4338.10 · January 10, 2018 AD
Twelve O'Clock Sharp
Nathan's morning begins like any other—the same café, the same latte, the same smile from a barista whose name he's never asked. But waiting on his desk is a yellow Post-it note bearing a friend's handwriting and a message that makes no sense: Don't ask questions. Don't tell anyone. Seth has never done this before. Seth has never been this precise. Something is very wrong.
January 10, 2018. A hot Hobart morning. The Derwent glitters. Kunanyi watches.
Nathan's ritual unfolds with comfortable precision: Blackwood & Co on Salamanca Place, the same latte, the same smile from a barista whose name he's never asked. Coffee in hand, an inescapable pop song lodged in his head, he bounces toward the office. Small pleasures, perfectly arranged.
Then he sees the note.
Yellow paper on his monitor. Familiar handwriting—but wrong somehow. Urgent. Jagged. This isn't the Seth who suggests "lunch-ish" and arrives fifteen minutes late. This Seth writes in commands: 12pm sharp. Very important. Don't ask questions. Don't tell anyone.
No text message. No digital trace. Just a Post-it note that shouldn't exist, left on a desk in a building Seth has no reason to enter.
His message goes unanswered. Not even a delivered receipt.
The hours crawl toward noon. Mount Wellington vanishes behind gathering clouds. A colleague's innocent question forces Nathan to lie—clumsily, unconvincingly—for the first time in their friendship.
And Nathan's perfect morning dissolves into a slow-building dread he cannot name, cannot shake, cannot escape.
Something has changed. Something is coming.
