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"Mark Chen?"
The intercom crackled. I stared at the button like it was a live grenade.
"Who's asking?"
"My name's Amy Russell." The voice was rough. Scared. "I got a note that said you'd help me. It said if I didn't come tonight I was dead by morning."
I looked back at my kitchen counter. At the box. At the seven files spread across the Formica. At the photo of Amy Russell clipped inside the first folder—brown hair in a ponytail, eyes that looked like they hadn't slept in years.
The same woman whose voice was coming through my intercom right now.
"I'm coming up," she said. "Don't lock the door."
The intercom cut off.
I should've locked it. I should've thrown the box out the window and pretended this whole thing never happened. But my hand was already cramping and the scar on my palm felt hot for the first time in three years.
Twenty minutes ago, the box showed up. No return address. No shipping label. Just my name in block letters across brown paper and twine that looked like it came from somebody's grandmother's attic.
I knew better. Three years clean and I'd learned the rules. Don't answer weird calls. Don't follow strangers who know your real name. Don't open packages that smell like they've been somewhere else.
This one smelled like smoke and old leather.
I opened it anyway.
Seven keys on a ring. Old brass. The kind that opened doors with actual keyholes. Under the keys, a stack of file folders. And on top, a note card.
Block letters. Black ink.
*You run it or they die.*
I'd picked up the key ring. Heavy. The keys were all different sizes. One of them caught the light and I saw the mark burned into the brass.
A circle with a line through it.
Same mark that was burned into my left palm. Same mark from the summoning circle three years ago. The one where a woman in a white robe said I was chosen and I said no and something came through anyway.
They dumped me back in my apartment at 3 a.m. with a burned hand and a head full of memories that didn't fit. I lost my job two months later. Stopped sleeping three nights a month. My doctor said trauma. My therapist said anxiety. Neither of them believed me when I said I could still smell the smoke.
Someone knew.
Someone had found seven other people it happened to.
I'd opened the first file.
Amy Russell. ER nurse. St. Vincent's Hospital. Summoned April 2019. Returned September 2021. Claims captor was a dragon. Burn scars on both forearms. Witness reports scars *writhe under stress*.
Second file. Daniel Cruz. Army vet. Summoned June 2020. Returned March 2022. Claims he was a general in an otherworld kingdom. Exhibits combat skills with no corresponding training.
Third. Sarah Patel. Stay-at-home mom. Summoned January 2021. Returned August 2022. Claims relationship with elf lord. Shadow observed moving independently of light source.
Four. Five. Six.
Every file the same. Real people. Real addresses. Photos that looked like they'd been taken without permission.
Summoned. Returned. Broken.
The seventh file was thinner. Lucas Green. College student. Twenty-two. Summoned October 2022. Returned February 2023. Claims memory loss. Inconsistencies in testimony.
I'd held the note up to the light one more time and saw it. Faint. Almost invisible.
*142 Oakwood Ave. Basement. Thursdays, 7 p.m.*
Tonight.
I'd checked my phone. 6:47 p.m.
Someone thought I was going to run a support group. Get a nurse with moving scars and a vet with invisible weapons and a mom with a shadow problem to sit in a circle and talk about their feelings.
I wasn't that guy.
I could barely get myself out of bed three nights a month.
I'd started to close Amy Russell's file.
It slid open.
By itself.
No breeze. My hand wasn't on it. But the folder opened like someone tugged it and the photo stared up at me with those tired, knowing eyes.
Then the buzzer rang.
Now I'm standing at my front door listening to footsteps in the stairwell. Heavy boots. Fast. She's not waiting for me to buzz her in. She's already inside.
I look at the deadbolt. My hand moves toward it.
"Don't." Her voice comes through the door. "I can see your shadow. I know you're right there."
I freeze.
"I got the same box," she says. "Same note. Same keys. Except my note said *Mark Chen will explain.* So here I am. And you're gonna open this door or I'm gonna kick it in, because I've been running for three years and I'm done."
"Running from what?"
"From the thing that took me. From the thing that's coming back." Her voice cracks. "From the scars that won't stop moving."
I look down at my palm. The circle with the line through it. Raised. Shiny. Pale against my skin.
