Chapter 1 - Owen
The sun was just rising when Owen pulled into the lot.
6:17 AM. Another shift done.
She cut the engine, rubbed her eyes, and sat there for a minute, listening to nothing. Just the stillness of the lot, the distant hum of a garbage truck a few streets over.
People had always said security was an easy job. Sit on your ass. Watch cameras. Walk around with a little flashlight. Eat. Sleep.
No one talks about the isolation.
The night shift meant no real coworkers, no real conversations. Just her and the echo of her own footsteps down empty corridors.
Grabbing the six-pack off the passenger seat, she pushed open the door and stepped into damp morning air.
Across the lot, someone was already working on their car. Shirtless, covered in tattoos, sleeves tied around his waist. She didn’t know his name. Just knew he wiped the handle of every door he closed. He didn’t look up as she passed, too focused on polishing something that didn’t need polishing.
At the edge of the building, the side door creaked open. A woman stepped out with two sleepy kids clinging to her coat, one of them dragging a worn backpack by the strap. A man followed behind, locking the door with a soft click. Their voices were hushed, practiced. No one smiled.
Owen averted her eyes and kept walking. Shoegazing her way to the entrance, she realized how much of her life ran on autopilot. Work, sleep, repeat. No social life. No hobbies. Not even a dog. Not like her leech of a landlord would allow one, anyway. Didn’t even matter if she was here or not. The grass would still grow.
As she approached the building’s threshold, something in the grass caught her eye. It didn’t register at first. She was too tired to process anything but walking forward. But something about it snagged her attention.
It was small. Round. White.
A ceramic lid, just sitting there by the shrubs. The kind that belonged to a fancy teapot or an old sugar jar. The kind that didn’t belong out here.
She slowed, glancing around. The sidewalk was empty.
No broken glass. No shattered dishes. No reason for it to be here.
She frowned, shifted the six-pack, and bent down to pick it up. The lid was smooth and cool. Not broken. No dirt. Just out of place.
Weird.
But not her problem.
She thought about pocketing it. Instead, she tossed it back into the grass and kept walking toward the building, adjusting her grip on the beer. Her hand was sweating through the cardboard.
She needed a shower. A drink. Maybe some sleep, if the upstairs neighbor wouldn’t vacuum all morning again.
The hallway smelled worse than usual.
It wasn’t rotting garbage bad, just…stale. Like a space that held too much lived-in air and chlorine. She hated it. She hated the carpet, the weird temperature shifts, the way every sound hung in the walls too long.
Her place was quiet. Always.
She locked the door, set the sixer on the counter, and stood there for a second, trying to shake the feeling that something was off.
Then she exhaled, cracked a beer, and let it go.
She woke up with the taste of stale beer and sleep in her mouth.
In the dim room, her TV sat binging episodes of The Office with no viewer. She didn’t even remember putting it on. 7:43 PM.
Less than an hour to get ready for work. Shit.
She sat up and rubbed her face. Her back ached from falling asleep on the couch again. On the table, a half-eaten sandwich sat untouched, the bread curling at the edges. Five empty cans littered the floor. She didn’t remember drinking that much, but her headache said otherwise.
She thought about not cleaning up. She thought about going back to sleep. But losing this job meant moving back in with her mom.
“No,” her brain said. “Fuck that.”
Despite the pain, she willed herself up and started collecting the empties. The soft clink of aluminum broke the silence as she crushed each can, one by one. She sneezed, wiped her nose, tied off the bag, and kept one can in her hand.
She squeezed it as she walked to the trash, the thin metal giving way with a soft pop. The hallway chute was just a few steps away. She’d toss the bag, go back, maybe make another sandwich.
The hallway light flickered when she stepped outside.
It always did that.
Down the hall, someone had taped a fresh warning over the stairwell bulletin board:
AGAIN: DO NOT LEAVE TRASH IN THE STAIRWELL.
IT’S UNSANITARY. AND ILLEGAL.
– 4C
She didn’t need to look to know Simon had printed and laminated it himself.
She walked to the chute, shoved the bag in, and let it drop. The soft rustle of plastic disappeared into the dark.
As she turned back toward her apartment, something caught her eye. A purple glow from outside.
As she walked closer, the color separated into blue and red strobes.
She paused, trash forgotten, and stepped toward her window. The street below pulsed with shifting neon. Nothing good ever came from lights like that.
Not her problem. She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower.