It was just past nine when Melissa and her boyfriend, Liam, walked into the police station. The sun was already warm, but inside, the front desk area was cool and still, almost too quiet for how restless Melissa felt.
She approached the counter, her steps quick, her voice ready. A female officer behind the desk looked up from a monitor, offering a polite nod.
"Hi," Melissa started, trying to hold her frustration in check. "I'm here to follow up. I called in two days ago—about a break-in. Officers came to the house, but since then, no one's contacted me. No updates, nothing."
The officer's expression shifted. "Okay," she said calmly, typing as she spoke. "Let me check… what's your name?"
"Melissa Carter."
A few clicks, then silence as the officer scanned the screen. Her brow creased.
"I'm not seeing anything under that name. Are you sure it was this precinct that responded?"
Melissa nodded firmly. "Yes. Two officers came. I remember their names—well, one of them. Hale. Officer Hale."
At the sound of that, the woman at the desk froze for a beat. She looked up, her face a little more serious now.
"I'm really sorry," she said. "There's a reason you haven't heard anything. The officers who responded to your call were in an accident later that same night. They were returning to file reports when it happened."
Melissa blinked. "An accident?"
"Yes." The officer's voice lowered slightly. "All but one of them… didn't make it. And the one who survived—he's still in a coma."
Liam stepped a little closer, his hand brushing Melissa's.
"So… nothing got filed?" Melissa asked, her voice quieter now.
"We're not sure yet. Things from the crash site are still being sorted, but right now, we don't have any record of your case in the system."
Melissa let out a breath.
"I'll flag this," the officer added gently. "And we'll start fresh."
They reached the car, and she slid into the passenger seat slowly. Liam got in beside her and started the engine. Neither of them spoke as he eased the car into motion. The city moved around them—cars flowed through traffic lights, someone laughed on the sidewalk, and a cyclist weaved past them at the corner. Everything outside the windows kept moving.
Melissa sat stiffly, her fingers wrapped around her phone. She stared at the screen like it might offer answers if she looked long enough. Her thoughts were loud and jumbled, but she didn't say any of them. The silence in the car pressed in.
Then her phone buzzed.
She blinked, glanced down. The message had no name attached. Just a number she didn't recognize.
"You weren't supposed to tell the police."
Her breath caught.
Before she could react, the screen lit up again—a call. She hesitated, then answered.
A voice came through, low and calm.
"You broke the first rule. That was your warning."
The call ended.
Almost instantly, another message arrived. An image this time. Melissa's hand flew to her mouth.
It was her mother's severed leg, placed on something cold and metal. Blood still wet.
Another message followed right after.
"Every mistake will cost a piece. Wait for instructions."
Her hands trembled. The phone slid slightly in her grip. She didn't say a word, just stared ahead as Liam glanced at her from the driver's seat.
"Melissa?" he asked quietly.
-------------------------------------------
When Hale opened his eyes, everything was… off.
He wasn't in the hospital anymore. The antiseptic smell was gone, replaced by the faint scent of dust and something older. He blinked, trying to focus. The sky above was pale—washed out, like it had forgotten how to hold color. Buildings lined the street around him, familiar but hollow. No movement. No sound. Just rows of houses, cars parked like they'd been abandoned mid-errand, and not a single soul in sight.
He took a step forward. Then another.
His boots echoed slightly on the pavement. Every door he tried was locked. Every window showed empty rooms. Lights out. Water dry. The whole town felt like it had been paused.
He moved slowly, scanning every street, searching for a face, a sign, anything. Time felt slippery here. It was either passing too quickly or not at all.
Then, as he turned a corner, he saw it.
A house—same design as the others—but this one was lit. Warm yellow light spilled from the front window. The porch lamp glowed faintly. Inside, he could hear the hum of electricity. He stepped closer and tried the door.
It opened.
The air inside was warmer. Lived-in. The tap in the kitchen ran when he turned it. The fridge hummed. The ceiling fan spun lazily. But still, no people. No voices.
On the side table sat an old rotary telephone. He hesitated, then picked up the receiver. The line was open. He dialed 9-9-1.
Nothing.
He tried again. Then again. Static.
Then he tried his wife's number. Others he could remember. All failed. Each one ending in silence or a flat hum.
He sat down, defeated. Shoulders sagging, eyes heavy. The room was too still.
Just as he leaned back, ready to shut everything out for a moment—
The phone rang.
It made him jump. He stared at it for a second before scrambling upright. He grabbed the receiver, hand shaking slightly.
"…Hello?"
The line crackled.
Then a voice came through—