Nova wakes up to the soft hum of her alarm.

It's 6:45 a.m., and a blurry dawn light filters through the thin curtains of her one-bedroom duplex.

She stretches out under the covers, blinking against the fuzziness in her mind. It takes a moment for her to remember where she is—her cramped bedroom with the faded peach walls and the mismatched furniture she's collected from thrift stores. Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, humming across the surface until she blindly grabs for it.

A single text glows on the screen.

Mom.

It reads, Morning, honey. Just checking in. Dad says hi.

Nova sighs. She taps out a quick reply—an automatic reassurance that she's fine, busy with work, school stuff, all good. She's been giving that same line for months now. She sets the phone aside before the swirl of guilt can settle too heavily.

She tries to shake off the strange dream she can't fully recall. Something about a dark alley, the sharp tang of blood in the air, and her hands shaking. It's the latest in a long chain of nightmares that keep her up at night, the ones that make her jolt upright with her heart pounding. Maybe it's from watching too many late-night true crime documentaries. That's what she tells herself, anyway.

Nova gets out of bed, hooking her ankles around the cold corners of her worn slippers. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror across the room—blonde hair askew, eyes a little puffy. Yet there's nothing outwardly unusual about her. Just another day, she thinks, forcing a small smile at her reflection. She tries to ignore the box that sits on the top shelf of her closet. It's one she never opens in the morning, never acknowledges if she doesn't have to. Instead, she heads into the bathroom, flicking on the light.

The fluorescent bulb flickers a moment before settling, illuminating the tiny space. She splashes water on her face and notices a faint discoloration under her fingernails—a dark, rusty residue. A chill creeps up her spine. I must've scratched something? A scab? Maybe I was picking at something last night, she tells herself. But a tiny voice in the back of her mind reminds her that this isn't the first time she's found stains under her nails that look suspiciously like blood.

Shoving the thought away, she grabs a nail brush from the sink's edge and scrubs until her fingers look clean. It's the best she can do.

With her hair pinned up in a loose ponytail and a simple, neat outfit—black pants and a soft pink blouse—Nova steps into the narrow living room. The place is tidy to the point of feeling staged. She tries to keep it that way so she doesn't trip over clutter. Her parents raised her to be neat, and now that neatness helps her mind stay calm.

Before leaving for work, she checks her fridge for a quick breakfast, pulling out a small carton of yogurt. She's not really hungry, but she needs something in her system. She eats mechanically, eyes drifting to the window. Outside, the duplex's shared driveway slopes down toward the street. If she strains her gaze, she can see the next building over—home to her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez. She's nearly deaf, but she's got a lively spirit. Sometimes Nova wonders how such an older woman can still be so independent.

Nova grabs her keys, steps outside, and locks up behind her. The morning air is crisp, laced with the scent of damp leaves. The duplex's two front doors are side by side, separated by just a narrow patch of concrete. The moment she turns to head for her car, Mrs. Alvarez's door creaks open. The old woman smiles brightly, though her eyes carry the fog of age.

Mrs. Alvarez lifts a hand in greeting. She motions with a quick sign that Nova recognizes: Good morning.

Nova's sign language is a bit rusty, but she knows enough to hold a basic conversation. Morning! she signs back.

Mrs. Alvarez points at a small stack of letters on the porch. Nova nods and picks them up, sorting them quickly. She holds out the ones with Mrs. Alvarez's name. The older woman pats Nova's arm and mouths a thank you, though it comes out as more of a whispered sound.

Nova just smiles. She's helped Mrs. Alvarez ever since she moved into this duplex last year. The older woman's quiet, steady presence is oddly comforting.

After that quick exchange, Nova heads to her aging sedan. The car coughs to life on the second try. She glances at her phone to see if her mom texted back—just a heart emoji. Good. No extended conversation this morning. She can't handle the ruse for more than a minute or two before the guilt starts creeping in again.

By the time she arrives at Fennel Fields, it's nearly 8:15 a.m. The restaurant won't open for another half-hour, but staff usually files in early to prep. Fennel Fields is a modest, cozy place that tries to be half-bistro, half-family restaurant. It's nestled on a tree-lined street in Evergreen, with big windows out front letting in plenty of light.

