Calen Royce had once been somebody. A technician with a future until he wasn't.
Now, he was just another face in a city that chewed up dreams and spat them back out like refuse. The neon lights that lit up the night were nothing more than false promises, flickering in time with the pulse of a broken system. The streets were crowded, always alive with the noise of people desperate to be seen, yet all of them were invisible in the end.
He had no one. No job. No family.
And for the last two years, he had been streaming his life his decaying, pitiful life through the Live Recording Operation System. No edits. No filters. Just a camera that broadcasted the slow death of a man, unnoticed by society, unnoticed by even his own existence.
But that was the point.
Every day, Calen sat in his small, cluttered apartment, in front of his rickety computer and a camera that never stopped rolling. He had nothing left to lose. His life wasn't his anymore; it belonged to the viewers who tuned in, not out of kindness, but out of morbid curiosity. His suffering, his exhaustion, his loneliness these were the things they craved. The way he struggled was entertainment for them.
"Welcome back, everyone," Calen muttered, his voice hoarse and flat, a reflection of his soul. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. There was no enthusiasm, no passion in his words just the empty routine of a man who had given up. "Another day, another stream. Same shit, different day."
He clicked a button, and the screen flickered to life. His face filled the monitor, tired eyes staring back at him. Behind him, the faint hum of traffic outside mixed with the constant beeping of his broken air conditioner. His apartment was small, grimy a prison that housed his body but not his spirit.
A notification flashed on the side of the screen.
Incoming message:
The message was short too short to make sense of.
"Coordinates. 12 AM. Be there. No excuses."
Calen frowned. He was used to random messages, fans making requests for him to do something ridiculous or dangerous for attention. But something about this one felt different. A quick glance at the screen showed no identifiable sender, no context, just a series of numbers, the address, and the time.
His heart skipped a beat, a mix of dread and curiosity tugging at him. He was used to taking risks, but this was new. In all his time streaming, he had never received something like this.
A part of him wanted to ignore it, go back to the same cycle he'd been trapped in for the past few years. But another part the part that still clung to some sliver of hope was intrigued. His mind raced.
Was this a game? A joke? Or something worse?
He looked around his apartment. It was empty. Quiet. His hands shook as he typed a quick reply: Who is this? But there was no response. The message had already vanished from his screen.
Calen leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen. For a moment, the reality of it all hit him. He was nobody. His life was a joke. Yet, someone out there was watching him someone who wanted him to do something. To be something.
"Midnight," he whispered to himself, the name ringing in his ears. The name he had adopted as his online persona. The name that had become synonymous with pain, with nothingness. A man who lived in the darkness. A man who had been forgotten.
But what if this was the chance for something more? For something different?
The evening crept by, and the city outside continued to roar with life. Inside Calen's apartment, time seemed to stretch in a way that only the lonely truly understood. He stared at the coordinates on his screen again, the weight of the decision pressing on him.
Twelve hours. Midnight.
The time was ticking.
A small part of him wanted to ignore it. Keep doing what he'd always done stream, survive, and keep the world at bay. But the pull was stronger. The idea that there was something more out there, something real, made his heart race in ways it hadn't in years.
12:00 AM.
Calen stood at the door of his apartment, wearing his usual faded hoodie and worn jeans. He hadn't bothered to change; there was no reason to. No one cared about appearances anymore. The streetlights outside cast long shadows over the cracked sidewalk. The city was quiet now, the chaos of the day fading into the night.
He glanced down at his phone, the coordinates still glowing on the screen. They led him to a part of the city he didn't know well a forgotten, run-down district that looked like it hadn't seen a decent day in years. The kind of place where dreams went to die.
His footsteps echoed as he walked through the empty streets, the cold air biting at his skin. He passed derelict buildings, graffiti-splattered walls, and abandoned shops reminders of a world that had moved on without him.
The coordinates led him to a narrow alley, hidden from the main roads, where the light barely touched. His heart was pounding now, his breath coming in quick bursts. He wasn't sure what he expected to find, but the unease gnawing at him told him that this wasn't going to be like any of his usual nights.
He reached the end of the alley, where a metal door stood, slightly ajar.
No sign. No explanation. Just the door.
Calen took a step forward, his hand reaching for the cold, rusted handle.
And that was when he realized: the game had begun.
Calen stood before the slightly ajar doors, his hand trembling just a little as he reached out. The hinges creaked softly as he pushed them open, revealing a narrow hallway dimly lit by flickering overhead lights. At the center of the room sat a small, unmarked box.
