[["Dante Graves had exactly forty-seven dollars to his name when he decided to ruin his life."]]
"I'm savage—"
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"Six—Seve—"
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Dante sighed and dropped his phone on the bed. His entire FYP was pure brain rot, short clips of nonsense that made him question humanity every time he opened the app.
He rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, then grabbed his jacket from the chair. His beat-up motorbike waited outside, parked crookedly like always.
"Let's see if this job actually pays," he muttered, slipping his phone into his pocket.
The engine coughed to life, rattling louder than it should have, but Dante didn't care. He kicked the stand up and rode off into the city, weaving through the cold night air and neon-lit streets, chasing what would hopefully be something to add to the 47 dollars he had.
Two thousand dollars. That was how much he'd been offered. The most he'd ever been paid for a single job.
Unfortunately, it still couldn't cover his college fees.
He drove through the dim streets until his bike rolled to a stop in front of a warehouse. The engine sputtered once before dying.
Dante stayed seated, his hands gripping the handlebars, helmet still on. He hesitated. Was it really worth it? He'd knowingly delivered drugs before, but this felt different, too much money for a simple drop-off.
What if it wasn't just drugs this time? What if he was delivering something worse? A head sent to some crime boss as a warning?
He exhaled slowly, staring at the dark building ahead. "Yeah," he muttered under his breath, "this might be the one that gets me killed."
It wasn't like Dante wasn't familiar with danger. He'd delivered drugs before.
Still, standing there in front of the warehouse, he couldn't help but feel uneasy. Complaining wouldn't change anything, though. It never did.
He took out his phone and sent a quick text.
[Hey, I'm here. Where are you? Didn't you hear the bike?]
The metal door creaked open almost immediately. A tall man stepped out, pale and stiff-looking. Junkie, sick, whatever. Dante didn't care enough to figure it out.
The man stopped a few feet away and raised his phone, his expression unreadable.
"You know the instructions?"
"Yeah," Dante replied flatly. "Go straight to the drop-off, don't open the case, hand it to the guy in black, no one else. You've repeated it like five times since you called."
"I just wanted to make sure you don't forget."
"Trust me, I won't. Can we just get this over with? I've got class tomorrow, and I don't exactly like hanging around in L.A. after dark."
The man didn't respond. He just stared at Dante, silent, as if he hadn't heard a word.
"Take off your helmet," the man said.
Dante felt a chill. "Huh? No."
"Why would I do that?"
"So we know where to find you if you run off with the package," the man replied.
"I'm not running, dude. Who even would—"
"Don't open it."
"I never said I was. What if I get robbed, huh?"
"We'll know. Now take off your helmet."
The man suddenly stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Before Dante could react, he reached up and slid the visor of his helmet open.
"What the fu—"
Dante froze as the man's eyes flashed red. His thoughts turned to static, his body heavy and unresponsive. A deep, commanding voice echoed inside his skull.
"You will do as instructed. Now take off the helmet."
Without realizing it, Dante obeyed. He lifted the helmet off slowly, his mind still fogged.
The man raised his phone and took a picture of his face. Then he turned, placed a black suitcase on the back of Dante's bike, and secured it with practiced ease.
"You can leave now."
Dante nodded blankly. He started the engine and drove off into the night, following the route exactly as instructed, the command still echoing faintly in his head.
Dante rode through the streets in a daze, the city lights blurring past him. By the time he reached the destination, his thoughts began to clear.
He parked the bike and blinked hard, rubbing his forehead. "What the hell…?" He couldn't remember the last few minutes clearly. It felt like his mind had been on autopilot.
"Must be tired," he muttered, trying to brush it off.
The building ahead looked abandoned, windows boarded, walls cracked, and the faint smell of damp wood in the air. He grabbed the suitcase from the bike and walked toward the entrance.
He stopped at the doorway, debating whether to call out. Silence answered him.
His eyes drifted to the case again. His heart thumped harder the longer he stared at it. Something about it pulled at him.
He swallowed, shaking his head. "Focus, man. Could be body parts in there."
A pause.
"…Or a million dollars."
He tried to laugh it off, but his curiosity gnawed at him. Even as he stepped inside, he kept glancing at the suitcase, unable to shake the feeling that it was calling to him.
The air in the house was thick and frigid. The empty floors made a soft echo with every stride Dante took. There was a lot of dust in the air, and the sole light came from a damaged bulb near the door that flickered weakly every few seconds.
He put the suitcase down on an old table and stared at it while his breath formed small mist. The leather seemed too immaculate for a location like this. It was smooth and polished crimson, with no scratches or dust.
The light flickered again.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright… drop it off and go. Easy money."
But his eyes wouldn't leave the case. His hand hovered over the handle for a moment before he pulled it back.
"No. Don't be stupid." He turned away, pacing toward the door. "You were told not to open it."
Flick.
The bulb flashed bright, then dimmed again. He stopped mid-step. His heartbeat sped up, every pulse loud in his ears.
It wasn't just curiosity anymore, it felt like the case wanted him to open it. Like it was whispering without words, tugging at his thoughts, tempting him with something beautiful.
He swallowed hard, his breathing quickening. "...What the hell's wrong with me?"
He faced the suitcase again. His hand trembled as he reached out, fingertips brushing the metal latch. A warmth spread through his palm, soft at first, then deeper, inviting.
Every rational thought told him to walk away. But the feeling... the pull... it was intoxicating.
And with one quiet breath, Dante gave in and flipped the latch open.
Dante yanked the latches open and lifted the lid.
Inside was... a single sheet of paper.
He blinked, frozen. "Huh? That's it? Paper?"
A shaky laugh escaped him. "Ahahahaha… Dante, you stupid idiot. You risked your life for paper."
He slumped back, and ran a hand through his hair. He was quite disappointed, yet the peculiar tug in his chest didn't go away. If anything, it grew stronger.
He stared at the paper again. Something about it felt wrong.
"No way," he muttered, gripping it tighter. "Was this what was calling me?"
Frustration bubbled up, and before he could stop himself, he tore the paper in half.
The air changed right away. It was like smashing glass without making a sound. The illusion broke, and something fresh came out of the suitcase.
Dante's breath caught.
It was a heart. Not human, but something carved out of stone or metal that pulses softly between pink, purple, and red.
Then came the whispers. Dozens of them. Male, female, deep, soft, layered and haunting. They filled his head all at once, it was moans and laughter.
The heart began to glow brighter, vibrating in midair. Dante took a step back. "What the fu—"
Before he could finish, the heart shot forward and sank straight into his chest.
A blinding flash filled the room.
And then, darkness.