Nova parks behind the building. She checks her reflection in the rearview mirror once more, making sure she looks composed. No blood under the nails now. She takes a deep breath—I'm fine. Everything's fine. She then steps out of the car and heads inside through the staff entrance.

A few of her coworkers are already there, setting up silverware or wiping down menus. Felicia, a waitress with bright pink hair and a constant grin, waves at Nova

"Morning, Nova! Ready for another day?"

Nova musters a polite smile.

She slips off her light jacket and hangs it in the back. Immediately, the bustle of the kitchen hits her: sizzling from the griddle, the smell of fresh coffee, the faint clatter of dishes. She can't decide if it's comforting or claustrophobic. Probably both.

Adrian Chase, the busboy, sidles by with a tray of clean glasses. He mumbles a hello, not quite making eye contact. Nova's never really had a full conversation with him, aside from quick professional exchanges. He's just...there. Quiet, in a way that sometimes feels like he's suppressing some manic excitement or an odd thought. When he does speak, it's often something abrupt or oddly detailed. But mostly, he's nice enough.

She senses the way his eyes flick toward her midsection, then dart away again, as though he's embarrassed or trying not to stare too long. It's something she's noticed more than once, but she tries not to acknowledge it. She's heard some of the line cooks whisper about how Adrian thinks she's the best-looking girl on staff—something about "classic beauty," one of them joked. Nova cringes inwardly at the attention. She prefers to stay out of the spotlight.

"Uh, hi," Adrian says quietly, clearing his throat and adjusting his glasses.

"Morning," She answers with a small nod.

She steps past him to the host stand, which sits near the entrance of the restaurant. She likes this position because it's structured—she greets people, she shows them to a table, she hands them menus. It's straightforward, and she can slip into her neutral, courteous persona easily.

Just before opening, the manager, Jerry, ambles over to the host stand, adjusting his tie that's perpetually askew. He's a middle-aged man with a perpetual look of mild panic.

"All set?" He asks.

She nods.

Then the doors open. Fennel Fields starts taking in customers—a few regulars, some new faces, a handful of people who come just for the freshly baked bread. Nova greets them all with a composed half-smile, quickly scanning the layout to seat them efficiently. She's polite, calm, even though the hush of her own thoughts occasionally threatens to fill her with anxiety. This routine keeps her mind from wandering too far.

Time slides by as she seats table after table. Occasionally, a coworker will brush past, carrying empty plates or refilling water. She hears Felicia chatting cheerfully with a middle-aged couple in the corner booth. Adrian moves in the background, his movements precise, almost mechanical. Nova spots him occasionally giving her a furtive glance, but he mostly focuses on collecting dirty dishes.

Around noon, there's a lull between rushes. Nova takes the opportunity to slip back to the employee break area. She grabs a cup of coffee and stares at the overhead fluorescent lights. She can't help wondering about her nails again, the faint ghost of that dark residue. Could I really be—? She doesn't even want to think it. The Stranger's been featured in the local papers more than once for rumored vigilante killings. They say the victims are the worst of the worst—criminals with rap sheets too long to count. It's not that Nova believes in letting criminals walk free, but killing them? She can't remember doing anything that extreme. She's not even sure she has the physical ability to pull off something so dangerous. Yet the headlines mention the killer wearing a dark leather suit and mask. And there is that suit in her closet, the one she found last month, stashed away like a terrible secret.

She puts the coffee down, a tremor in her hand. She doesn't want to recall the first time she found that suit. She'd been organizing her closet, trying to get rid of old clothes, and discovered a plain cardboard box shoved behind other storage. Inside was a black leather outfit, sturdy but flexible, and a matching mask that looked like it could cover the top half of someone's face. Stains marred the material—some dark, crusted color that made her stomach twist. She'd stuffed it back in the box and shoved it up on the highest shelf, convinced she was losing her mind.

A clang of dishes startles her, and she realizes she's been standing there too long. She downs the rest of her coffee, forcing the bitterness past the knot in her throat, then heads back out to the host stand. The day continues. People come and go, and Nova does her best to stay in the moment.

By late afternoon, her shift nears its end. Adrian finishes loading up the dishwasher in the back and passes by the host stand. He stops, drumming his fingers on the counter.