He approached with cautious steps.
Kneeling, Calen opened the box. It wasn't sealed, as if it had been meant for him to find. Inside was an owl mask—beautiful, uncanny, and haunting. Its surface shimmered with strange material, finely crafted with eerie precision. The wide, empty eyes of the mask seemed to stare through him, straight into his soul.
Beneath it, a note lay folded beside a sharp knife and a lighter. He unfolded the note, and read aloud in a whisper:
"We are glad you accepted to be part of our little project. We need a skilled cameraman to capture as many shots as possible. Please remember... SHOTS, everyone."
Calen frowned. Confusion spread across his face as he tried to make sense of the message. "Shots?" he murmured. "Camera shots?"
But before he could think further, a faint noise echoed through the hall—movement. Footsteps.
His pulse spiked.
He snatched the note and slid around the corner, heart thudding. Instinctively, he pulled the owl mask over his face. Just then, a bald man walked past. A cigarette hung lazily from his mouth, smoke curling into the air. His shirt was a pale azure blue, too thin for the season. A large tattoo of Cyrillic letters stretched across his neck—Russian.
A gangster, clearly.
Calen peeked back at the now wide-open door. Something clicked in his mind. The note. The knife. The word shots. It wasn't about cameras.
Shoot everyone.
Panic surged through him.
As the man reached into his coat, revealing the glint of a gun, Calen sprang forward, knife in hand. He plunged it into the man's back once, twice—again and again. But the man didn't go down easily. He was solid, built like a tank, and now he was turning, bloodied but not beaten.
The gun rose.
Calen screamed as he slammed into him, stabbing wildly, adrenaline and fear giving him unnatural strength. The blade drove deep into the man's chest, over and over until the body finally collapsed with a dull thud.
Silence.
And then the sickness hit him.
He fell to his knees, retching beside the corpse, the mask still on his face like a grotesque parody of normalcy. Wiping his mouth, he forced himself to move. He couldn't leave a trace. With shaky hands, he pulled the gloves off the dead man and slid them onto his own. Then, he took the gun.
The deeper Calen ventured, the more apparent the truth became—this wasn't just some hideout. It was a full-blown drug operation.
The air grew humid. Electric cables snaked across the ceiling and floors like tangled vines. Above, rows of powerful UV lights bathed thick patches of cannabis in artificial sunlight. Everything was orderly. Efficient. Professional. He stepped into a larger room—an indoor farm, reeking of chemicals and sweat. Dozens of bagged stashes lined the back wall, sealed tight and ready for distribution.
And there were people. At least four men moved about the place. Gangsters, by the look of them. One leaned lazily on a pallet, another carried a clipboard of all things—tallying numbers or shipments.
Calen ducked behind a stack of crates.
He quietly checked the gun's magazine. Twelve bullets. Maybe less. He cursed under his breath. That wasn't enough for a prolonged fight, especially not without backup. But stealth wasn't exactly an option either. Once he fired, they'd all be on alert.
And yet… he had an idea. A stupid one.
He glanced at a nearby window—dirty, but intact. Without letting himself think too much, he stood, aimed, and fired.
Glass shattered like thunder in the small space.
Then silence.
He dropped down behind the boxes again, heart pounding so hard he thought it would give him away.
It worked.
The gangsters all turned at once. One of them barked orders in Russian. Two men headed toward the sound—toward the broken window. Another jogged toward the entrance where Calen had come in. The fourth lingered by the stash, now clearly more alert.
Timing was everything.
As the closest one rounded the crates, Calen burst from cover. The owl mask made him look like something from a nightmare. Before the man could react, Calen raised the pistol and fired three times—tight and fast into the man's chest.
The thug staggered, collapsed.
Calen didn't stop. He vaulted over the body, snatched the man's gun—another semi-auto, heavier than his own—and kept moving. He could hear shouting now, distant but getting closer. The two men investigating the window would be back any second.
Now armed with two pistols, Calen moved fast, retracing his steps through the winding hallway. He could hear faint shouts behind him—panic, confusion—but ahead, it was quiet. Too quiet.
He turned a corner and found another gangster kneeling beside the body of the man Calen had gunned down moments before. The thug was inspecting the wounds, distracted—exactly what Calen needed.
His breathing slowed. The hammering in his chest began to ease. He lifted one of the guns, aiming with both hands, though his fingers still trembled. That annoyed him. He thought he was getting a grip on things. Maybe even adapting.
