Noah became a statue—an unpaid one, lifeless one. Without consciousness and jarred movement, his heartbeat spiked, and his gut screamed that something shitty was going to happen.
In the blink of an eye, it was the waiter—that same guy who stole his gas money or spent it on a bottle of Jack. But it was normal. Wow.
"Anything wrong, sir?" the waiter muttered. His broad forehead squeezed a little, forming waves of confusion.
Noah nodded, but the waiter just stood there, stunned. His mouth hung open—wide enough for a fly to enter.
He became anxious but didn't let the worst of him out—yet. The silence was thick enough to choke.
"Anything wrong, babe?" Mia said, breaking the fever-dream haze.
Noah nodded swiftly, his sweat reflecting the pleasant yellow of the chandelier—unapologetically extra, like his student loan interest.
With that said, they went to the car.
"Shit can't be real," Noah muttered, barely a whisper. A sharp pang of fear ran through him. He didn't remember much—but that bastard? He sure as hell remembered the fear. But not Jack, though. Jack was just a passing ghost in his mind.
They drove back home. Noah stepped out of the car, and so did Mia. What amazed him was her icy silence. Nothing crazy, but this Mia wasn't the one he knew—the one who bossed every direction around as if she were the captain of a broken ship. And Noah? The obedient sailor, sailing on the waves. One with a fly buzzing. Another with a girl yapping.
He threw that doubt over the concrete street. Told you: dismissal is a thing in this asshole
He slammed the door, just a bit off from breaking the already broken house.
The house was… alright. What do you expect from a brokie? Cheap liquor and senseless thinking. That went far ahead in terms of hell.
The cracked floor. Somewhat furniture—or should I call it: The furniture of the dead. The messy bedroom. The clumsy kitchen. And a slum hallway.
The shower called him. Better it did.
Noah was the first one to go. Looking at his home, this was far from the guy he was.
The shower hissed, icy water trailing down his ribs. A cold reminder of his own financial ruin.
Pale body, even paler than before. Blood seemed non-existent. How did he bleed so much back then? A mystery. Or was it the good ol' whiskey, still stuck in his brain?
Cuts and wounds on his body and arms—some bad, some good. Some from childhoodome from fucking stupid, self-destructive thoughts. Guess what? God had more plans for him than Satan.
Eyes—the dark, default eyes everyone has. But he had dark circles. They would spread even more, like the ones God intended them to.
Legs and hands—skinny, malnourished, and hairy. Tans from the construction work. Guess what? Copywriting doesn't pay shit anymore. AI's got its claws on everything. Guess even starving artists aren't starving alone. Americans are fucked, and in Asia, getting a job at call centers is still a thing.
These were the intrusive shower thoughts he deemed to understand.
Standing. Alone. Drowning.
The shower was off, streams of hot air brimming around him. With a towel, he took it off.
There she was. Mia lay on the bed, rolling and doom-scrolling through Insta, craving likes and attention.
Dating as a Gen Alpha adult wasn't the best thing humanity did for itself. Especially the destruction of the brain and the degeneration of meaningful relationships.
But it was different now. She was silent. The one he knew was a yapper. And doom-scrolling? Mia was the one busy with her bartender job, paying for the motherfucker's misery.
Wait… Noah noticed something. Why was she a bit different? She was sexier. Mia was beautiful, but this girl felt like a Barbie doll.
Yet, Yet, he didn't think much about it.. Who wouldn't love a more beautiful woman in his lap? Everyone.
The shower called her name, and she went along with it.
Noah took a seat in a chair. His brain had a cap on thinking. He couldn't think anymore.
No more.
He felt dizzy, his eyes shutting.
He collapsed. Shut down.
---
A faint light from the windows, penetrating through the ancient curtains.
He slowly opened his eyes. His vision was blurry. His head was heavy. Felt like someone was banging inside his head—hard and sharp.
He rolled around. Mia wasn't… there?
"Mia," Noah called out through his dry throat, his deep morning voice echoing. No response.
He repeated it. Yet no answer.
Noah stood up, his sleep groggy. He stood, fell, and after a few tries, made it to the ground.
Kitchen. Bathroom. Bedroom. She was nowhere to be found. As if she never existed.
He went toward the cupboard beside his bed and took his phone. It clocked 6:13 AM.
This early? Noah never woke up that early while being an energetic night owl and a part-time drunkard. Except when his dad forced him to school. Nice memoir.
He unlocked his phone. Went to contacts: Jake, Michael, Suzzy, Tam. But Mia… nowhere to be found.
Noah kept that aside. He went through his morning routine. Coffee and cookies.
What…?
His coffee can was full, even though it should have been empty. Cookies? Cookie Monster had them before Noah did. It was an empty jar with bits of crumbs.
Noah realized it had to be the Echo script. Surprisingly, the laptop was new—like brand new from ten years ago. It opened a document.
ECHO-366-LOG-5-TUESDAYS-AGO.
What? It updated itself? But he hadn't touched it. His chest tightened—was he writing his own actions before they even happened?
---
INT. NOAH'S APARTMENT – MORNING
Noah left the apartment, saw the black hoodie guy. That time, he followed it.
---
Noah was flabbergasted, his hands trembled, what kind of fantasy shit is this? He doesn't remember ever doing that.
Then, A strange feeling grips him—was he always meant to follow? Did he actually do it?
Blank.
A flashback appeared, Mia warns him about something.
Wait he doesn't remember.
"Noah, you keep bringing up this guy in a hoodie. You're freaking me out. Just drop it."
These words stuck Noah's mind, sound and clear, like an arrow on its target, bull's eye!
The pain left him miserable, it was increasing, his hands clutched his head and squeezed. But nothing seemed to help.
Then another flashbang.
Noah steps forward to follow the hooded man. Hoodie Man stood still.
"This is where it all started."