The survivors were called "The Lucky Seven."
News reports played nonstop footage of the Pier Seven collapse. Helicopter shots showed twisted beams floating on black water. Divers searched for missing bodies. Fireworks glittered in the distance like stars that had nothing to do with celebration.
Eva didn't speak to reporters. None of them really did.
For two weeks, they scattered across town like broken glass—each trying to forget what they saw.
But Eva couldn't forget the vision. She kept a notebook by her bed. She sketched the moments, the timing, the way each person died. Every night, she dreamt of drowning. Every morning, she woke up just as the ocean reached her throat.
Carmen stayed close—half to watch over her cousin, half because she didn't want to be alone. They watched dumb TV, cooked, tried to feel normal.
Then came the knock.
Three Days Later
Rafi Ortega walked barefoot on the shoreline near his apartment complex, earbuds in, sweat clinging to his neck. Music was his therapy. Ocean air, his freedom.
He couldn't stop reliving the fall. The way the floor gave under him. That crack of splintered wood. The screaming.
But he was alive. He'd made it. He was stronger than death.
The tide was low. A perfect time for a swim. He stepped into the waves.
No lifeguards out. No tourists. Just him and the blue.
Rafi dove beneath the surface, kicked out past the shallows. The water was calm. But when he surfaced, something tugged at his ankle.
He frowned. Looked down.
Nothing there.
He laughed, but as he turned back—a massive wave slammed into him.
Disoriented, he swam up. His head broke the surface—but another wave crashed. Saltwater choked his lungs. He gasped, flailed—
That's when he felt the current.
Something fierce dragged him sideways, pulling him fast. A rip current. Invisible, silent, merciless. He thrashed, trying to swim back, but the water was thick, heavy, grabbing him.
He screamed.
No one was around.
He tried floating—remembering what they taught—but the ocean didn't care.
A shape appeared—a lifebuoy, drifting nearby. Had someone thrown it?
Rafi reached.
Just as his fingers touched it—
It jerked away.
Like it had been yanked.
He looked beneath the surface.
Something—someone—was watching from beneath. A shadow. A face?
No, no, no.
His lungs gave out.
Bubbles. Silence. Salt.
Darkness.
Eva's Apartment – Same Time
Eva jolted upright from a nap, gasping.
The notebook on her nightstand was open to Rafi's name.
She grabbed her phone, shaking fingers dialing.
No answer.
Then Carmen opened the door—pale. "Eva… it's on the news."
Rafi Ortega's body had washed up along the coast thirty minutes ago.
No foul play. No drugs. Just the ocean.
The reporter called it a tragic accident.
Eva dropped the phone.
"No," she whispered. "It's starting."
That Night
The survivors met at Jonas's garage, one of the only places not buzzing with media. Eva arrived last.
Maya, Carmen, Imani, Zeke, Jonas.
Six left.
Nobody smiled.
"What the hell is happening?" Jonas said, pacing. "Rafi was a swimmer."
Imani sat in the corner, rubbing her arms. "He was the strongest one here."
Eva stood near the doorway. "I had a vision before the collapse."
They all looked at her.
"I saw it. All of us dying. And Rafi… Rafi was the first."
"You saw us die?" Maya asked, skeptical.
"Yes. One by one. On that pier. And now—it's happening again. He died the same way I saw it."
"Then tell us," Zeke said. "Tell us how we die."
Eva shook her head. "I don't remember everything. It's flashes. Faces. Screams. I can't control it."
Jonas frowned. "So we're just supposed to wait to die?"
Carmen stood. "No. We fight it."
"Fight Death?" Maya laughed bitterly. "How?"
"Together," Carmen said.
Eva's fingers clenched the notebook.
Six left.
One gone.
Death wasn't finished.
End of Chapter Two