He stepped forward cautiously, boots silent on the concrete floor.
The gangster stood slowly, eyes locking with Calen's. He raised his hands at once, leaving his weapon on the ground beside the corpse.
"Эй, успокойся, ладно?" he said, voice shaky, cautious.
Calen blinked. "The fuck?"
He raised the gun slightly.
"The fuck did you just say to me?"
"Я сказал, успокойся нахуй," the man said again, a little more firmly.
Calen's confusion twisted into rage. He didn't know what the guy was saying—maybe it was a threat, maybe a plea—but the foreign words grated on his nerves, set his adrenaline spiking all over again.
He pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed through the corridor. The Russian dropped, face-first.
"Fucking Russians," Calen muttered, stepping over the body and continuing on, his grip tightening around both guns.
"They're down. Two remain."
That was the only thought echoing in Calen's mind as he tossed aside the now-empty gun he'd used to drop the last thug. He slipped his own pistols back into his grip—both magazines full. The weight of them in his hands brought a strange kind of comfort. He felt secure, focused.
He retraced his steps to the main hall, eyes scanning the room.
They were still there—two gangsters.
One was distracted, sorting through the bagged stash. The other stood off to the side, seemingly useless, just watching.
Calen didn't hesitate.
He moved silently, quickly, and brought the first one down with a clean shot. The man with the clipboard dropped instantly, the papers fluttering from his hand like dead leaves.
The last one noticed. His eyes widened, hands scrambling for his weapon. But instead of firing immediately, he made the mistake of taking the long way around the grow beds—trying not to damage the plants.
Calen didn't share the sentiment.
He raised both guns and opened fire, unloading both magazines without mercy. Bullets tore through the air—and through the plants—cutting down the last man in a storm of noise and smoke.
When the guns clicked dry, Calen let them fall from his hands. He exhaled, a long, shaky breath. Silence fell again.
It was over.
He moved slowly now, checking the building room by room until something caught his eye—a small office tucked into the corner, door half-shut.
Inside: bags. Dozens of them.
He unzipped one and stared, eyes going wide. Stacks of cash. American bills, tightly packed. He didn't count. He didn't care. He grabbed two of the largest bags and slung them over his shoulder.
That wasn't all.
Alongside the money were neatly packed bricks of product—sealed, labeled, ready for the streets. Calen took a few stashes and loaded up what he could carry.
No time to waste.
He left the building behind, rushing through alleys and side streets until he reached the furthest bus stop he could find. His clothes reeked of smoke and gunpowder. The owl mask still hung around his neck.
All he wanted now was to get home.
At the bus stop, Calen sat hunched over on the bench, chest still rising and falling with the aftershock of adrenaline. He reached up and pulled off the owl mask, now damp with sweat. It went into the bag with the money and product, zipped shut and pressed tight against his side.
He reeked—blood, dirt, smoke, and something sour that came from fear and fight. But this neighborhood? It wasn't going to question a guy who smelled like trouble. That was normal here.
Still, the weight of it all settled on him fast.
If luck was with him, if fate really wanted to play nice tonight, maybe they wouldn't connect anything to him. No cameras, no prints. But Calen knew better. The risk didn't die just because the shooting stopped.
He pulled out his phone.
1:03 AM.
No buses.
Not this late, not out here.
The glowing schedule board nearby confirmed it—nothing until morning. Cold air hit him harder now that he was still, the sweat on his skin turning slick and freezing. He stood abruptly.
"Fuck this."
He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder again and took off running—through alleys, past dead streetlights, across empty intersections. His legs screamed at him but he didn't stop. Every shadow felt like a tail, every sudden sound a siren. The city around him blurred into the background.
He just needed to get home. Home to his cramped, falling-apart apartment. Somewhere small. Somewhere no one would think to look.
Just get home.
The rest of the night passed in a blur—cold, bitter, and heavy with the weight of what Calen had done. He'd barely remembered getting home. His apartment was still the same cramped, half-lit shoebox it had always been, with flickering lights, peeling wallpaper, and a mattress on the floor. No comfort—just walls and silence.
When he woke, it was already daylight.
He dragged himself to the desk and powered on his ancient PC. As it booted up, he stretched his sore limbs and blinked at the light bleeding through the cracked blinds. His hands still smelled like smoke and metal.
He opened a browser. Clicked through news tabs.
8:47 AM – Breaking News
Photos were already circulating. Police cars surrounded the grow-op—flashing lights, yellow tape, bodies in black bags. A few blurred out. The news anchors didn't have all the details yet.
