Chapter 1

I am Steven Kostas, and here I am—awake, exhausted, and full of dread—lying in my bed at the crack of dawn. The same nightmare haunting me for the past few weeks, it still clings to me like a cold sweat, its fragments sharp and jagged. 

“What were those voices? Who were they? Why did it all feel so real?” 

The questions churn in my mind, relentless and unanswered, as the seconds tick by. The alarm buzzes again, dragging me from the paralysis of thought.

I force myself upright, mustering just enough energy to confront the monotony of another day. My morning routine offers no comfort, just a collection of mechanical actions devoid of meaning. 

“Each day is fleeting. What’s even the point of it all?” 

The thought worms its way into my mind as I shuffle toward the washroom.

The room greets me in silence, pitch-black and unwelcoming. A flick of the light switch coaxes a single bulb to sputter to life, its dim glow revealing cracked tiles and peeling paint. This washroom hasn’t seen a renovation since its birth, well over twice my lifetime ago. It feels more like a tomb than a place of renewal.

I turn on the faucet, greeted by a shuddering stream of cold water. The hot water has been out for weeks—a task I keep putting off because there’s never enough time, money, or motivation. Reaching for the toothpaste, I find the tube almost empty, its once-plump body now flattened to its last breath. My toothbrush, worn and splayed, is little more than a relic, its bristles softer than cotton swabs. The half-hearted brushing that follows barely shifts the yellow of my teeth to anything resembling clean.

As I struggle through the motions, I hear his voice cutting through the stillness. “You woke up late again, Steven. How many times do I have to tell you not to snooze your alarm?” That would be Lip Perry, my guardian turned landlord.

Lip has been in my life longer than I can remember. Mid-fifties, gruff but not unkind, he’s the owner of this house and the man who raised me after—well, after things changed. He used to support me financially too, at least until adulthood arrived and with it the expectation that I stand on my own.

I try to drown him out with the gurgling faucet, pretending not to hear his steady approach down the narrow hallway. His footsteps are heavy but not angry, just weighed down with his usual mix of worry and frustration. He appears at the door, voice sharp with concern. “Steve, I’ve told you, you need to wake up early and get to work five minutes before your shift starts. If you’re late again, they’re going to write you up. Why don’t you listen?”

I mumble an apology, toothpaste thick in my mouth. “Okay, I’m getting ready now. Sorry.” My words are muffled, barely coherent, but it’s enough to placate him. Lip shuts the door with a resigned sigh, leaving me to finish brushing my teeth with the same inefficiency as always.

Back in my room, I throw on the same hoodie and track pants I’ve been wearing all week. They’re clean enough, and comfort matters more than presentation to me at this point. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I step outside into the gray sky that sets the scene for a lackluster morning air and make my way to the bus stop. 

Another day begins, just like the one before.