forming.

  "Well, of course," David muttered, rubbing his eyes. "This is Riverdale."

  They were always so understaffed and overworked. That doctor looked like he needed a bed more than the patients did.

  "They should really let some people retire, jeez."

  He slumped against the backrest of the chair, staring at his boots.

  His thoughts drifted back to James. He thought about the drugs he had flushed down the toilet. He thought about the money tucked away in his drawer, cash he still hadn't touched.

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  *Do I use that money to pay the water bill?* he wondered.* And the electricity is almost out. I need to go buy a voucher to recharge the meter.*

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the cracked screen.

  *And then there’s this piece of junk.*

  It was 9:14 AM. The morning was barely starting, and he was already exhausted.

  The door clicked open again.

  David turned. This time, it was a woman. She was wearing a white coat, with two pens, one red, one blue, clipped neatly to her chest pocket. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail.

  David blinked. She looked young. Almost his age.

  Is she the doctor? he thought, confused. Medical school takes years. How is she finished already?

  "Good morning, sir," she said, her voice soft.

  "Good morning," David replied.

  She sat down in the chair across from him, smoothing her coat. Her face softened into a practiced look of sympathy. "Right. I am sure you have been informed that your uncle has passed. My condolences."

  "Yeah," David said, his voice dragging out the syllable.

  Then, the smell hit him. Again.

  It was the spray. The exact same brand the other doctor had been wearing. The popular one.

  David’s breath hitched. He clenched his hands tight against his thighs, digging his fingers into the denim to stop himself from reacting.

  *Oh god,* he thought, feeling the familiar prickle in his nose. *Did she use that body spray too? Is there a sale on it somewhere?*

  The doctor noticed his white-knuckled grip on his legs. Her expression softened even more. She watched his struggle, thinking he was fighting back a wave of overwhelming grief.

  "In the statement you gave," she said, glancing down at the clipboard, "you stated that he drank a lot and smoked excessively. Am I correct?"

  "Yes," David said. "He did."

  The woman nodded slowly. "Well, the cause of your uncle's death was liver failure. Specifically, your uncle had suffered from severe Cirrhosis."

  She paused, looking up at him. "This condition also caused him to develop Jaundice. Did you not notice the color change in his skin?"

  David’s eyes widened.

  The tan, he thought, a cold realization settling in his stomach.

  He remembered looking at James and thinking he looked weirdly healthy, his skin getting lighter in some places, but glowing a deep, sickly orange in others. He had been jealous of it. He had thought James was just soaking up the sun.

  "I..." David stammered. "Yes. But I really didn't think anything of it at the time. I thought he was just tanning."

  The woman sighed, a small, sad sound. "Well, that was the primary symptom. It seems that he had been suffering from it for quite some time now. Did you really not notice any other symptoms? Fatigue? Weakness?"

  David chewed on the inside of his cheek.

  *I couldn't have, he thought defensively. Even if he showed fatigue, the guy was always lazy. How was I supposed to tell the difference between 'dying' and 'hungover'?*

  "No," David said aloud. "I didn't. Most of the time he was at the bar, or at work, or somewhere else. He never really stayed put. We didn't hang out much."

  "Oh," the woman said softly.

  David blinked. The sting in his eyes flared up, sudden and sharp.

  A single tear leaked out, followed quickly by another. Then his eyes just opened the floodgates.

  The woman looked at him with profound sympathy, her face softening. "This must really be hard for you. I'm sorry."

  David was surprised by the sudden flow. He hurriedly wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, sniffing.

  *No, he thought furiously, his eyes burning. It’s not grief. It’s because of that stupid perfume.

  The woman reached across the desk and slid a box of tissues toward him.

  "Take your time," she said gently. "There is no rush."

  David grabbed a handful of tissues and buried his face in them, not to sob, but to filter the air. He wiped his streaming eyes, nodding jerkily to keep up the charade.

  "Thanks," he choked out.* Just give me the papers so I can get out of this gas chamber.*

  "We didn't find any personal effects on his person," she continued softly. "No wallet, no keys. Just the clothes he was wearing."

  David nodded again behind the tissue. * The wallet

  was left at home*

  "I just need you to sign the release forms and the death certificate," she said, sliding a clipboard across the smooth surface of the desk. "Then you can make arrangements with the funeral home."

  David dropped the tissue, grabbed the pen, the blue one, and scribbled his signature on the dotted line. He didn't bother reading the fine print. He just wanted to breathe oxygen again.

  "Is that it?" he asked, standing up a little too quickly.