But someone else was already on the scene.
A sleek black Camaro rolled up past the perimeter. The doors opened and out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered man with darker blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a long, worn brown leather trench coat that flared slightly as he moved. He looked out of place among the uniforms.
Two rookies rushed toward him, waving him off.
"Sir, the road's closed. You can't be here," one said.
"Yeah," added the other. "Also, you can't park there."
The man didn't even blink. He lit a cigarette, took a long drag, then exhaled like he didn't hear a word they said.
"Yo, Chef!" he suddenly shouted over their heads. "Get these little bitches outta my way, will you?"
He brushed past them like they weren't even there, just as a man in a long coat stepped out from the crowd of officers. The 'Chef.'
"Ah… there you are," the Chief said with a weary smile. "Bit rude, don't you think?"
The tall man didn't stop. "The fuck you want? I've got to deal with this fucked up case and be polite to two fresh-off-the-tit rookies who don't even want to be here?"
He stomped inside, flicking ash as he went.
The rookies stood dumbfounded.
The Chief sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Sorry, kids. That's Detective Silas Thrane," he said. "And yeah… he really hates this case."
Inside the building, the air still clung to the scent of gunfire and scorched metal. Detective Silas Thrane walked through the carnage without much care, boots stepping over shell casings and dried blood as if it were spilled coffee.
He looked around the grow-op, unimpressed.
"Fuck…" he muttered, eyeing one of the potted plants still standing under a swaying UV lamp. "These are some good-ass buds."
He crouched, plucked one clean, rolled it with a flick of his fingers, and lit it up. The first drag hit hard. He let it settle in his chest before slowly exhaling with a satisfied grunt.
"Sir…" one of the younger officers nearby started, eyes wide.
"Don't," Chief Warok cut him off instantly, stepping between the rookie and Silas with a raised hand. "Just shut up."
The Chief approached slowly, watching as Silas wandered through the room, smoke curling around his head.
"Silas… you okay?" Warok asked, softer now.
Silas glanced over his shoulder, the joint dangling from his lips. "Huh? Yeah, yeah. Why?"
"You're smoking evidence," the Chief said, already rubbing at his temple.
"Exactly. If I gotta wade through this Russian fuckfest of a crime scene, at least let me be in a good fucking mood," Silas replied, voice dry, eyes half-lidded as he took another pull.
Warok sighed again. It was becoming a pattern.
"Sure. Do whatever the hell you want," he said. "Just make my paperwork easier."
Silas grinned, flicking ash onto a scorched piece of carpet. "Deal."
Silas walked the scene now with latex gloves snapped tight over his fingers. His expression had shifted—less slouched stoner, more calculating predator. He crouched by the scattered weapons near the bodies, turning them carefully, examining fingerprints, ejected shells, the wear on the grips.
"All of these to the lab," he muttered. "I want to know who was shooting what. And when. Clean and clear."
He rose, lighting another cigarette, this time strictly nicotine. Then, his boots echoed down the hall toward the small back room—the makeshift office.
"Warok, what's this?" he asked as he entered, eyebrow raised at the layout: filing cabinets, a dusty PC, and bags lined up like unclaimed luggage at a bus terminal.
Warok leaned in the doorway, holding a notepad. "That's the ready-to-ship room, best guess. Product and money prepped for distribution."
Silas raised a brow. "How much we talkin'?"
"Each bag's marked at around fifty to seventy grand," Warok said, flipping a page. "Paperwork says there should be ten bags. We found eight."
Silas whistled low.
"Bricks of coke—says 260, we counted 256. So that's that. And the grow count…" He held up another page. "Supposed to be 600 potted plants."
Silas looked around at the green jungle behind them.
"And?"
"Five-eighty-nine."
Silas blinked. Then grinned.
"You actually counted them? Like, for real?"
Warok gave him a dead stare.
"You're high already, aren't you?" the Chief said flatly.
Silas smiled wider. "I might be cruising a little. But I'm also the only one here who's realizing someone walked off with two money bags and eleven plants. Probably had help. You're welcome."
Warok shook his head. "God help me…"
Outside, under the faded light of morning, the flashing lights of cruisers cast dull glows on the pavement. Silas and Warok stood near the edge of the taped perimeter, backs to the building, both watching officers come and go.
Silas took a final drag from his cigarette, let the ember burn out with a flick.
"So…" he began, staring off. "Two bags of cash. Four bricks of coke. Eleven pots."
