The morning started with a miracle that felt like a threat.
Ren stood at the bus stop, his breath blooming in the frigid air. He reached into his pocket, his fingers searching for the three crumpled bills he'd saved for his weekly pass. His heart sank. The pocket was empty. He must have dropped them during his sprint from the casino last night.
"No, no, no," he whispered, frantic, turning his pockets inside out. Without that pass, he'd have to walk six miles to the docks. He'd be late. He'd be fired.
The bus pulled up, hissing steam. Ren stepped back, his head down, ready to let it go.
"Wait," the driver called out. He was a man Ren had seen a dozen times, usually grumpy and impatient. Today, he was holding out a plastic card. "Someone dropped this for you. Said you'd be looking for it."
Ren blinked, taking the card. It wasn't his crumpled bills. It was a premium, gold-tier transit pass—prepaid for a full year. "Who? Who gave this to you?"
"Guy in a black suit. Didn't catch a name." The driver tapped the steering wheel. "You getting on or what?"
Ren sat in the back, his heart racing. He stared at the gold card. It felt heavy. It felt like a tether.
10:00 AM.
The docks were brutal, as usual. The wind coming off the harbor felt like it was made of needles. Ren's old, thin hoodie offered no protection. He was shivering so hard he could barely grip the iron hooks.
"Ren! Over here!" the foreman shouted.
Ren braced himself for an insult, but when he approached the office, the foreman wasn't scowling. He looked confused—almost annoyed. He tossed a heavy, thick package at Ren's chest.
"Some courier dropped this off. Said it's a 'safety requirement' for your station."
Ren opened the box. Inside was a high-grade, thermal-lined work jacket. It was expensive—brand name, the kind the supervisors wore. There was no note. No name. Just a small tag on the inside of the collar with his initials: R.Y.
He put it on. It was perfectly sized. It was warm. It felt like a pair of arms wrapping around him, and for a second, Ren felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
He looked around the vast, open dock, searching for a face, a car, a camera.
Nothing but the grey sea and the screaming gulls.
3:00 PM.
The strangeness followed him to the bistro.
Ren was clearing a table when he saw the "regulars"—the wealthy college kids who loved to make his life miserable. He steeled himself, heading toward them to take their order.
"Hey, look, it's the—" the boy started, his sneer already in place.
Suddenly, the restaurant's heavy oak doors swung open. Two men in dark, charcoal suits walked in. They didn't sit down. They didn't look at the menu. They walked straight to the table where the college kids sat and stood there. Silent. Like statues.
The boy's sneer vanished. He looked at the men—their bulging shoulders, their earpieces, their cold, predatory eyes.
"Is there a problem?" the boy stammered.
The men didn't answer. They just stared.
Ren stood there, tray in hand, frozen. The silence at the table became suffocating. One of the men flicked his eyes toward Ren—a brief, respectful nod—before returning his gaze to the boy.
"Uh... actually, we were just leaving," the boy mumbled, grabbing his jacket. He and his friends practically ran out of the bistro, leaving their expensive drinks untouched.
Ren's manager approached, looking pale.
"Ren... go take your break. In fact, take the rest of the day off. Paid."
"Why?" Ren asked, his voice trembling.
"Who are those men?"
"I don't know," the manager whispered, watching the two suits exit the restaurant and stand guard by the door. "But they told me that if anyone 'disrupted your workflow' again, this building would be demolished by Monday. Ren... what have you gotten yourself into?"
11:00 PM.
Ren walked home, but he didn't feel alone. He felt like he was being escorted by the shadows themselves. Every streetlamp he passed seemed to flicker, and every black car that cruised by felt like it was slowing down to match his pace.
He reached his apartment building, his hand shaking as he reached for the door handle.
Pinned to the peeling wood was a small, cream-colored envelope. The paper was thick, smelling faintly of cedarwood and expensive tobacco.
Ren tore it open.
There was no signature. Just five words written in sharp, elegant calligraphy:Eat. Sleep. I am watching.
Ren looked up at the dark street. For a split second, he saw it. A black sedan parked at the end of the block. A man was leaning against the hood, his silhouette tall and imposing, the cherry of a cigar glowing like a demon's eye in the dark.
The man didn't move. He didn't wave. He just watched.
Ren bolted inside, locking the door and leaning his back against it, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He was being looked after. He was being protected. And it was the most terrifying thing he had ever felt.