  "Yes," she said, blinking at his sudden recovery. "That’s all for now. Again, I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Sanchez."

  "Thanks. Really. Thank you."

  David turned and practically bolted for the door.

  He stepped out into the hallway and the door clicked shut behind him, sealing the scent of the body spray inside. He took a deep, greedy breath of the hospital air. It smelled like floor wax and sickness, but compared to that office, it was like a mountain breeze.

  He rubbed his red, irritated eyes and started walking toward the exit, clutching the paperwork in his hand.

  "Finally," he muttered. "Now I just need to get out of here."

  David pushed through the double doors of the exit, squinting against the morning sun. He headed straight for the parking lot, scanning the racks.

  He let out a breath of relief. His bicycle was still there.

  Great, he thought, unlocking the chain.* I was afraid it was going to get stolen if I took too long in there.*

  He climbed onto the seat, gripping the handlebars. As he pushed off the curb, movement across the street caught his eye.

  A man was standing there, watching him.

  He was bald, with a thick neck and a heavy build that strained against his black vest. But it was the tattoo on his shoulder that held David’s gaze.

  It was a black dragon, but the style was strange. The head was intricate, snarling and reptilian, but the neck and torso weren't scales, they were stylized fire. It looked like the beast was burning itself into existence.

  The man caught David looking. He didn't look away. Instead, he gave a nod.

  David, acting on reflex, nodded back.

  *That tattoo,* David thought, pushing the pedal down to get moving.* It looks so familiar. Where have I seen that?*

  The man turned, shoving his hands into his pockets, and walked casually down the road, disappearing into the pedestrian traffic.

  David shook his head, forcing his eyes forward. *Don't think about it. Probably just some biker.*

  He took a right turn, picking up speed. The wind whipped past his face, tossing his black hair.

  As he rode, he watched the blur of the town. He passed a stretch of brand-new concrete sidewalk, smooth and white, contrasting with the cracked asphalt of the road.

  *At least this town is getting some development done,*he thought.

  A smile ghosted his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. There had been barely any development in Heartz. The memory of his hometown hit him suddenly, a tight knot twisting in his chest like a drop of acid burning through a shirt.

  He hated thinking about Heartz. It was a place of heat, stagnation, and ghosts. It reminded him of his parents.

  The acid burned hotter.

  His parents were dead. And now James was dead.

  David’s eyes widened, his hands tightening on the rubber grips of the handlebars. The realization slammed into him, harder than the wind.

  *Oh shit, he thought, the world seeming to tilt slightly. I’m basically an orphan now.*

  Suddenly, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate against his thigh.

  David kept pedaling, fishing the device out with one hand. The screen lit up through the spiderweb of cracks: Aunt Dorothy.

  He tapped the green icon. Nothing happened.

  He swiped his thumb across the glass, harder this time. Still nothing. The touch sensors were completely dead.

  "Damn it," he hissed, tapping frantically as the ringtone continued to mock him. "Okay, I really need to buy a new phone. I can't even answer a call."

  The ringing stopped. Missed call.

  He shoved the useless brick back into his pocket and kept pedaling.

  He turned into his neighborhood. It was quieter here, away from the main road. He glanced at the house next door, Miss Madison’s place. The windows were thrown wide open, curtains fluttering in the breeze. She was home.

  David climbed off the bike and unlatched his small gate, walking the bike up the path.

  *I wish she would just come outside,* he thought, glaring at her front door.* I need to tell her about that dog. That stupid thing... I don't even know what breed it is. Some kind of rat-crossbreed?*

  He shook the thought away. He didn't have the energy for a confrontation today.

  He wrestled the bike through the front door and wheeled it straight into the storage room, parking it next to the water jugs. It was safer in there than outside.

  He walked to the kitchen cupboard to grab a cup, but stopped dead in front of the electricity meter box on the wall. The digital display was blinking a low number.

  "Oh, crap."

  David slapped a hand over his face, dragging his fingers down his cheeks. "I forgot to recharge the electricity."

  He stared at the number, doing the mental math.

  *Oh well. It’s still good enough for two days, I guess. As long as I don't use the stove too long. That thing eats credits.*

  He grabbed the cup, went back to the storage room, and poured himself a drink from the jug. He downed it, then walked into the living room and threw himself onto the couch.

  The springs groaned under his weight, a sound that was becoming the soundtrack of his life.

  He ignored it, staring blankly at the dark TV screen. His eyes drifted to the coffee table.

  James’s phone was sitting there.

  David picked it up. It was an older model, chunky and scarred, but at least the screen worked. He woke it up.

