Page 36 of Isaac

Someone's been here.

Hellhounds?

It has to be.

But who exactly?

Jeremy seems like the most likely culprit. He's made his hatred for me crystal clear. He's always watching me with those crazy, calculating eyes.

The dumb urge to confront him head-on is strong, but I know better than to act impulsively. They've been careful, whoever they are—erased their traces with a surgeon's precision. But no matter how cunning they think they are, I'm one step ahead. They've been nabbed.

Slumped on the worn-out couch still wrapped in my damp towel, I try and piece together the puzzle. The clues connect like constellations and paint a bigger picture in my mind.

Jeremy simply doesn’t trust me because he saw me with his sister, simple sibling protectiveness eating him up inside.

Or Jeremy thinks I’m a cop.

If it’s the latter, then I need to tread lightly and be prepared for a test.

Here, bathed in shadowy hues of the tiny apartment dotted with rusting appliances, the realization hits hard. This game just hitched a ride from risky to fucking lethal for me.

The pulsating red lights of Purgatory throwing flickering shadows across the faces of the club's crowd only boosts my irritation as I escort another wasted douchebag outside.

Several days later, my mind still races with thoughts of the intruder and any potential tie to Jeremy. Another question nags at the back of my consciousness—the young Russian girl. Why is she here? Does it have anything to do with Solovey? Her presence is a mystery, a discordant note in this symphony of violence and deceit.

"Yo, Hawk!" a drunken voice slurs, jolting me from my reverie when I’m back inside to take my spot by the bar. I force a smirk when I see Zephyr—one of our regulars with an alarming affection for yours truly. He reeks of chronic trouble and gives off strong dealer vibes, but thus far I haven’t seen him doing anything fishy. So, I just try to be observant and polite.

"You and me should grab a drink once after you punch out for the day, buddy," Zephyr shouts over the relentless cascade of decibels the DJ is spinning. "I’d love to hear all the war stories." So, somebody told this prick I served.

Fucking great.

I maintain my poker face, giving him a noncommittal nod, my smile stretched thin like the last quarter of moonlight. I can't afford for it to fade entirely—not yet.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, a welcome distraction from the ensuing tug-of-war with Zephyr's offer. My eyes dart to the screen and find an unknown number lighting up against the digital footprint of my fake life—a shadow cast by anonymous hands.

The message is simple:

Roof. 10 minutes.

What in the holy hell?

But momentary confusion gives way to creeping curiosity.

Who is this person?

What do they want with me?

And why the roof?

It could be a trap or just someone from the club, possibly Jeremy—wanting to talk without witnesses. But my hunger for answers and desperate need to collect useful intel overpowers all caution.

I decide to roll with it.

"Hey, man. I need a quick break," I tell Ricky when I find him in the back, playing Fortnite. "Cover for me?"

"Sure thing, Hawk," he replies eagerly, shoving his phone into his pocket.

Charged with adrenaline, I stride toward the bank of service elevators. My finger hovers over the button, the cool metal sending a chill up my spine as I press for the top floor. The tension knots itself tighter inside me with each passing floor that illuminates briefly on the elevator's infamously unpredictable display.

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