Daniel Rourke was a creature of habit. Coffee at 7:30, bus by 8:10, desk by 8:50. His life was precise, carved into routine, and he liked it that way. But one gray September morning, the routine broke in the form of a headline on his phone's newsfeed:
LOCAL MAN MURDERED IN APARTMENT — POLICE SUSPECT FOUL PLAY
Victim identified as Daniel Rourke, 34, of West Briar Street.
There was no picture—yet. But the address was right. The name was his. The age, the apartment, the everything.
There was only one problem: Daniel Rourke was still very much alive.
The article vanished the second Daniel clicked on it. No cached copy. No source. His browser refreshed to a "404 error". His hands trembled as he refreshed again, again, again.
Gone.
It had been there for maybe ten seconds— just long enough for him to read his own name, his own street, and see the word murdered.
"You're just tired," he whispered, sipping his coffee. It tasted wrong. Bitter, burnt, like metal. The taste clung to his tongue.
He opened a new tab. Searched his name.
Nothing.
Maybe it was a prank? A cruel trick?
He texted his girlfriend, Natalie:
"Hey sweetheart, weird question, but, have you seen anything about me in the news?"
No reply. At work, he couldn't focus. The words "police suspect foul play" kept circling his mind like vultures. He half-expected detectives to show up at his office. Or a bullet to find him through the window.
By noon, his paranoia had grown.
He went home early. The hallway to his apartment was colder than usual. Silent. Too silent. The door to his place was ajar, just an inch.
He never left it open.
Inside, everything looked normal—except for a single envelope sitting on the kitchen counter.
No stamp. No writing. Just his name scrawled in red ink.
Daniel.
He opened it slowly, hands trembling. Inside was a photo.
It was him.
Lying on the floor.
Eyes open.
Neck slit.
And on the back, the time:
10:16 PM.
Next week.