  5 Missed Calls - Dorothy.

  David sighed, staring at the notifications.

  "I hope she calls again, he thought, a wave of helplessness washing over him. *I need to know how things are going to move on from here. I don't even know the first thing about planning a funeral.*

  He dropped the phone onto the scarred wood of the coffee table and let his body collapse back against the sofa. The springs groaned beneath him, a tired, metal complaint that matched his own exhaustion. He stared up at the water-stained ceiling, tracing the yellowed rings of old leaks with his eyes.

  "I still wonder," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "What kind of life would I have had if Mom and Dad were still alive?"

  He let out a short, hollow chuckle that scraped against his dry throat. "Yeah. I probably wouldn't be here, to begin with."

  He closed his eyes, letting the heavy, suffocating silence of the house press down on him. *My life really sucks right now.*

  The silence shattered.

  Without warning, the television across the room screamed to life. It was an aggressive static blizzard of black and white "showers" thrashing against the glass screen. The noise was deafening, a harsh, electronic roar that filled the small room with chaotic light.

  The sound sent a spinning heartbeat slamming against his chest, adrenaline spiking through his veins like ice water.

  "Whoa! Oh shit!"

  David bolted upright, squinting against the blinding glare. "That actually scared me."

  He scrambled to his side, shoving his hand deep into the crevice of the sofa cushions, hunting for the remote. His fingers dug past old crumbs and gathered dust, searching for the plastic rectangle.

  *Where is it?*

  His fingertips brushed against something, but it wasn't hard plastic. It was cool, smooth, and light. It felt like braided silk.

  He frowned, closing his grip around it and hauling it out into the flickering light of the TV.

  It was the golden rope.

  David froze.

  *Wait,* he thought, his mind stumbling over the logic.* I thought the TV turned on because I sat on the remote. But this... what the hell is this doing here? I left this in my bedroom. I saw it on the floor.*

  As he held the coil in his hand, a new sound began to bleed through the electronic screech of the television.

  It was a heavy, wet thundering. The sound of liquid hitting metal with immense force.

  David jerked his head to the left.

  Through the open doorway of the kitchen, the scene was impossible. The faucet was blasting. A solid, violent column of water was hammering into the stainless steel sink, splashing over the edges and soaking the counter.

  The sound echoed from down the hall, too, the bathroom shower was roaring against the tiles.

  "What the hell?"

  David threw the golden rope onto the cushion as if it had burned him. He scrambled to his feet, his boots slipping slightly on the carpet. "What the hell is going on?"

  He sprinted into the kitchen, his boots skidding on the linoleum. The air here was cold, filled with a fine mist from the spray.

  "It’s happening again," he muttered his voice swallowed by the roar of the shower noise. "It shouldn't be possible"

  He reached out, grabbing the cold metal handles of the tap. He turned them, wrenching them to the right.

  They hit a hard stop.

  David stared at the handles, water dripping from his hands. The valves were physically closed. Tightly sealed. Yet the water exploded from the spout as if the pipe had been severed.

  "Stop!" he screamed at the metal, twisting them frantically in the other direction.

  Nothing changed. The water didn't even waver.

  Then, the static in the living room cut out.

  The electronic roar vanished instantly.

  David spun around, chest heaving, water dripping from his fingertips onto the kitchen floor.

  The TV screen had changed. The chaotic "showers" of static were gone, replaced by a grainy, sepia-toned image. It looked like an old, degraded home video playing through a bad connection.

  In the center of the screen, a woman sat in a wooden rocking chair. The room around her was swallowed by shadow, but the pale light illuminated her hands. She was cradling a bundle of blankets against her chest. A baby.

  She was stroking the infant's hair with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Her face was hidden in the gloom, a blur of pixels and darkness.

  Her voice drifted through the speakers. It was distorted, crackling with age, yet terrifyingly soft.

  "Don't worry," she cooed. The sound seemed to wrap around the room. "I'll take care of you."

  David stood paralyzed in the kitchen doorway, staring at the woman on the screen.

  Then, the TV snapped off. The light died, plunging the room back into grey gloom.

  At that exact second, the pipes obeyed. The torrent from the kitchen tap severed instantly, the water vanishing as if an invisible hand had choked the flow. The last few drops fell with a rhythmic, hollow plink against the steel.

  The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. It felt thick, like the air before a thunderstorm.

  He looked at his wet hands. He looked at the golden rope lying innocently on the sofa cushion.

  "What the hell," he whispered, his voice cracking in the suffocating quiet. "Is going on?"