Evan saw Noah. Dead. Slumped in a chair, head tilted unnaturally to one side, wrists slack, body already losing its argument with gravity. Blood soaked through his clothes, dark and spreading, pooling beneath him like the floor itself had opened a vein. The wound was precise. Too precise. High on the inner thigh. Femoral. The Hunter's signature.
Evan's breath tore out of him.
"Noah," he sobbed. "No—no, no, no—"
The image burned brighter. Pulled closer. Too close. The smell hit him next—metallic, unmistakable—even though he was still standing in his apartment, still alive, still breathing. His vision tunneled. His heart hammered so violently it hurt.
And then— Something shifted. Not prophecy. Not imagination. Recognition.
Oh.
That's why. That's why I can see everything. Because the victim wasn't a stranger. Because the Hunter had crossed the last line. Because this time— He wasn't showing Evan the future. He was showing him what he had already taken.
Evan screamed— And then stopped. Because something was wrong. His eyes snapped back to Noah's wrist.
A watch.
Black strap.
Familiar.
The second hand moved. The digital display glowed faintly.
8:00 p.m.
Evan's breath hitched. No. No, that meant—
His phone lay abandoned on the floor, screen still lit.
6:02 p.m.
Two hours.
The vision fractured, rearranged itself.
Not a memory. A countdown. Noah wasn't dead. Not yet.
"He's alive," Evan whispered, voice breaking with relief and terror all at once. "He's still alive."
But then the next problem slammed into him, cold and sharp.
'Where?'
The room in the vision was wrong. Not Noah's apartment. Not the station. Bare walls. Concrete. No windows. A place that didn't exist on any map Evan wanted to remember. His chest tightened painfully. The smell. The floor. The way the shadows sat in the corners. His stomach dropped.
No.
No, no, no—
His mind finished the sentence before he could stop it.
It's the same place.
The place he'd been kept. The place with no windows. The place that never let him forget it existed. The old industrial building by the river.
Abandoned.
Unmarked.
Buried in the city's blind spot.
Evan staggered to his feet. Checked the time again.
6:05 p.m.
Even if Noah was already on his way—
Even if he knew something was wrong—
It would take at least an hour and a half to get there.
There was no time to think.
No time to call. No time to explain. No one would believe him fast enough. Saving Noah was the only thought left in his head. He grabbed his keys and ran. Driving felt like drowning. The road blurred. The city stretched and twisted, lights streaking past like warnings he didn't have time to read. His hands shook so badly he could barely keep them steady on the wheel.
Memories rose without permission.
Concrete biting into skin. The sound of chains. The taste of fear so sharp it made him gag. His vision swam.
A truck horn blared—
Too close. Too fast.
Evan jerked the wheel, tires screaming, the car skidding violently before snapping back into line.
He gasped, heart slamming against his ribs.
Focus.
Noah.
Nothing else mattered.
He reached the building at 7:15 p.m.
Still time. Barely.
The place loomed like a scar—gray, silent, waiting.
Evan didn't lock the car.
Didn't shut the door properly.
He ran.
Inside, the air was wrong.
Stale.
Cold.
Heavy with old echoes.
"Noah!" he shouted, voice breaking. "Noah—!"
His footsteps thundered too loud, too fast.
First floor.
Nothing.
Second.
Empty rooms and shadows that jumped at his movement.
"Noah!" he screamed again, panic clawing up his throat.
Then—
A sound.
A dull, wet thud.
Above him.
Third floor.
Evan froze.
His body betrayed him.
Legs shaking.
Thoughts scattering.
He forced himself to move. Forced himself up the stairs. At the railing, his knees gave out. He crawled forward, breath coming in ragged pulls, and leaned over the edge. Looked down.
Noah lay crumpled below. Unconscious.
Blood flooded the floor beneath him, spreading fast, dark and unstoppable.
Evan's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
"No…" he managed. "Noah…"
Sirens exploded into the night. Red and blue lights slashed through the broken windows.
Footsteps. Shouting. Too many voices. Too late. Officers swarmed the building. An ambulance screeched to a halt.
Medics rushed in, surrounding Noah's body, hands moving, voices urgent and sharp.
Someone grabbed Evan.
Hard.
He barely reacted.
Cold metal snapped around his wrists.
Handcuffs.
"Don't move!"
"Get him up!"
"He's the witness—no, the suspect—"
Evan didn't resist.
Didn't speak.
Didn't scream.
He stood there, hollow, watching as Noah was lifted onto a stretcher, oxygen mask pressed to his face, blood soaking through gloves and sheets.
The ambulance doors slammed shut.
The siren wailed.
Pulled away.
And Evan remained.
Handcuffed.
Still.
As if his soul had already left his body and forgotten to take him with it.
Above them, the building stood silent.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somewhere in the dark—
The hunt finally began.
End of Volume I.