Evan Reed's life was painfully ordinary.
He woke up every morning at six-thirty, not because he was disciplined, but because the city outside his window never truly slept. Sirens, engines, voices—someone always reminded him that silence was a luxury he couldn't afford.
His apartment was small, second floor, peeling paint, a window that didn't lock properly. The kind of place no one noticed and no one remembered. Evan liked it that way. Being unnoticed felt like safety.
He showered quickly, dressed in plain clothes—nothing expensive, nothing memorable. A black hoodie, worn jeans, old sneakers. He checked his phone: no messages, no missed calls. That wasn't loneliness. That was routine.
Evan didn't expect people to look for him.
At college, he sat near the back. Always. Close enough to hear, far enough to disappear. Professors barely remembered his name, classmates didn't try. He answered when asked, stayed quiet otherwise. His grades were good—not impressive, not bad. Balanced. Safe.
He worked evenings at a small café near the campus. Minimum wage. Long hours. Burnt coffee and tired smiles. Customers passed through him like ghosts—orders placed, change exchanged, eye contact avoided.
"Thanks," they said. "Have a good night," he replied.
They never asked his name.
And Evan never offered it.
There was comfort in repetition. The same streets, the same faces, the same schedule. Life didn't demand much from him, and he didn't demand anything from life.
That night began no differently.
His shift ended at ten. He wiped the counter, clocked out, pulled his hoodie tighter as he stepped outside. The city air was damp, heavy with the smell of rain and smoke. Streetlights flickered like they were tired of existing.
Evan took the long way home. He always did.
The shorter route passed through a district everyone avoided after dark—warehouses, closed businesses, too many black cars parked where they shouldn't be. Evan didn't go there because he was brave. He went there because it was quieter.
Less people. Less noise.
He walked with his hands in his pockets, head down, footsteps steady. His mind drifted—to assignments, bills, nothing important. The kind of thoughts that filled space but meant nothing.
That's when he heard it.
A sound that didn't belong.
Not the city's usual chaos. Not laughter, not traffic.
A sharp crack.
Evan stopped walking.
Another sound followed—low, controlled voices. Men. Angry. Focused.
Every instinct screamed at him to turn around.
And he did.
He took one step back—
And then someone screamed.
Evan froze.
The scream was short. Cut off. Like a switch flipped and life disappeared.
His heart started pounding so loudly he was sure someone could hear it. He told himself to keep walking. To forget it. To go home.
But curiosity is a quiet killer.
He moved closer. Just enough to see. Just enough to confirm it wasn't his imagination.
The alley was dim, barely lit by a single streetlamp. Black cars. Men in suits. One body on the ground.
Blood pooled slowly, dark and reflective.
Evan's breath caught.
He didn't see faces clearly. Except one.
A man stood apart from the others. Tall. Still. Hands relaxed at his sides, as if nothing had happened. His expression was calm—not angry, not satisfied.
Just empty.
The man turned his head.
And their eyes met.
For half a second, the world stopped.
Evan understood something in that moment—something cold and final.
This man was not surprised to see him.
He was deciding something.
Evan stepped back, panic finally breaking through his shock. His foot scraped against the pavement.
The sound was small.
It was enough.
The man's gaze sharpened—not rushed, not frantic. Calculating.
Evan ran.
He didn't know yet that this was the last moment of his normal life.
The last moment where he belonged only to himself.