# Day 1 - 10:18
He'd told himself it was a dream. The monsters, the blood, her face as they took her—none of it could be real. But the text on his phone was real. Someone had been there. Someone had sent this.
Zhao Xun checked his phone for the hundredth time. The text still glowed against the cracked screen like a dare: "Nice meeting you. Let's do it again sometime." He'd called the number—disconnected. Searched the area code—it didn't exist. Traced it through apps that promised miracles and delivered nothing. He'd told himself it was a prank, a wrong number, a glitch.
He didn't believe himself.
The text existed. Facts demanded investigation.
He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, then immediately regretted it. Salt, dust, and grease clung to his skin, lacquered by diesel and Mediterranean sun. He leaned against a shipping crate and squinted through the marina haze. The air reeked of diesel and wealth. Across the water, yachts shimmered like mirages while his arms throbbed and power tools still rang in his ears.
He thumbed the binoculars hanging around his neck and checked over his shoulder. No sign of the dock supervisor. He raised the lenses and swept across the parking lot: ancient Citroëns, spotless Porsches, and the blacked-out van belonging to that Russian crew who'd gotten him fired last summer. He panned left, toward the floating mansions anchored out by the breakwater.
He was looking at one yacht in particular when Jules, a fellow dock worker, sidled up beside him.
"There she is—Blue Oasis," Jules whispered, snatching the binoculars.
"German-built beast. Bulletproof glass, hidden panic room, gold-plated toilets probably." He adjusted the focus, whistling low. "Look at that Saudi prince on the sundeck. And that's the tech billionaire's daughter by the bar. Beautiful people doing beautiful nothing while we sweat our asses off." Jules handed back the binoculars with a bitter laugh. "Twenty lifetimes of our salary wouldn't get us five minutes aboard that floating kingdom, my friend. Not with girls like that."
Zhao's stomach tensed at Jules' words. "Let me see that again," he said, snatching back the binoculars. The ship gleamed in the sun, all chrome and wealth. He meant only to glimpse the beautiful people, but as he focused on the upper deck, his hands went numb.
He lowered the binoculars, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
There she was.
Aida stood at the railing in a midnight-blue gown that caught the light as she moved. Her black hair fell straight down her back, her hands making elegant arcs as she spoke to someone just out of frame. Even from this distance, he could see the formal dip of her head, the controlled energy in her stance. His idol—right there in front of him.
She texted me, he thought. That has to mean something.
Then she laughed. Or maybe it was just the flash of her teeth, but he imagined the sound, round and warm. He snapped the binoculars down and looked at his shoes. Ridiculous. What was the plan here? Even if she saw him, what was he supposed to do? Wave? Ask about a text from a number that no longer existed?
"You know who." The words flashed in his memory. What kind of answer was that?
The radio at his belt squawked. "Lunch run, five minutes. Late returns get pay docked." Zhao grimaced at the supervisor's tinny voice.
One last look through the binoculars showed only empty railing where Aida had stood, his own reflection ghosted in the glass.
He let the binoculars fall against his chest and turned to go. His boot caught a crate corner, nearly toppling the stack. Lunging to steady it, he heard his sleeve tear.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, heart hammering—but it was just a low battery warning. No new messages. No answers.
She texted me. The thought was a loop now, a circuit he couldn't break. That has to mean something.
What if it's real? What if she remembers you? What if, for once, you're not just the guy who fixes boats and disappears?
But, why me? The thought flickered and died. He didn't want to ask it. Didn't want to know the answer.
Then it hit him—dock hands rotated every six hours. If he swapped uniforms with the relief crew, he could get close enough to see her. To ask about the text. To know if any of it was real.
Don't be stupid. The voice was his father's, the one that had kept him employed, alive, invisible his whole life. This is how you get fired. Arrested. Deported.
But the other voice—the one that had gotten him suspended twice, rehired twice, the one that made him watch Aida's videos until 3 AM—was louder.