"Slow day, huh?" He remarks in a surprisingly bright tone.

Nova shrugs, "Not too bad, actually. I prefer it to a rush."

He nods, then fiddles with a pen that's lying there. She wonders if he's going to say something else—he looks like he has more words buzzing behind his eyes. But he just taps the pen once more, mumbles a "See ya," and walks off.

At 4 p.m., Nova's out the door, her jacket pulled tight around her body as she faces the drifting, overcast sky. She feels a faint headache pulsing at her temple. The same old question echoes in her mind: What's wrong with me? She can't ignore the blood under her nails, the weird bruises on her arms some mornings, and the repeated images in her nightmares—grinning widely in the dark, hearing screams echo around her. Then there's the name that local news keeps tossing around: The Stranger. A vigilante. A killer.

In the driver's seat of her car, she closes her eyes and tries to ground herself. Five deep breaths, in and out. She counts them, reminding herself that she's just Nova Prembrooke, the quiet hostess at Fennel Fields, the responsible daughter who calls her parents twice a week, the considerate neighbor who helps Mrs. Alvarez with her mail. That's who she is...right?

It takes a moment for her to trust her hands to grip the wheel without shaking. Finally, she puts the key in the ignition and starts up the car. The short drive back to her duplex is uneventful—just rows of houses, quiet side streets, a few joggers braving the gray weather. When she pulls into her driveway, she sees Mrs. Alvarez's porch light is on, even though it's not dark yet. The old woman must have flipped it early.

Nova cuts the engine, steps out, and notices a bag of groceries sitting on Mrs. Alvarez's front step. She crosses over to knock on the door, but it's slightly ajar. Alarm pricks at Nova's nerves. She nudges it open cautiously, calling out, "Mrs. Alvarez?"

She peers inside. The older woman emerges from the kitchen, pressing a hand to her back as though it aches. She sees Nova and smiles, nodding. She points to her ears, then the groceries, as if to say she didn't hear the knock. Nova signs, Let me help, and picks up the grocery bag from the doorstep, carrying it into the small living area.

Mrs. Alvarez pats Nova's arm again, a silent thank you shining in her eyes. Nova sets the bag on the table and starts to unpack it—canned goods, fresh vegetables, a bag of flour. She isn't sure why, but helping this old woman calm her unsettled mind. Maybe it's because it's such a simple act of kindness. No blood, no panic, no confusion here.

After a few moments, Nova gives a final wave goodbye and heads back to her own side of the duplex. She locks the door behind her, flicking on the overhead light. The place is quiet. Too quiet. The quiet means she can hear the nagging thoughts in her head again.

She enters her bedroom, sets her purse on the dresser, and glances up at the closet. The cardboard box is still there, half-hidden behind a stack of winter blankets. Nova swallows hard, a wave of nausea rippling through her. Do I look at it? Or do I just—no, no...not tonight. She feels her pulse quicken just thinking about it.

Instead, she gently shuts the closet door. Maybe tomorrow she'll figure out what's happening to her. Maybe tomorrow she'll throw the suit away. Or...maybe she'll wear it again. She can't trust herself not to. She doesn't even remember if she's worn it before, not consciously. But the blood under her nails tells a different story.

She sinks down onto the bed and stares at the blank wall. The day has been normal, so normal—but underneath, there's that gnawing fear that she's living a double life she can't even remember. She pictures the headlines: "The Stranger Strikes Again—Vigilante or Monster?"

Her hand drifts to her phone.

A text from Mom: We love you, sweetheart.

Nova exhales, typing a quick Love you too. She sets the phone aside, closes her eyes, and wonders what she'll dream about tonight. If she'll dream at all... or if she'll black out again and wake up to something far more horrifying than a nightmare.

In the silence of her small duplex, Nova listens to her own heartbeat. She's not sure which is worse: the possibility that she is The Stranger, or the possibility that she's losing her grip on reality. All she can do is take it one day—one normal day—at a time, hoping the truth doesn't swallow her whole. And as she drifts into the uneasy space between wakefulness and sleep, she can't quite shake the feeling that someone else—something else—lurks just under the surface, waiting for the moment she's too weak to fight back.