It's warm.
"How do I know you're really Amy Russell?"
"You don't. But in about thirty seconds someone else is gonna show up, and then someone else, and you're gonna have a hallway full of people who got summoned and dumped back here like trash. So you can open the door now or you can explain to your neighbors why there's a crowd outside your apartment talking about dragons."
I reach for the deadbolt.
"What do the scars do?"
Silence.
Then: "They count down."
"To what?"
"I don't know. But I hit zero in six days."
I open the door.
Amy Russell looks exactly like her photo. Ponytail. Tired eyes. Scrubs under a jacket. But her forearms—
She's wearing long sleeves. I can see the edges of something dark underneath. The fabric moves. Just a little. Like there's a breeze under her skin.
"You're staring," she says.
"You said they count down."
"Yeah."
"Show me."
She looks at me for a long moment. Then she pushes up her right sleeve.
The scar starts at her wrist and coils up her forearm like a snake. Black. Raised. And carved into the tissue, over and over, the same symbol.
A circle with a line through it.
But that's not the bad part.
The bad part is the numbers.
Etched into her skin between the circles. Glowing faint red.
*00:06:04:12:38*
Six days. Four hours. Twelve minutes.
As I watch, the seconds tick down.
*00:06:04:12:37*
*00:06:04:12:36*
Amy pulls her sleeve down. "Now you know."
"What happens at zero?"
"I go back." She looks past me into my apartment. At the box on the counter. At the files. "Or something comes through. I don't know which. That's why I'm here."
Footsteps echo in the stairwell again. More than one person this time.
"That's the others," Amy says. "You gonna let them in, or do we do this in the hallway?"
I step aside.
She walks past me into my apartment. Stops at the counter. Picks up the key ring. The brass catches the light and I see her flinch.
"You have one too," she says.
It's not a question.
I hold up my left hand.
She nods. "Then you know what's coming."
"I don't know anything."
"You know enough." She sets the keys down. Looks at me. "The note said you'd run it. That means you're in charge."
"I'm not in charge of anything."
"Then we're all dead." She turns back to the door. "Because whoever sent that box knows where we are, knows what happened to us, and knows exactly how long we have left."
The footsteps stop outside my door.
A knock. Two short. One long.
Amy looks at me. "You gonna get that, or am I?"
I don't move.
She opens the door.
A man stands in the hallway. Forties. Gray at the temples. Military posture. His eyes sweep my apartment like he's clearing a room.
Daniel Cruz.
"This the place?" he asks.
"This is it," Amy says.
He walks in without waiting for an invitation. Sees the files on the counter. Picks up the one with his name on it. Flips it open. Reads.
"Huh," he says. "They got my discharge year wrong."
That's it. That's all he says.
Another knock.
Amy opens the door again.
A woman. Dark circles under her eyes. Holding a thermos like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
Sarah Patel.
Behind her, two more people. A man in his fifties with ink-stained fingers. A woman in her twenties with a messenger bag and a look that says she hasn't trusted anyone in years.
They all walk in.
No one asks permission.
They find their files. They read. They don't say anything.
I count heads. Five.
Seven files. Seven keys. Five people.
"Where are the other two?" I ask.
Daniel looks up. "Dead."
"What?"
"Lucas Green died two weeks ago. Car accident. Except the autopsy said his heart stopped first." He closes his file. "The other one—" He picks up the sixth folder. Opens it. "Rebecca Tan. Disappeared four days ago. Her apartment was clean. Too clean. Like someone scrubbed it."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I went looking." He meets my eyes. "When I got the box, I looked up everyone in the files. Lucas was already gone. Rebecca was missing. That leaves the five of us."
Amy's sleeve shifts. I see the glow underneath. The countdown.
"And me," I say.
"And you," Daniel agrees. "You're the runner. The one who's supposed to keep us alive."
"I'm not—"
"Yeah, you are." He taps the note card. "It says so right here."
"I don't know how to run a support group."
"This isn't a support group." Sarah's voice is quiet. Steady. The kind of steady that comes from practice. "This is a countdown. Someone's killing us. Or something's coming for us. Or we're going back." She looks at Amy. "How long do you have?"
