Milo was slouched on this beat-up barstool in Jake's nasty kitchen, holding a warm-ass beer. The place reeked—burnt toast and weed, Jake's usual weekend deal.
Jake's this skinny dude with a scruffy beard and eyes all red and tired, and he's glued to his phone, squinting like he can't see straight.
Milo's just sitting there, bored as hell, while this cheap coffee maker buzzes in the background.
"Yo, look at this garbage," Jake says, shoving the phone in Milo's face.
It's an email, big bold letters up top: FWD: Seven Days. No sender, just a bunch of text. Delete this, you're dead in a week.
Forward it, it's someone else's mess. Jake laughs like it's dumb, leaning back in his chair. "What's this chain letter crap?"
Milo glances at it, one eyebrow up.
"Probably a scam. Or some jerk messing with you." He takes a sip of his beer—tastes like crap, and his stomach's already doing flips. "You just get this?"
"Yeah, like an hour ago." Jake scratches his neck, grinning like an idiot.
"Gotta be some dude from work screwing with me. Check it." He's about to hit Delete. Milo starts to say something, but Jake smashes the button anyway. Email's gone. "Boom. No curse crap for me."
Milo smirks, shaking his head. "Big balls, dude. What if it's legit?"
Jake busts out laughing, all loud and annoying. "Legit? Bro, it's 2025, not some cheesy horror movie. What's next, my toaster's haunted?" He grabs his beer, downs half of it, spilling some on himself. "You stress too much, man."
Milo shrugs, leaning on the counter. "Maybe. Still weird as hell." He looks at the phone, all dark now, and something feels off, like a bad vibe he can't shake. Jake's a dumbass sometimes, but he doesn't deserve… whatever. If it's even real. "Where'd it come from anyway?"
"No idea. No 'from' part. Just popped up." Jake chucks the phone onto a stack of bills he's never gonna open, already over it. "Spam, probably. My email's a total dumpster." He gets up, stretching, and shuffles to the coffee maker. "You want some? It's instant, but better than that nasty beer."
"Nah, I'm good." Milo keeps staring at the phone, half-covered in Jake's junk. Seven days keeps bouncing around in his head. He's not some scared little kid anymore.
Twenty-eight, skinny, pale, hair all messed up—he's dealt with worse than this. Shitty jobs, a crap apartment, growing up where you learn fast most threats are just noise. But this? It's bugging him bad.
The kitchen's a disaster—dirty dishes everywhere, a pizza box with one sad slice, blinds all jacked up from Jake's last party.
Outside, the street's just doing its thing—lawnmowers, a dog barking, kids yelling. Too normal. Milo's eyes slide back to the phone. No sender. No nothing. Like it just showed up out of nowhere.
"You're looking at it like it's gonna jump you," Jake says, pouring coffee into some old mug. He takes a sip, makes a face.
"Tastes like crap. Sure you don't want any?"
"Nope." Milo's voice is flat, but his brain's going a mile a minute. Jake's blown off worse—speeding tickets, bar fights, that time he owed a guy fifty bucks. Always comes out fine, laughing. This should be nothing. So why's Milo all itchy? Why's the room so damn quiet now, even with Jake talking?
He stands up, cracking his knuckles. "You're not even a little freaked? Some random dude sends you a death note, and you just… trash it?"
Jake flops back down, grinning. "Not a death note, dude. A stupid game. Like those 'forward this or your crush ditches you' emails from way back.
Nothing's gonna happen." He grabs his phone, swipes at it. "See? Gone. I'm fine."
"For now," Milo mumbles, mostly to himself. He walks to the window, peeking through the busted blinds. Sun's bright, cars parked, kids kicking a ball.
Normal. But he feels weird, like something's pressing on him. He doesn't buy into curses—can't, with the life he's had. But this ain't normal. It's got a pulse.
Jake kicks his feet up, not giving a damn. "You're thinking too hard, man. Always do. Remember when you were sure the landlord was gonna kick me out? Still here."
"This ain't about noise, dude." Milo turns, leaning on the wall. His beer's gone, can all smashed up in his hand. He chucks it at the trash—misses, watches it roll under the table. "Dammit."
Jake laughs his ass off. "Nice one. Go home, sleep it off. You look like trash."
Milo doesn't move. Sleep sounds dope—he's barely gotten four hours lately, thanks to dumb night shifts. But crashing now feels off.
Like something's waiting for him to slip. "Maybe," he says, lying, grabbing his jacket. "Hit me up if you start coughing up blood or some crap."
Jake waves him off, still chuckling, as Milo heads for the door. The air outside hits him—cool, sharp, cutting through the stale kitchen stink. He zips his jacket, steps onto the cracked sidewalk, and takes one last look back at Jake's place. That's when he sees it—barely, out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, too tall, too thin, flickering against the side of the house. No one's there to cast it. He blinks, and it's gone. Trick of the light, he tells himself, but his skin's crawling now.
He starts walking, faster than he means to. Halfway down the block, the streetlights hum, steady and dull. But that feeling—that pulse—won't quit. He glances over his shoulder, and there it is again: the shadow, stretched across the pavement behind him.
It's not moving, just standing there, head tilted like it's watching. His heart slams. He spins around, fists up, but the street's empty—kids gone, lawns quiet, just the wind rustling some trash.
"What the hell," he mutters, voice shaky. He keeps walking, and the shadow moves with him now, silent, sliding along the ground like it's stuck to his heels. He stops under a streetlight, breath fogging in the cool air, and it stops too—right at the edge of the light, quivering like it's alive. Then it raises one long, jagged arm, pointing back toward Jake's house.