Have you ever had one of those days when everything feels just right? You know, when the future shines brighter than ever, every dream you've chased alongside the people you care most about finally starts to become real, only for fate to suddenly sweep it all away, leaving nothing but burning embers and haunting questions?
Yeah, that kind of day? That gut-punch from nowhere? It happened to me and my friends. It's part of our story now—messy, real, and tangled up in a goofy little tale about dreams, theme parks, and the kind of friendship that doesn't break, even when the world tries to snap it in half.
My name is Nick Brandt, and ever since childhood, I've been the kind of guy who thrives on life's adventures, driven by dreams and buoyed by the people I care about. Judy, my childhood friend and now my girlfriend, sat across from me in the living room, her calm yet determined presence anchoring my enthusiastic planning and daydreaming.
While I tended to lead with emotion and spontaneity, Judy brought structure and reason, her careful planning a reassuring balance to my impulsive optimism. Funnily enough, we fill in for each other's flaws and what the other lacks. Her meticulous nature had always made her the guardian of our dreams, carefully guiding us forward even through uncertainty.
That evening was like any other—filled with hopeful banter, ambitious plans, and sketches strewn across the coffee table as we eagerly discussed the details of starting our dream company, Electric Dreams Inc., blissfully unaware that everything we knew was about to shatter.
The evening sun painted stripes of warm amber across the floor, casting gentle shadows of the furniture and the pile of mismatched notebooks and sketches strewn across the table. Judy let out one of those bright, unguarded laughs that made everything feel possible—her whole face lighting up as I pitched this wildly over-the-top idea Scott and I had been bouncing around: a café escape room, complete with themed drinks and puzzles hidden under latte foam.
She thought it was completely ridiculous—said as much, even—but in that Judy way, where even her teasing came wrapped in genuine support. She found it especially hilarious, reminding that she doesn't even drink coffee—she likes the smell. I'm personally not a fan at all, so I usually grab the fizzy caffeine juice drinks.
Only Scott ever ordered the real thing, always strong and black, like it was a badge of honor. That's probably why she laughed so hard when I described the espresso puzzle hidden in the foam—she imagined Scott rolling his eyes while secretly loving every second of it.
It was that kind of moment that reminded me why we all clicked so well, why the three of us kept dreaming, even when the odds weren't exactly in our favor. We were so absorbed in our plans, our future felt within reach, tantalizingly close.
When a sudden knock at the door startled us both, expecting Scott, our best friend, the third partner in our ambitious venture that I was talking about, and a constant source of contagious optimism and courage, I felt a smile widen on my lips as my excitement grew.
Scott had always been fearless, charismatic, and quick to act, his boldness perfectly balancing Judy's caution and my impulsive enthusiasm. He had been my hero during our younger years, intervening during a tough period of bullying, and we had since remained fiercely loyal as fast life long friends. His unwavering belief in us and our shared dreams was infectious, and I couldn't help smiling wider, eager to share the latest ideas we'd sketched out. I rose eagerly, a broad smile plastered on my face.
We'd been waiting for him to finalize the specifics about our company's core model and to continue pooling our modest savings. Judy grinned at me, nudging me playfully as I moved toward the entrance.
Instead, the man who stood before me was an unexpected harbinger of tragedy. Officer Kaine was a familiar local policeman, typically stern yet approachable. One of the few police officers left who walked the streets and neighborhoods, while others typically used drones, now wore an unreadable expression beneath the shadow of his cap.
Beside him stood an unfamiliar figure: stout, muscular, oddly refined, his slicked-back hair and thin goatee incongruous beside Kaine's pressed officer's uniform. He wore a meticulously tailored black-and-white pinstripe suit, sharply at odds with Kaine's.
"Officer Kaine? Can I help you?" I asked cautiously, the smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Something in their presence made my stomach tighten into a painful knot.
Judy quickly joined me, sensing my unease, her hand slipping comfortingly into mine. "What's going on, officer?" she asked gently, concern evident in the slight tremble of her voice.