"Six days," Amy says.
"I have nine," Sarah says. She pulls up her sleeve. Same scar. Same circle. Same numbers glowing faint red. "Daniel?"
He rolls up his sleeve without a word.
*00:11:02:17:43*
Eleven days.
The other two show their arms. Fourteen days. Sixteen days.
They all look at me.
I don't move.
"Show us," Daniel says.
I hold up my left hand. Palm out.
The circle with the line through it. Raised. Shiny. No numbers.
"You don't have a countdown," Amy says.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
Daniel steps closer. Studies my scar. "When were you summoned?"
"Three years ago."
"How long were you there?"
"I wasn't." I lower my hand. "I said no. Something came through anyway. They burned the mark into my hand and sent me home."
"You refused?" Sarah's voice goes sharp. "You refused a summons and you're still alive?"
"Yeah."
"That's not possible," the woman with the messenger bag says. "No one refuses. If you refuse, the summoner kills you and tries again."
"Well, I'm still here."
They all stare at me.
"That's why you're running it," Daniel says slowly. "You're the only one who said no and lived."
"I didn't—"
My apartment lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
The air smells like copper.
Amy's scar glows brighter. "No. Not yet. It's too early."
"What's too early?" I ask.
"The call." She backs toward the door. "It's not supposed to start until we hit seventy-two hours."
The lights go out.
In the dark, I hear breathing. Five people. Fast. Scared.
Then I hear something else.
A voice.
Low. Layered. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.
*"Mark Chen. You ran once. You will not run again."*
The lights come back on.
Amy's on the floor. Sleeve pushed up. The countdown on her arm is spinning backward.
*00:06:04:09:15*
*00:06:04:06:02*
*00:06:03:58:47*
She looks up at me. Blood running from her nose.
"It's not six days," she whispers.
"How long?"
The countdown stops.
*00:00:47:16:33*
Forty-seven hours.
"That's how long we have to figure out what the keys open," Daniel says. "Or she goes back."
I look at the key ring on my counter. Seven keys. Six people.
One of them is mine.
"What if I don't want to run it?" I ask.
Daniel picks up the note card. Flips it over. Holds it up.
In the light, new words appear. Burned into the paper like someone held a match underneath.
*You run it or they die. Starting with her.*
He points at Amy.
She's still on the floor. Staring at her arm. At the numbers ticking down.
*00:00:47:15:12*
"So," Daniel says. "You gonna run it, or do I start planning her funeral?"
I look at the keys.
At the files.
At the five people in my apartment who got summoned and sent back broken.
At Amy Russell, ER nurse, who's got forty-seven hours left before something comes to take her again.
I pick up the key ring.
"Where's the address?" I ask.
Daniel smiles. It's not a nice smile.
"142 Oakwood Ave," he says. "Basement. Meeting starts in twelve minutes."
"Then we're already late," I say.
I grab my jacket.
Amy gets to her feet. Wipes the blood from her nose. "You don't know what you're doing."
"Neither do you."
"No," she says. "But I know what's waiting if we don't figure it out."
"What's that?"
She looks at her countdown one more time.
*00:00:47:11:04*
"The thing that took me the first time," she says. "Except this time it's not coming alone."
Someone knocks on my door.
Three short. Two long.
No one moves.
"That's not one of us," Sarah whispers.
I look through the peephole.
The hallway's empty.
I open the door anyway.
A box sits on the floor. Brown paper. Twine. My name in block letters.
Inside, a single key.
And a note.
*She's not the first to run out of time. Open the basement door before midnight or you'll be the last.*
I pick up the key.
It's warm.
I look at Daniel. "How far is Oakwood?"
"Fifteen minutes," he says. "If we run."
"Then let's—"
Amy collapses.
Her countdown flashes red.
*00:00:02:00:00*
Two hours.
"It's accelerating," Sarah says. "Someone's pulling her back early."
I kneel next to Amy. "Can you walk?"
"Yeah." She grabs my arm. Her hand is freezing. "But you better figure out what that key opens, because if we're not in that basement by midnight—"
Her scar flares.
She screams.
And somewhere far away, something screams back.
"Move," Daniel says.
We move.