Kings Cross, Sydney — September 10th, 2008.
Night—around 12:30 A.M.
The pub wasn't loud tonight. That should have been a good thing. No brawls to jump into, no spilled beer to slip on, no hollering laughter over a football match.
It was just calm. Danny sat in the farthest booth, half-lit by the dusty bulb above, his knuckles resting on the table, calloused and sore—though not from tonight. He hadn't thrown a punch in nearly three days. That was a record, even for him.
He tried to enjoy his drink. He really did. But even the familiar burn of whiskey didn't land the same way it used to.
Something sat beneath his skin—a tightness, like he was wearing the wrong shape.
People greeted him like always: nods, a slap on the back, a woman with tired eyes sliding her number in a napkin.
But even those felt disconnected. Like they were interacting with someone else. Like he was watching the scene, not living it.
He excused himself and walked out into the alley behind the bar. Lit a cigarette and stood under the low hum of a flickering streetlamp.
He didn't know what time it was. Maybe 1 A.M., maybe 3. The nights had begun to blur.
He didn't know why he hadn't gone out swinging lately. He still had that anger. Still felt the pressure coiled in his chest.
But something had changed. It was like…he couldn't quite trust himself to be who he was anymore.
Like there was another voice just behind the surface. Not whispering, not shouting—just…present. A quiet resistance in his own head.
He stared down at the pavement. There was a piece of paper stuck to his boot. He picked it up absently—a grocery list. Milk, apples, laundry detergent, children's vitamins.
Not his handwriting nor his world. But he knew what it was. He didn't know how, but he knew.
It was like a ghost of a memory that didn't belong to him, but still lived in him. He crumpled the list and shoved it into his coat pocket.
His hands shook. He tried to take another drag from his cigarette, but the flame trembled when he flicked the lighter.
He cursed, hard and slow. Then slumped against the brick wall and slid down until he was sitting in the cold ground.
He didn't want to admit it out loud, not even in his own mind, but the truth was banging on the door now—thr life he thought he lived was no longer entirely his.
He didn't know if someone else was talking over someone else's days. He didn't know if he was the real one or the mask.
But worst of all, he was starting to care. And that terrified him more than anything.
He used to be untouchable. A walking fire. Chaos incarnate. Now, in the silence of a Sydney back alley, he felt small.
The pub door creaked behind him. "You alright out here, mate?" one of the bar staff asked casually.
Danny didn't look back. He just muttered, "Yeah..just catching my breath."
But that was a lie. He wasn't catching anything. He was losing something. Piece by piece. Night by night.
And he didn't know if he'd be the one still standing when the sun rose.
Winston Hills, Sydney — September 9th, 2008.
Morning, 9:40 A.M.
The kettle was screaming, but Daniel didn't hear it until steam blurred the edge of his reading glasses.
He moved slowly, turning it off, as if pulled from underwater. His fingers hovered over the mugs.
Black coffee for him. Herbal tea for Claire. Milk for Ethan, even though the boy barely touched it unless bribed with sugar.
He lined them up like little soldiers and performed the ritual with precision. It wasn't about taste or preference, it was order.
Claire sat at the table, scrolling through her phone. Ethan hummed over cereal, swinging his legs under the chair.
Stood a few feet away, mug in his hand, staring at them.
He couldn't remember the last time he actually felt present in this kitchen. It was familiar, yes.
He could walk it blindfolded. But somehow, it felt like a stage set now, a version of his life he was performing, not living.
Claire looked up, smiling faintly. "Everything alright?" You're quiet today."
"Just tired," Daniel replied. These words have become automatic, smooth and rehearsed.
"Up late again?"
He hesitated. "I must've been."
She raised an eyebrow. "You don't remember?"
"Not really."
Claire didn't press. She just went back to her tea, but her silence spoke louder than words. She was watching him now. With concern, and that made it worse.
He went to the sink, rinsed the mug that was already clean. He scrubbed it hard, like there was something on it he couldn't see. Like something might peel away if he tried hard enough.
Ethan was talking about his school project, something about a volcano. Daniel nodded along, but the words didn't land. His mind was elsewhere.
Lately, he had been losing. He'd leave for work and suddenly be at home, unsure how he got there.
Or he'd check his bank account and find a receipt from a bar he'd never been to. One night he found a bruise on his ribs. Didn't remember falling.
At first, he blamed stress. Maybe he was burnt out. Maybe work was affecting his mind.
But now, even his own reflection felt unfamiliar. The way his posture changed. The lines on his face. The way he smiled like he was borrowing someone else's expression.
Daniel sat down at the table. Claire touched his hand. "Dan," she said, her voice low, "do you ever feel like you're…not yourself?"
He looked at her, eyes wide.
"I mean," she added quickly, "not like crazy—just…tired in a weird way?"
He didn't respond. Because for the first time, her question felt too close. It was like she'd reached into a drawer that he had been afraid to open.
He forced a smile.
"Everyone feels like that sometimes."
But even as he said it, he knew he wasn't everyone. And maybe—just maybe—he wasn't even just himself.
Parramatta, Sydney — September 9th, 2008.
Afternoon, 3:47 P.M.
Daniel sat at his desk, the same spreadsheet open for the past hour. Rows of numbers blurred into each other.
He wasn't tired exactly—more like dislocated. As if his mind was out of sync with his body, like he'd arrived somewhere a second after himself.
He reached for his own, then realized. It wasn't his. The pen was heavier, metallic, with a brand logo he didn't recognise. It had initials carved into the side. 'D.O.K'
He looked around. No one else's desk had changed. No one had swapped pens. It was like this one magically appeared. Or maybe he'd brought it here without remembering.
He placed it down carefully, like it might explode. His phone buzzed. A calendar ping again—not from his work account. It was another reminder: 'Pick up the shirt - Dry Cleaners - 6:30 P.M'
He didn't drop off a shirt. He hadn't been to a dry cleaner in months. Claire had been taking care of it.
He checked the name of the place 'Collins & Sons, Kings Cross.' He didn't even know where that was.
He opened the browser on the computer and entered Google maps website. And he was surprised to find that the location was bookmarked.
He stood, ignoring the screen, and walked toward the men's room. The hallway buzzed with fluorescent lights, the hum loud in the quiet space.
Inside the bathroom, Daniel locked the door. And looked into the mirror.
His hands gripped the sink edge. He breathed hard.
It was like pieces of a second life were skipping into his own. Objects, marks, places. A memory surfaced. Quick and blurry.
Him…or someone like him…in a bar. Hand gripping a glass too tight. A voice raised. Someone shouting? Flash of movement. A fist? Laugh?
He blinked and it all vanished. But it left behind a taste. A blood pumping desire.
A message this time. 'Your order is ready by Collins & Sons.'
Daniel backed away from the mirror. And went out of the bathroom.