Kaine sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as if reluctant to begin. "I never enjoy these moments," he muttered, glancing down momentarily before addressing us more formally. "We've already informed the victim's family. We're here now to speak to potential witnesses—to get a clearer understanding."
"Witnesses? Victim?" I echoed faintly, a chill creeping up my spine. I felt Judy's grip tighten reflexively, neither of us wanting the dreadful reality hinted at in his words to fully click into place.
"This is Inspector Theo Dior," Kaine said, stepping aside to reveal the mysterious companion fully. Dior inclined his head slightly, a gesture more suited to a stage actor than a detective.
"May we come in?" Dior's voice was smooth and composed, his gaze sharp and analytical, dissecting us intently. "It would be preferable to discuss this privately."
Judy nodded silently, and together we moved aside, allowing them entry. As they crossed the threshold, it felt like inviting shadows into our home. Dior's eyes briefly scanned the room, lingering momentarily on our scattered dreams and hopeful sketches.
"Your parents aren't home?" Dior observed, his voice quietly curious as he settled onto the couch and looked at the scattered papers on the coffee table.
"Working late," I said quietly, guiding Judy toward the chairs opposite the investigators. My heart beat heavily as I exchanged a brief glance with Judy, her eyes wide with apprehension.
Dior motioned Officer Kaine to begin. Kaine reached into his coat and pulled out a compact, high-polish device, the kind detectives used in cop dramas when things were about to get serious. He set it down gently on the coffee table, right on top of the pages we'd just been scribbling on minutes earlier—mock logos, flowcharts, doodles of café robots, and game puzzles. The dreams we'd laughed over were now shadowed by something colder, heavier, as the device blinked to life. With a click, holographic images flickered. Reports. Notes. Then, a photograph appeared. Scott's familiar, smiling face stared back at us, heartbreakingly peaceful yet marred by undeniable signs of violence.
Judy gasped softly, a hand rising to cover her mouth as tears immediately blurred her eyes. My own pulse pounded like war drums in my ears, drowning out Kaine's careful narration as if my body was trying to reject the sound of it entirely.
I stared at the hologram, blinking like it would change if I just refused to accept it long enough—if I squinted hard enough, maybe it wouldn't be Scott. Maybe the grainy blur and bruised smile didn't belong to the friend who had always seemed larger than life.
My mind flailed in protest, trying to rearrange the pieces into something that made sense. A prank? Some terrible mistake? But deep down, something colder and heavier than ice had settled in my chest. My throat tightened, breath catching in defiance. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to believe. I wanted to scream. But all I could do was sit there, unmoving, as the world cracked open around me and the truth clawed its way in.
"Victim was discovered around 0800 this morning, near the Frostfang Grotto at Future World," Kaine recited clinically. "Evidence indicates restraints and a struggle."
"I am deeply sorry for your loss," Dior interjected softly, a hint of genuine compassion beneath his precise speech. But even as he spoke, I caught the way his eyes never stopped moving—quietly, precisely, watching us. Not just observing, but assessing. Cataloging every twitch, every tear, every hesitation like we were part of some delicate equation. For a brief, raw second, I hated that. Hated how even in grief, we were under a microscope as potential murderers. But some part of me understood, too—he was a detective doing his job. Still, the scrutiny only made the pain worse, like our heartbreak had to perform well enough to be believed. "Clearly, Scott was someone very dear to you."
Judy wiped her tears, her fingers trembling as they brushed across her cheeks. Her shoulders hunched as though she were trying to fold herself inward, to shrink against the weight of what she'd just heard. She leaned into me without thinking, her body pressing close. I could feel her shallow, unsteady breaths against my arm, and I instinctively wrapped my arm around her.
"Scott was our best friend," she whispered, voice cracking, her lips barely moving as the words spilled out. "We've known each other since childhood."
"And recently, you three decided to start a business together, yes?" Dior's pen hovered thoughtfully over his notebook, glancing back at the papers on the table. "Were there any disagreements—perhaps financial issues or differences in vision?"
"No," Judy insisted firmly, her voice quivering. "We were completely open with each other. Electric Dreams Inc. was our shared dream. We even took jobs at Future World to raise startup funds."