The morning light spills through a crack in the curtains, painting a thin, golden line across Nova's pillow. She flutters her eyes open, disoriented for a second, until she remembers she's home. The faint trickle of last night's rain taps against the gutters outside. She tries to recall if she dreamed of anything, but only blankness comes to mind. Maybe that's a blessing—no gore, no screaming.

She rolls out of bed and heads to the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light. The mirror reveals the same face as always—bright blonde hair in a slightly tangled mess, mild dark circles beneath her eyes. She forces herself to check under her nails, a habit she's formed recently. Nothing. Clean. She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. No dried blood. No sign of any violent episode she can't recall.

Her phone buzzes from the bedroom, a reminder that she has a shift in an hour at Fennel Fields. She's about to open the door to leave the bathroom when she hears an unexpected knock at the front door. The sound echoes through the small duplex, startling her. For a split second, she wonders if it's the police or something worse, but then she catches a glimpse of a small silhouette through the peephole. It's Mrs. Alvarez, her neighbor.

Nova quickly runs a hand through her hair and opens the door, offering a friendly smile. The elderly woman stands there, clutching a plastic container.

She makes a short sign, Are you okay?

Nova nods and signs back, I'm fine. What's this?

Mrs. Alvarez holds out the container. It's filled with tamales—homemade, by the smell of it. Nova's stomach growls in response; she hasn't eaten breakfast yet.

"Oh, wow," She says aloud, even though she knows Mrs. Alvarez can't hear.

She signs, Thank you. That's so kind.

Mrs. Alvarez pats Nova's arm gently, a grandmotherly gesture if ever there was one, then turns and heads back to her side of the duplex, carefully navigating the small step leading to her door. Nova sets the container on the kitchen counter, reminding herself to return it with a note of thanks later. She rarely has time for proper meals, so this gesture warms her more than the tamales themselves probably will.

She preps for work quickly, dressing in her usual black pants and a simple gray blouse. She pins her hair back loosely. She wants to look pulled together but not fussed over. The reflection in the mirror stares back at her impassively, and she wonders—like she always does—if there's someone else behind those eyes, locked away until the next blackout. She forces herself to push the thought away.

Downing a tamale and half a mug of coffee, she grabs her keys and heads to her car. The drive to Fennel Fields is uneventful—just the usual mix of quiet neighborhoods and small shops lining the main road. A few people stand at bus stops, shoulders hunched against the chilly air. The sky is still overcast, threatening more rain later in the day.

By the time she arrives, it's five minutes to opening. The manager, Jerry, is already pacing around with a clipboard, checking on the morning prep. Felicia is tying an apron behind her back, her pink hair braided into two neat plaits today. Adrian lurks somewhere by the dish pit, presumably stacking clean plates.

Nova hangs her light jacket in the back, tucks her purse into her locker, and makes her way to the host stand. The restaurant has that just-cleaned shine—tables set, glasses spotless, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint scent of warm bread. The calm before the storm of customers.

Jerry gives her a quick nod, "Morning. You good to open up?"

She nods back.

No sooner does she speak than the front door swings open, letting in a brief gust of cool wind. The first customer of the day is a frail older woman with a walker, accompanied by a young caregiver. Nova smiles politely and offers them a booth near the windows. She loves starting the day with kind, low-maintenance folks like that—it helps her ease into the shift.

The morning rush unfolds in the usual way. She greets newcomers, directs them to tables, answers questions about wait times. Felicia breezes by occasionally, balancing trays of omelets and toast with practiced ease. Adrian appears here and there, silent as a shadow, whisking dirty dishes away. Each time Nova catches a glimpse of him, he seems to glance back, as though he's curious or just wants to say something. But he never does.

Around lunchtime, a slight drizzle begins to patter against the large front windows. Customers trickle in steadily, and Nova is in the middle of seating a family of four when a man steps in—late thirties, handsome in a rough sort of way, with a cocky grin plastered on his face. He stands near the door, eyes flicking around the dining room until they land on Nova.

Her stomach tenses. She's used to flirtatious guys—they come in all shapes, from suave businessmen to awkward teens. Typically, she can brush them off with a polite smile or a quick answer. Something about this man's smirk sets her on edge, but she can't place why.