What if it's real? What if she remembers you? What if, for once, you're not just the guy who fixes boats and disappears?
He thought of his mother's last call: "When are you going to do something with your life, Zhao?" He thought of his father's job leads, articles about "growth industries," all the polite ways of saying you're nothing yet.
The text existed. That was a fact.
And facts demanded investigation.
He stood there for a long moment, the binoculars heavy against his chest. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he walked.
He found the relief crew huddled by the supply shed, passing a cigarette between them. The Albanian kid—drowsy, indifferent—barely glanced up.
"Swap?" Zhao asked, gesturing at his torn sleeve.
The kid shrugged, tossed him a faded windbreaker. "Keep it. No one wants to smell you."
Zhao caught the jacket, then lingered. "Need anyone to cover the afternoon shift? I could use the hours."
Another worker—older, suspicious—narrowed her eyes. "You're not on the roster."
"Substitute. Called in this morning." He kept his voice steady, the same lie he'd used a dozen times when picking up extra shifts. "Ask Sébastien."
She stared at him for three heartbeats. Then she shrugged and turned away. "Don't care. Just don't steal anything."
He walked toward the private docks, heart hammering. The jacket smelled like someone else's sweat. The badge in his pocket—lifted from an abandoned clipboard near the coffee stand—was for a different shift, a different name. But the guard at the gate wouldn't zoom in on the photo. They never did.
Zhao, disguised as a dockworker, hoisted a crate and swaggered toward the yachts.
At the private-dock security post, a bored ex-military Frenchman barely looked up from his phone.
Zhao waved the clipboard. "Delivery. Captain Verne's orders—last-minute supplies."
The guard flicked through the manifest, then glanced at Zhao's face. Held it for one second too long.
Zhao's pulse hammered. He knows. He's going to—
The guard shrugged. "Go on. Guests everywhere."
Zhao slipped past pleasure boats and a hulking Russian yacht with a helipad to Blue Oasis. Two women in navy blazers—one with a perfect bun, the other sporting a cheek-to-jaw scar—manned the boarding gate. "Special delivery for the captain," he repeated, flashing the clipboard. "Dry ice. Staff only." They exchanged a look, then the scarred woman stepped aside.
Inside, steel decks gave way to honeyed teak; the air smelled of eucalyptus, not diesel. A stylized Ouroboros (serpent eating its own tail) formed into the shape of a crown, with the serpent's scales subtly patterned like waves, gleamed on mirrored walls. No one challenged him. He passed doors labeled Bridge and Laboratory, then entered the Guest Lounge. Plush leather chairs, an untouched chess set, art books—no sign of life.
He pressed his forehead against the glass wall overlooking the marina. White yachts lined the docks, palm trees bordered the boulevard, and the city shimmered in the distance. The world felt both impossibly vast and heartbreakingly small.
He thought about his family, scattered across three continents. His father, who still sent him job leads and articles about "growth industries." His mother, who pretended not to worry but called every night anyway. Zhao was supposed to be doing something better with his life than sneaking onto luxury yachts.
But the text—that anonymous, impossible text—had changed something. It had planted a seed: what if the dream was real? What if Aida remembered him? What if, against all logic, she wanted to see him again?
It was a stupid hope. He knew that. But it was the only hope he had.
He sank into one of the chairs and let his body go slack. The air was cool, the world outside distant and harmless. For the first time in days, he felt almost weightless.
Until he heard the voices.
They were close, muffled but unmistakably female. He jumped to his feet and looked for an exit. No luck—the only way out was the way he'd come. He checked his watch. Less than six minutes had passed. He could still make it out before the shift change.
He slipped back into the corridor, closed the door gently behind him, and moved in the opposite direction from the voices. This time, he tried the Laboratory door. It opened with a hiss.
Inside: a room lit by harsh fluorescents, all stainless steel and immaculate surfaces. Rows of high-end microscopes, a bank of medical monitors. Someone had set up a centrifuge on a rolling cart. Next to it: an open laptop, screen still glowing, the password prompt in French.