"Future World…" Dior repeated slowly, thoughtfully tapping his pen. "Was this where you last saw Scott?"
"Yes," I answered, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. The words almost caught in my throat. I could feel Judy leaning into me, her body drawn close, trembling ever so slightly. She hadn't moved much since the photo appeared—just curled into my side like she was hoping to disappear.
I glanced down at her, saw how tightly her fingers gripped the hem of her sleeve, how her jaw trembled despite the tears already streaking her face. Her presence kept me from unraveling completely, even as every word I spoke felt like it was being dragged from a pit in my chest. "We—" I swallowed, steadied myself. "We had lunch together yesterday afternoon. Judy and I had finished our shifts, and Scott was about to begin his."
"Did Scott seem unusual? Nervous, perhaps?"
"No," Judy began, her voice faint and unsteady, but I gently reached over and placed a hand on her knee—just enough to stop her, to say 'let me.' She looked at me, eyes wide and puffy from the tears, and gave the slightest nod.
"Actually… Judy, when you stepped away for a second to buy drinks, Scott pulled me aside," I said, the memory tightening in my chest. "He told me his mom hurt her back a few days ago. She was in a lot of pain, but her boss refused to help—said insurance wouldn't cover it as the injury happened outside of work. Scott was furious about it. Said he was picking up every extra shift he could to help her out, before he returned to his usual happy self and encouraged me to smile and do the same too."
Judy paled, the color draining from her cheeks as if the truth had knocked the air right out of her. Her lips parted, but no words came at first. She looked down, blinking rapidly, her shoulders curling in slightly. "He never told me that," she whispered, her voice thin and frayed, like it hurt to say the words aloud. She took her hand from mine and left it to fidget in her lap, fingers twisting together in tight, anxious knots.
"Did he mention any trouble—any concerns at Future World specifically?" Dior pressed gently but insistently.
"No," I said, frustration mingling with helplessness. "Just typical workplace complaints—nothing that would explain… this."
"Understood." Dior carefully produced two small cards from a sleek holder, handing them to us with a deliberate, practiced calm. "Should anything else come to mind—no matter how small—please contact me directly."
He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored coat with a faint tug before rising, spine straight, movements fluid, as though he were closing a file rather than leaving a grieving home. His gaze lingered on Judy, then flicked to me—not with pity, but with something colder. Calculating. Like he was still running the math on our reactions.
"Try to remember, amidst grief, to find reasons to smile," he said, voice polished, rehearsed—yet not unkind. "Scott would undoubtedly want that, as most true friends do."
Then, with a smooth pivot: "Officer Kaine, we're done here."
Kaine gave a brief grunt, nodding once and offering us a glance that landed somewhere between sympathy and regret before following Dior out the door.
They left without another word, closing the door with a soft thud that hit us louder than any shout. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful—it pressed down on everything, thick and suffocating. Judy didn't speak, didn't move. Neither did I. We just sat there, stunned, until she leaned into me with a soft sob, and we sank into the cushions in a tangle of arms and aching hearts.
The house, once bright with laughter and plans, now felt colder, the quiet punctuated only by the ticking of a wall clock and the distant hum of traffic that didn't care what we'd lost. The sketches on the coffee table blurred through watery eyes, looking like something a stranger had left behind.
Later that night, Judy had fallen asleep on the couch beside me, her hand once again loosely clutching mine. I stared up at the ceiling, unmoving, trying to breathe around the pressure in my chest. My thoughts spiraled, looping over one question I couldn't shake: Could I have done something—anything—that would've stopped this? Or was Scott's death already written into something deeper, buried under layers of cheerful music and corporate gloss?
And if so… what else was hiding in the heart of Future World, waiting in plain sight, trusting we'd stay distracted?
Grief was still thick in my chest, but under it, suspicion had begun to stir—quiet, steady, and sharp. A slow-blooming dread whispered that we hadn't seen the worst yet, that the bright lights and smiling mascots were hiding something deeper as this was the first page of something so much bigger—and darker—than we were ready for.