She seats the family, then turns to greet him, "Welcome to Fennel Fields. How many today?"
He leans against the host stand, ignoring her question.

"Just one," He says smoothly, "But I wouldn't mind company."

Nova maintains her neutral tone, "We can get you seated right away. Table or booth?"

"Whichever seat gets me your attention," He says, winking.

Nova forces a polite, if slightly tense, smile.

"This way, please."

She leads him to a two-top near the window, trying to stay professional. The man slides into the seat, eyes unabashedly roaming over her.

"Thanks, sweetheart," He drawls, "You new here? I haven't seen you before."

She's been here for a while, so he's either lying or just passing through, "Your server will be right with you."

She heads back to the host stand, exhaling slowly. Her nerves feel a bit frayed. She's irritated, but it's not like this is the first time someone's been overtly flirty. She tries to shrug it off, focusing instead on seating the next party.

A few minutes later, she notices the man craning his neck to look in her direction again. Their eyes meet, and he tips his head, beckoning her over with a lazy wave. Nova sets her shoulders and approaches, determined to stay composed. He leans forward, voice low enough that other diners don't hear.

"So, what time do you get off?" He asks, fiddling with a napkin, "Maybe you and I could...have a little fun."

Her stomach churns with a mixture of anger and discomfort. She gives him her best practiced response: "I'm sorry, but I'm working right now. If you have any questions about the menu, your server should be here soon to help you out."

She emphasizes the last words, hoping he'll get the hint.

He doesn't.

"Come on. You can't be that busy. I bet you need a break, and I'd love to give it to you."

Her pulse spikes. She can feel a flicker of something in the back of her mind—a spark of heat that might ignite her temper. Usually, she's able to swallow it. Normally, she'd just say something like, "Have a nice day," and walk off. But his tone is dripping with entitlement, and the way he's leering at her sets her teeth on edge.

She clenches her fists at her sides, turning on her heel to leave. The man calls after her, something crude, but she pretends not to hear. She goes back to the host stand, her heart hammering, thoughts swirling. Relax, Nova, she thinks. He's just a jerk. It's not worth losing her cool.

But as lunch rush continues, the man keeps motioning to her, whistling softly, or making snide comments just loud enough for her to catch. Felicia finally drops off his check, and he lingers. Nova prays he'll pay and leave quietly. She notices Adrian watching from the corner of his eye, brow furrowed, as if he senses something's off. But Adrian doesn't intervene—why would he?

Finally, the customer slips a bill onto the table. He stands and makes a show of stretching, then swaggers over to Nova. She braces herself. He leans in close, rancid breath washing over her.

"You're too uptight," He murmurs, "Bet you're a wild one underneath all that."

He reaches like he might brush her arm.

Everything inside Nova snaps. The restaurant, the windows, the tables—they all seem to melt away. There's a high-pitched ring in her ears. She's so angry, and it's not just at him— it's at everything. Her next memory is incomplete: The overhead lights swirl, the smell of fryer oil laced with coffee, the sensation of her vision tunneling.

Then, nothing.

When awareness flickers back, she's outside. The first thing she notices is the heavy odor of garbage and old cooking oil. The alley behind Fennel Fields. The dumpsters loom against the brick wall, their lids gaping like hungry mouths. The drizzle has turned into a steady rain, spattering against the pavement. Her clothes feel damp.

Her hands are clenched around something—a dish cloth. It's twisted taut around a man's neck. That man. The flirty customer. He's slumped against the wall, his eyes rolled back. Nova's heart is in her throat, pounding so violently she can feel it against her ribs.

She gasps, stumbling backward. Her grip loosens, and the man's body slides down the wall, collapsing onto the wet pavement. She can't breathe—she's trembling, wide-eyed. What just happened? She has no memory of leaving the host stand, no memory of walking out back, no memory of any of this. Her mind races in flashes. One second, she was about to snap at him inside, and the next... she's choking him with a rag in the alley.

She drops the dish cloth as though it's on fire. It hits the ground with a dull splat, water pooling around it. She crouches down, her hands hovering near his neck.

"Hey—hey, oh my god—are you—?"

She knows, from the angle of his head, the vacancy in his eyes, that he's gone. I killed him. She lifts her trembling fingers to his throat, checking for a pulse. Nothing.