Warok nodded. "That's what we're short."
Silas clicked his tongue.
"See, that ain't random. It's not a panic grab. Someone knew about this place. Waited. Watched. Maybe even planned a hit. But then they didn't take everything—which means they couldn't."
Warok frowned. "Yeah… but why not call backup? Bring a van? If you're already gonna murder half a dozen Russian gangsters, why half-ass it?"
Silas shook his head. "Nah, it wasn't like that. He didn't have transport. No vehicle. No second set of hands."
He turned to Warok, eyes narrowing.
"That means we're not lookin' for some heavy. No ex-merc, no gang muscle. We're lookin' for someone small. Someone alone."
Warok folded his arms, face tightening. "Which makes it worse."
"Exactly," Silas said with a smirk. "The kind of person desperate enough to walk into a place like this without backup? That's a fuckin' wildfire we won't see comin' until it's too late."
Warok didn't say anything at first. Just nodded, slowly. Thoughtfully.
"It makes sense," he muttered finally.
Silas lit another cigarette, exhaled through his nose, and stared back at the quiet building.
"Let's see what kind of ghost we're dealing with."
Calen sat hunched at his desk, the flickering light of the monitor casting sharp shadows across his face. He hadn't moved much since waking, save for checking the news and letting the sick weight in his stomach twist tighter with every passing headline.
He watched the livestream again, muted, as a black Camaro appeared in the footage. The camera shook when the tall man stepped out—leather coat, cigarette, didn't give a damn about the flashing lights or the badge line. Calen's eyes narrowed.
Something about the guy was wrong. Or worse—familiar.
Calen didn't recognize his face, but he recognized the type. The guy who didn't follow rules, who broke people for a living, and probably smiled about it after. The kind of detective that didn't stop when the paperwork got filed.
"Fuck," Calen muttered.
He pushed away from the desk, pacing the cramped room. The bag sat on the floor, zipped shut. Inside—money, coke, the owl mask, a pair of gloves. The gun he took was hidden under the sink, wrapped in a rag.
He hadn't even touched the money yet. Part of him couldn't believe it was real.
He paused in the hallway mirror. His eyes were sunken, dark circles blooming like bruises. His hoodie was still stained. The smell of blood and cheap dirt clung to him.
You're not a killer.
That voice was still there, gnawing at the inside of his skull.
But he'd killed. More than one. And he knew it wasn't over.
Back at the desk, he scrolled again. One line caught his eye this time:
"Detective Silas Thrane leads investigation into suspected gang massacre in Eastblock District."
He leaned in.
There it was. A name. A face. A reputation. Calen clicked deeper. Old cases. Court testimonies. People who disappeared.
He swallowed hard.
Calen dropped to the floor, dragging the bag closer. The room was silent save for his shaky breathing and the rustle of plastic and cloth.
He pulled out one of the bricks—wrapped tight in heavy plastic, marked with a red wax seal. A single dot.
His hands trembled as he turned it over in the dim light. "Holy fuck," he muttered. "What the fuck have I done?"
His thoughts were spinning now—too fast, too loud. "The message. Why did I go there? Of all places, why the fuck did I even—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He ripped the brick open with raw fingers, powder spilling like sugar across the cheap carpet. The smell hit first—chemical, bitter, sharp.
He didn't even hesitate.
Calen slammed his face into the powder and inhaled hard.
It scorched his sinuses. Made his eyes water. But it cut through the panic.
He stumbled back, coughing, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He laughed once—sharp, broken—and slammed his back into the wall.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuuuck!"
He stood suddenly, chest rising and falling like an engine gone wild.
"You wanna play, huh?!" he shouted to no one. "Okay then. LET'S FUCKING PLAY!"
The mask was still on the desk.
The owl's unblinking eyes stared back at him, cold and waiting.
Calen grabbed it, flipped it over, and got to work.
It took hours.
He dismantled parts of it, pried open seams with tweezers and a rusted screwdriver. Beneath the surface was more than he expected—wiring, a microboard, a transmitter tucked neatly above the browline.
A hidden camera.
The eyes weren't just for show—they were lenses. And above them, concealed within the frame, a tiny switch.
Not for lights. Not for aesthetics.
For streaming.
Live.
He stared at it, realization sinking in like icewater.
"They were watching," he whispered.
He flipped the switch off with a trembling finger and held the mask at arm's length.
Whoever gave this to him… whoever sent that message…
They'd seen everything.