The sun rose from the east, spilling warmth across the sky like it was declaring the nightmare over.
But no one really knew if it was.
Let's check in—
Rick and 777.
They sat quietly in a café tucked near an old railway track. The windows rattled every time a train passed, but neither of them flinched anymore.
Rick sipped his coffee in silence. Fresh clothes. Washed face. Still looked like a man who hadn't slept in weeks, but at least the blood was off his hands.
Across from him, 777 slouched in a neon hoodie that made him stick out like a glitch in the cozy, earth-toned scene.
He looked like a gamer who'd wandered into a therapist's office by mistake.
Rick didn't say much.
777 stirred his drink like it had personally wronged him.
Rick sipped his coffee. Silent. Calm.
Then—just looked at him.
Right in the eyes.
Not a word. Just that look.
The kind of look that said, "You know exactly what you're doing, and I hate it."
777 groaned. "Man, okay—I got it. I know what you're thinking. Just don't hit me with the judgment stare. I'll go change in the van, alright?"
He pushed his chair back, hoodie still blazing neon like a crime against subtlety.
Narrator:
And here I thought he wouldn't get it.
777 disappeared into the van, grumbling something about static cling and dignity.
Rick sighed, fingers tapping absently on the rim of his mug.
"When is that idiot gonna grow up…"
He turned his eyes toward the distance.
Past the café glass, across the half-empty street and rust-colored rails—
A train sat idle in the early sun, humming low like it had secrets under its wheels.
Rick watched it, still and calm.
Then—just as he brought the coffee to his lips—
The train moved.
Fast. Cutting across his vision in a blur of rust, white, and silver.
And in that flash—
A small hand pressed against the window.
Too fast for detail.
Too small to be mistaken.
Then—
"Dad!"
Not a scream.
Not a cry for help.
Just that one word.
Soft. Hopeful.
The kind of voice you use when you see someone you know—and your chest forgets how to breathe.
Rick's eyes widened.
His hand trembled slightly around the coffee cup.
In that second—he saw the face.
Tobey.
Alive.
Not imagined.
Not twisted in mimic lies.
Just—there.
Wide-eyed. Pale. Reaching.
And just as suddenly—
Pulled back.
Yanked like someone didn't want him seen.
Gone behind blur and speed and steel.
Rick stood, chair sliding back with a low screech.
His coffee spilled across the table.
But he didn't notice.
His voice came out hoarse, like saying it cracked something open in his chest.
"…Tobey?"
Rick launched out of his chair so fast it almost flipped.
He tossed a handful of cash at the café counter mid-sprint.
"Keep the change!"
The barista blinked. The receipt never made it out of the machine.
Rick yanked the van door open, jumped in, fired the engine, and floored it like hell itself was two steps behind.
In the back of the van—
Was 777.
Completely naked.
One leg in a pair of pants, one sock hanging off his ear for some reason. Eyes wide. Hair wet. Soul not ready.
"WHOA WHOA WHOA—RICK!?"
The van jerked left so hard it hit the tracks with a thud.
"What happened, step bro? Why you suddenly start the van like you caught me stuck in a washing machine!?"
Rick didn't answer. Just yanked the wheel again, van bouncing onto the railway.
777 slipped. His towel betrayed him. He flopped straight onto a pile of gear bags like a confused man-burrito.
"BRO. THIS AIN'T FAST & FURIOUS"
He scrambled for cover, wrapping himself in a blanket like a panic-swaddled burrito.
"I got one nipple out and a concussion and we're chasing trains now!?"
Rick muttered, eyes steel on the horizon.
"I saw Tobey."
Dead silence.
Then—
"Oh. Okay. Cool. Cool-cool-cool. Valid. But next time, maybe give naked me a thirty-second heads-up before launching a rescue arc through active rail traffic!"
He crawled toward the passenger seat like a gremlin in a bathrobe.