She staggers up, knees nearly giving out. No, no, no. Nausea twists her stomach, and the taste of bile burns at the back of her throat. Rain streaks down her face, mixing with the tears she only half-realizes are there. Her breath comes in ragged gasps.

Her mind begs for some explanation: What set me off? I've dealt with flirty creeps before. Why this time? But she can't piece it together. It's a blank, that same terrifying void she's experienced so many times before—only this time, there's a dead man at her feet.

Her eyes dart around frantically. No one's in the alley. The dumpsters shield her from the main street; the only door behind her leads into Fennel Fields' kitchen area. If anyone saw her drag him out here, they're not making themselves known. The walls feel like they're closing in. She can't focus. She wants to scream, but she can't even manage a sound. I have to get inside. I have to figure this out.

Clutching at her chest, Nova looks down at the corpse again. The man's face is already tinged blue, water soaking through his hair.

"Oh god," She whispers, voice choked.

What am I going to do?

She's shaking uncontrollably, adrenaline still surging through her veins. She can't decide whether to call the police or run. Rational thought tries to break through her panic: He harassed me. Maybe it was self-defense? But she has no memory, no proof, no story. The security cameras? She's not even sure if the alley's in view of any camera.

All at once, the fear of getting caught slams into her. She can't stay here with the body. She looks down at her hands, noticing a fine, pale red smear on her fingertips from where the cloth cut into his skin. She wipes them frantically on her pants, leaving streaks. She knows how suspicious that will look.

Time is slipping, and she's still standing over a dead man. She forces her feet to move, stepping around the body, heart hammering like a jackhammer. She cracks open the back door to the restaurant and hears the bustle of activity—a dishwasher running, staff calling out orders, Felicia laughing about something in the kitchen. No one seems to notice her slip in. Maybe it's the noise, or maybe they're all too busy. She ducks her head, hugging the shadows by the racks of clean dishes, water dripping from her clothes onto the tile floor.

Her mind races: I need to get to my locker. I need to grab my stuff and go. She can't deal with this. She can't face the restaurant, can't go back to the host stand where the next customer might ask for a table. She needs time to figure out what's happening. Or to run away forever, vanish before the body is found.

She moves fast, glancing around corners to ensure no one spots her. At her locker, she fumbles with the combination, breath caught in her throat. It opens on the second try. She grabs her purse, jacket, everything. A reflection in the small metal mirror taped to the inside of her locker catches her eye—her face looks ghostly pale, eyes darting in wild fear. She can barely recognize herself.

With one last look at the bustling kitchen, she slips out the rear exit again, but she's careful not to glance at the dumpster area. She skirts around it, heart pounding, fear scraping at her lungs. She heads for the back fence that leads to the side street. Through the fence's broken slats, she glimpses the man's lifeless form in the alley. A wave of nausea hits, but she presses a hand to her mouth and forces herself forward, away from the restaurant, away from the horror of what she's done.

The rain beats down in earnest now, soaking her hair and clothes as she emerges onto the side street. She's free of the restaurant, but not free of the weight crushing her chest. She feels sick, terrified, and more alone than ever. She can't fathom going home, yet her feet carry her in that direction.

Her head throbs, memories jumbled. She tries to reconstruct the moment she snapped, but it's just a blur of red rage followed by emptiness. She only knows that now there's a dead man behind the dumpsters, and her hands are stained with more than just water.

"Why? Why now?" She whispers into the rain.

There's no answer. Only the hum of distant cars and the static hiss of water on pavement. She can't stop trembling. She has a million questions and no answers. And worst of all, she knows this must be connected to the blackouts. The same blackouts that had her waking up with blood under her nails, the same blackouts that left her with that mysterious suit in her closet.

She clutches her jacket tighter around her body, feeling the city loom like a shadow over her. She's done something terrible—worse than she ever imagined she was capable of. She has no idea how to fix it. And for the first time, she truly grasps the danger of her own mind.

She can't go back. She can't look any of her coworkers in the eye right now. The only thing she can do is keep moving, keep running, and hope to find some shred of an explanation.

Yet all she can think is: He's dead. I killed him.

And she doesn't even remember why.

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[ what do we think so far? ]