The conspiracy theory didn't linger in his mind for long. Seattle's exorbitant rent, the mandatory auto insurance due every month, and an empty fridge, these everyday burdens were far more lethal than internet urban legends.
No matter what silent mutations the world was undergoing, ordinary people still had to hustle just to stay alive.
Arthur pushed himself off the sofa and stretched hard, his joints popping sharply. He walked into the cramped kitchen, grabbed a glass jar bearing a cheap coffee brand's logo from the cabinet, spooned some coarse instant powder into a mug, the faded scars on the back of his hand pulling taut and mixed it directly with lukewarm tap water.
He wasn't in the mood to savor the flavor. He just tipped his head back and gulped down the bitter, slightly sour black liquid. The caffeine hit immediately, jolting his nerves and chasing away the post-sleep grogginess.
Stepping into the entryway, Arthur grabbed his faded, neon-green windbreaker from the coat rack. The cuffs still bore a few stubborn grease stains. He shoved his car keys into his pocket, grabbed the bulky dispatch terminal he used for orders, and pushed his door open into the hallway.
The lighting in the old apartment building's corridor was always temperamental, the voltage flickering unreliably.
Just as Arthur locked his door and turned toward the elevator.
Clack.
The door to his left was pushed open from the inside.
It was his new neighbor who had moved in half a month ago. Arthur only knew her name was Morgan and that she supposedly worked for the police department. Aside from a nod of acknowledgment when they passed each other in the hall, they rarely spoke.
A woman stepped out from the doorframe.
She wasn't in uniform, wearing a black civilian jacket instead. Arthur noticed her movements were sluggish. As Morgan looked down to lock her door, the key jabbed at the keyhole several times before finally sliding in, scraping metal against metal harshly.
When she turned around, the dim hallway light hit her face.
It was a face entirely drained of life. Her cheekbones were sunken, and the purplish-black circles under her eyes were so dark they looked like smeared makeup. Her eyes were mapped with busted capillaries. The sharp, authoritative gaze usually associated with law enforcement was gone, replaced by an exhausted, frigid emptiness, as if she had been slowly consumed and wrung out by something over a long period.
As Morgan approached, the air in the corridor seemed to shift.
A stifling odor washed over him, the smell of stale, cold black coffee, the dank chill of old rain clinging to her jacket, and intermingled with it, a sickly stench. Like sewer sludge that hadn't seen the sun in decades.
This was absolutely not the state of a cop going to or coming off a normal shift. She looked like she had just crawled out of some subterranean crime scene or a morgue.
Swallowing the unease bubbling up in his chest, Arthur cleared his throat, putting on his usual easy tone. "Evening, Detective Miller. Looks like Seattle's finest criminals aren't letting you get much sleep lately?"
Morgan stopped walking.
Her hand was gripping a paper coffee cup so hard her knuckles were bone-white, the rim of the cup already crushed out of shape. At Arthur's words, she slowly turned her head. Her bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at him for several long seconds.
It was an uncomfortable look. She looked at him the way one looks at a dead man.
"If it were just regular criminals... that would be fine," Morgan rasped. Her voice sounded like her vocal cords had been ground down with sandpaper, laced with a helplessness.
She didn't just nod and walk past him like usual. In a rare break from routine, she planted her feet squarely in front of him, her gaze sweeping over his conspicuous reflective jacket and the terminal in his hand.
"Arthur," Morgan cut in, using his first name.
"Yeah? What's up?" Arthur blinked, taken aback.
Morgan took a deep breath. That faint, rotting smell in the hallway seemed to thicken. She lowered her voice. There was not a single trace of humor in her tone; it was harsh.
"You run the night-shift express routes, right? Listen to me. Change jobs. Do it soon. Stop driving around out there at night."
"Change jobs?" Arthur let out a dry laugh and held up his terminal. "Detective Miller, I'd love a bright, spacious nine-to-five office job. But if I don't run these night routes, I'm sleeping on the street next month. Why? Is crime spiking? Serial muggers targeting night drivers?"
Morgan ignored his question about the crime rate.
She took a step closer, closing the distance between them. The chill radiating from her seemed to seep right through her black jacket.
"I'm not talking about muggers. There are things I can't say, and even if I did, it wouldn't matter," Morgan said, locking her eyes onto his, articulating every word clearly as if trying to carve them into his skull. "Just remember one thing."
"If you're out on a delivery tonight, or in any place you usually feel safe... and you notice something wrong. Even if it's just a tiny bit of unease. Even if your gut just tells you 'this place doesn't feel right.'"
"Don't try to figure out why."
"Don't go checking to see where a sound came from."
"Forget the package. Just run. Trust your gut, and run as far away as you can."
Before Arthur could formulate a single question, she was done. She turned on her heel and strode toward the elevator.
Ding—
The doors opened and swallowed her exhausted silhouette.
Dead silence reclaimed the hallway. A few seconds later, the aging motion-sensor light let out a faint hiss of static and clicked off.
Arthur stood alone in the dark corridor, realizing the hairs on his arms were standing at attention beneath his jacket. His thumb mindlessly traced the old scars on his wrist before he looked down at the terminal in his hand.
Just then, the screen flared to life, accompanied by a piercing beep-beep-beep.
A new, urgent inner-city night delivery had just hit his inbox.