The sun rose. Duskwatch stirred. And Grim woke just the same.

  The restless hum beneath the concrete continued, like a beast too tired to rest. His phone flashed 6 AM, and the dust still lingered in the air. The bed creaked the same. A new day, but the same old weight on him.

  The faucet spat cold water. The mirror split his reflection into fragments. The reflection stared back, but it didn’t feel like his own.

  He pulled on his usual black jacket, slipping his fingers into the same old gloves.

  The routine played on. The same dry air. The same twisting shadows. The same whispers from the underground. The same old envelope passed from his hands to another’s, just like before. Everything the same.

  The same glancing eyes, the same hesitation, and then—

  The same voice.

  They know.

  But the voice never felt familiar.

  He retreated to the garage. The fluorescent light painted shadows across Blackthorn’s frame. The same clinking tools, the same old grease. But the engine’s hum felt foreign.

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  And the whisper lingered.

  Break it.

  His fingers tensed. The wrench slipped. The metallic clang shattered the silence, louder than it should have been.

  His chest tightened. He stayed seated, staring down at the tool on the ground.

  The voice didn’t speak. It didn’t need to.

  The sun rose. Duskwatch stirred. And Grim woke once again.

  The cracks in the mirror were the same. The air too. But Grim wasn’t.

  Another envelope. Another silent exchange. The man’s gaze lingered longer than it needed to. The suspicion sank deeper.

  The engine roared again that night. The underground crowd screamed. The fire was shot.

  He raced. Faster than before. The streets blurred, and the voice returned.

  Push him.

  The rider drew closer. Grim’s fingers twitched.

  The whisper clawed through his thoughts. A simple nudge. Bone against steel. Flesh beneath wheels. The voice called for it.

  He crossed the line first, but no satisfaction followed.

  The phone buzzed.

  6 AM.

  But something was different.

  Not the weight, not the shadows. But the call.

  The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Then silence.

  Grim stared at the screen. A number. No name.

  It rang again. He answered.

  "Morning work. We need to talk."

  The voice was low. Grave. Not one he recognized.

  ‘Morning work’ wasn’t something discussed over a phone call. It was a whisper, a glance, an envelope passed with no words. But not this.

  Grim’s pulse quickened. He could just hang up. Act like it never happened.

  "Where?" he said instead.

  A pause.

  His pulse quickened. A setup?

  "Redgate. Warehouse 12."

  The line died. Grim’s grip tightened around the phone. The air felt heavier.

  Something waited at Redgate.

  And for reasons he didn’t want to understand, he would go.