"'Step bro help I'm stuck' wasn't supposed to be literal, man!"
Rick didn't blink.
Hands tight on the wheel. Eyes locked forward.
"Was our van parked near the tracks before?"
777, now semi-decent with a towel aggressively wrapped around his waist like it owed him money, slid into the passenger seat and nodded.
"Yeah. Basically next to it. Why?"
Rick didn't even look at him.
"Do we have footage of the train passing?"
777 sighed, already tapping the dash screen.
"Van cams are always rolling, so probably. And yes, I know what you're about to say: 'Look at the footage of the train passing.' Boom. Heard it in your voice."
The display flickered as 777 scrubbed back through the last few minutes of video.
And then—
The train. Barreling past the café. Frame by frame.
Rick leaned in.
"Slow it down."
777 adjusted the playback speed.
And there—between the blur of cars and shadows—was Tobey.
Small. Pressed against the train window.
And behind him—
A figure. Tall. Masked. Hand clamped on Tobey's shoulder.
Just as Tobey reached out—mouth forming the word "Dad"—
The masked figure yanked him back down into his seat.
Rick's breath hitched.
777 stared at the screen, towel forgotten, jaw tightening.
"...Yeah," he muttered.
"We've got a problem."
777 tapped a button and enhanced the frame.
The masked figure's face blurred for a split second—then sharpened into focus.
The van's onboard AI lit up, cold and clinical.
[SCANNING: MASK STYLE → CROSS-MATCHING WEAR PATTERNS, MATERIAL COMPOSITION, IDENTIFIABLE TACTICAL SETS…]
[MATCHING TO DATABASE…]
The screen flickered.
[NO MATCH FOUND]
777 leaned in.
"Wait… nothing? Not even a manufacturer tag?"
The screen stayed static. No data. No ID. No origin.
Rick's voice dropped low.
"…That mask wasn't off-the-shelf."
"Custom?" 777 muttered.
Rick shook his head. "Too clean. Too perfect. Whoever wore that knew how to scrub themselves. Not just their face—their entire presence."
Jennifer's voice came through the console, calm and unnerving.
"Mask structure: unknown weave. Non-standard thermal bleed. Audio-blocking mesh detected. No matches in global, paramilitary, or black-ops registries."
Rick's grip tightened on the dash.
"So basically... this person doesn't exist."
777 stared at the frozen frame. The masked figure had one hand on Tobey's shoulder. Not restraining—just resting.
Like they'd done it before.
Like they'd been waiting.
"Yeah," he muttered. "We've got a ghost."
Rick's jaw tightened.
"Then either someone wiped their profile clean off the face of the earth…"
"…or we're not dealing with someone from this earth," 777 said, voice low.
BEEP-BEEP.
The van's proximity alarm lit red.
"Obstacle ahead. Debris on rails."
Rick snapped the wheel left—tires screeched as they veered onto a parallel access road. Gravel flew like shrapnel. The van shook hard, suspension screaming.
777 grabbed the dash. "Okay—uh, plan B?"
Rick didn't answer. Just slammed a switch on the console.
"Jennifer. Deploy eyes."
"Launching drone."
A panel on the roof slid open with a metallic whrrr—and the black recon drone zipped into the sky, blinking blue, wings slicing through wind.
On the main screen, a live feed snapped in.
The drone soared beside the train, scanning windows and heat signatures in real time.
Then—
"Tobey's heat signature confirmed," Jennifer reported calmly.
"He's alive," Rick whispered. But there was no relief in his voice—only tension.
The drone zoomed in.
There he was. Tobey. Face pale. Eyes wide. The masked figure beside him, still resting a hand on his shoulder.
Unmoving. Too calm.
But then—
Behind them.
Another presence.
Taller.
Darker.
Standing perfectly still at the far end of the train car.
It didn't blink.
It didn't sway with the train.
It just stared—right into the drone's lens.
And somehow…
It knew they were watching.