He stepped closer. Vials in the fridge. Syringes on the table. Blood samples lined up in a rack—dozens of them, all labeled with dates and codes. His skin prickled. Why would a luxury yacht need this much blood? He picked one up. Still warm. Next to the rack, a half-finished espresso steamed, abandoned in haste.
This wasn't a pleasure cruise. This was something else. Something medical. Something prepared.
He nearly dropped the vial when a PA speaker overhead crackled to life.
"Attention crew. All hands to main deck for briefing. That's all hands to main deck. Merci."
Zhao's heart snapped into overdrive. He fumbled the vial back into its slot and wiped his palms on his borrowed jacket. He peeked into the corridor. It was empty. He made for the stairs, skipping every other step, desperate to find a hiding place before the crew converged.
At the landing, he nearly collided with a woman coming down the opposite way. She was tall, silver-blonde, with shoulders squared like a knife's edge. Her uniform was flawless, the gold braid on her sleeve blinding in the artificial light.
She gave him a once-over and frowned. "You are not scheduled for this shift," she said in French—not a question, an accusation.
He hesitated, then blurted, "Substitute. Called in from the dock. Captain's orders."
Her eyes narrowed, cataloging his jacket, his hands, the clipboard. "Is that so." Her hand moved toward her belt—
Then the floor bucked.
Before he could improvise further, the floor beneath them bucked with a deep, wet sound, like the ocean itself had hiccuped. An instant later, every light in the corridor flashed white, then died.
For half a second, there was silence.
Then a shockwave tore through the hull. Zhao barely registered the flash through the window before he was airborne, flung backward into the steel bulkhead. The woman beside him slammed into the far wall, arms instinctively coming up to protect her head.
He heard the glass behind him implode. Every nerve screamed. His body folded in on itself, lungs burning, vision strobing between white and black.
As he hit the ground, one thought cut through the chaos: *the text*. The timing. The disconnected number. The way it had arrived the morning after a dream that felt too real.
Then the world went dark.
***
He hit the ground and stayed there. The world was noise and chaos, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own blood and the static whine in his ears. His head felt split open. He blinked, tried to focus. A metallic taste filled his mouth—blood, maybe, or just fear.
Somewhere, the yacht's engines kicked in, a guttural roar that vibrated through the floor. Lights came back on, red this time. Emergency mode.
He rolled onto his side and coughed, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His brain worked in jagged bursts: Get up. Move. Hide.
He reached for the edge of the broken window and pulled himself upright. Through the shards, he could see the harbor. Smoke curled upward from the dock, black and greasy.
He gripped the frame and watched as another explosion bloomed on the far side of the marina, a mushroom of orange and gray. The entire pier buckled, boats lifted and dropped like bathtub toys. People ran in all directions, then fell, or disappeared in the smoke.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to call someone, anyone, and tell them what was happening. But his voice was gone, lost somewhere in the back of his skull.
He staggered toward the stairs, one hand pressed to the side of his head where something warm and sticky oozed between his fingers. His thoughts came slow, sludgy. He wondered if this was what dying felt like, or if it was just the way the world ended—hot, bright, and utterly absurd.
He climbed, step by step, to the upper deck. The yacht was moving now, accelerating away from the chaos. The sun was still shining, the water impossibly blue. It all looked so normal, except for the burning city behind him.
He slumped against the railing and let the world tilt. In that moment, with the taste of blood in his mouth and the sound of distant sirens fading, Zhao Xun realized he had no idea where he was going, or what he'd just survived.
He pulled out his phone. The screen was cracked, the battery at 2%. But the text was still there—proof that someone had wanted him here.
Nice meeting you. Let's do it again sometime.
He looked up at the burning city, then at the yacht carrying him away from it. Somewhere on this ship, Aida was real. The text was real.
He'd gotten what he wanted.
He just hadn't known the price.