Bound by the Missing Hours

Chapter 1- The Echo in the Chest

2 Days Prior

I was walking toward the office, the pavement cold beneath my feet, when my life fractured once more.

For two agonizing years, I had fought tooth and nail to suture the wound left by the loss of Alex—my dearest friend, my first love. He had been killed protecting me, shielding me from the blow meant for me.

The last thing I ever saw of him was the sorrow and fierce determination burning in his brown eyes. He had soundlessly motioned me to stay hidden, to be silent, to let him face the brutal cost alone. I heard the sickening thud, then the rustle of the killer’s hurried retreat. When I finally moved, pushing open the adjoining storage room door he had slammed shut behind me, the sight was a panel ripped straight from a nightmare. My scream was primal, a sound I hoped I’d never hear again.

Even now, the memory is a clawing terror. A silent scream tears at the back of my throat, and my heart pounds a frantic rhythm against the armor of my ribs. Therapy had finally subdued the nightmares six months ago, but it did nothing for the gaping, empty space in my chest.

The police had made me the prime suspect. Unable to describe the killer, I became a convenient target, my grief dismissed as guilt. It was only my uncle’s ferocious intervention that finally forced them to look elsewhere. However, by then, the crucial evidence had been compromised. The leads had gone cold, and the promise of justice was reduced to a dusty cardboard box in a police lockup. Since then, the very sight of a uniform curdles my blood. I trust them less than I trust the darkness.

But today, all that brittle peace was shattered. The past didn’t just catch up—it ambushed me. I didn't know what to do, or how the hell I was going to survive this.

I stopped at the corner cafe, the Sunshine Cafe, on my route to the office. A mundane, defining decision: stopping for my usual caramel frappe. The outside was normal, bathed in the gentle glow of morning lights. The warm, comforting scent of roasted coffee grounds spilled into the chilly air as I approached.

I pulled my AirPods out, slid them into their case, and had my wallet ready for a quick transaction. The moment I pushed the door open, the normal world vanished.

The cafe was a slaughterhouse.

It was not chaos, but a tableau of frozen horror—a perfect, silent echo of two years ago. Customers were sprawled across tables and floors, and servers lay behind the counter. They looked like sleepers, except for the grotesque reality of their wounds: every single chest cavity had been precisely cut open. The strangest, most terrifying detail: no blood. Just like Alex.

I staggered backward, dropping my phone, and ran to the curb, violently emptying my stomach onto the pavement. The acid burn in my throat was nothing compared to the searing fusion of memory and reality. The two scenes—Alex’s murder, and this m******e—had become one hideous, undeniable truth.

My fingers shaking so badly I could barely unlock the screen, I called the emergency number.

"Hello, this is 999. Would you like fire, ambulance, or police?" The dispatcher's voice was calm, a sickening contrast to the panic drowning me.

"Police, please," I choked out, barely audible.

"Sorry, could you please repeat that, sir?"

"Police," I managed, louder.

A new voice clicked in, professional and measured. "Hello, this is the police. Please could you describe your emergency?"

"Please send the police to the Sunshine Cafe on Remo Street. There has been a murder."

"Sir, please repeat the address and the nature of the emergency."

"Send the police to the Sunshine Cafe. Everyone inside is dead," I replied, shivering uncontrollably.

There was a long, cold beat of silence on the line. I pulled the phone away, needing to confirm the call hadn't dropped, needing to know someone was listening to this horror.

"I have dispatched officers, and they should be with you shortly," the voice returned, sharper now. "Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"I... I was heading to work... stopped for a drink... and when I went inside, I saw..." My stomach rebelled again, and I doubled over, retching the last dregs of bile.

"What did you see, sir?" the dispatcher asked gently when I had stopped.

"I saw everyone inside. They were... dead."

"How do you know they were dead, sir? Perhaps it was a hoax?"

My temper flared, an irrational spike of fury. "No. Impossible."

"How so?"

"Because their chests were ripped open."

"What did you say?" The professional tone finally cracked, replaced by disbelief.

"Their chests... all of them... were ripped open."

"Are you certain? Sir, I need you to stay with me..."

I couldn't. The fear, the trauma, the crushing weight of two years ago colliding with the present moment, became too much. Tears flooded my eyes, blurring the sidewalk, and I collapsed onto the cold ground, sobbing uncontrollably.

I don't know how long I lay there, trapped in that hysterical loop, until I became vaguely aware of someone kneeling in front of me. A voice was speaking, a steady baritone, but the words were distant, muffled.

"...Breathe... with... me.... sir..." I finally distinguished the command as my hearing returned.

"In... out... in... out..." The man, a uniformed officer, demonstrated. I copied him, sucking in ragged breaths until my vision cleared and the world stopped spinning.

"Are you okay to answer some questions now?" he asked, sitting down carefully beside me.

I gave a weak nod.

"My name is Officer Net. I'm going to take care of you for a while, is that okay?" His smile was kind, but my institutional fear of the badge was already re-emerging.

"My name is Danny Bowen. I work down the road, I’m a freelance journalist," I mumbled, reciting the facts.

Officer Net took out a small notebook. "You're the one who called this in?"

"Yes."

"Why this cafe?"

"My usual. On my way to work."

"You're doing great, Danny. Just a few more questions."

My mind raced. Are they going to try to set me up again? What do I do? The old, paralyzing paranoia was back.

"Did you enter the cafe?"

I thought back, straining to recall the exact moment. "I... I don't think so. I touched the handle. I saw the bodies, turned, and vomited." I pointed numbly to the mess on the curb.

Officer Net nodded, his expression softening slightly with worry. "You say 'bodies,' not 'people.' How do you know they were already dead?"

Here it comes. The accusation. The setup. I instinctively scooted backward, pulling away from the officer.

He reached out, not grabbing, but touching my arm lightly. "I am not suspecting you, Danny. I just need to know why you chose that word."

"Holes," I rasped.

"Holes?"

I nodded, pointing vaguely at my own chest. "They had holes in their chests."

The color drained from Officer Net's face. The kind mask evaporated, replaced by dawning, cold horror. His eyes flicked between me and the silent glass entrance of the cafe. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

"I have never seen anything like this," one of the officers exiting the cafe muttered to a colleague, drawing our attention.

"Me neither," the other replied. "I think this is too much for us."

"I have," I whispered, the words barely audible.

Officer Net snapped back to attention. "Have what?"

"I've seen something similar to this."

Urgency electrified his voice. He grabbed his pen. "When and where?"

"Two years ago," I replied.

Before he could demand more details, a familiar, chilling voice cut through the police chatter.

"Ahhh... We meet again, Bowen."

I spun around. Standing behind Officer Net, arms crossed, was Detective Ote. His smirk was cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of pity. The sight of him, the man who had tried to bury me with my grief two years ago, sent a deep, terrible shiver down my spine.