SUSPECT
EPISODE 02 | SCENE 03
19 YEARS LATER • YEAR 347
Wick sits on the couch, eyes fixed on the teardrop coin, his fingers tracing its edge in slow, absent strokes.
“It’s time, Wick.”
He glances over his shoulder. Alexa stands behind him, her expression firm. He gives a faint nod.
“You promised,” she says. “It’s nightfall now.”
“Yeah, I’m going.”
“You don’t need to sound so dejected, you know.”
Wick rises, slipping his hands—and the coin—into his pockets. “I did say I’d go.”
“It’s better this way,” she says as he moves toward the door. She holds out his jacket, already in her grasp. “Let me go with you.”
“It’s just a few blocks.”
“Really. Let me come.”
He looks at her, steady and unblinking. “Are you worried I’m not going to hand it in?”
“No,” she says softly. “I just thought you liked when we walk together.”
“I do,” he says. “But I want to go alone. Is that not all right?”
Her eyes lower; she nods.
He takes the jacket from her, watching the quiet ache in her face. “Now you look dejected.”
“Well, you’ve been so possessive over this—thing. You won’t even tell me about the name you muttered in your sleep. I feel like I’m losing you to a scrap of metal.”
Wick steps closer, placing his hands on her shoulders. He leans in and kisses her forehead. “When I get back, you’ll have all of me. I promise.”
Alexa’s eyes lift to his. “I hope so.”
He kisses her lips this time. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“I’ll be timing you,” she says with a feeble smile, her tone grave beneath it.
He smiles back, gives her a casual salute, and the front door slides open. A moment later, he’s gone, and Alexa is left pacing the apartment alone.
Outside, Wick exits the main doors, turns left, and starts down the sidewalk toward the police station. His hands stay buried in his jacket, gripping the coin. The urge to take it out claws at him.
Two blocks from the station, he stops and glances around. No one in sight. Pressing close to the wall, he pulls out the coin and flips it to its compass side. The light pounds along the right edge. He looks that way, then back down. Turning his body to follow the light, he watches as it shifts again—now flashing at the coin’s top edge. He nods, already knowing what he’s about to do, and how much Alexa would hate it.
Instead of walking the last few hundred yards to the station, Wick lifts his hand and flags down a chromatic vehicle. A taxi slows, hovering over its magnetic strip before settling in front of him.
He scans the street one more time, then ducks inside. No driver. Like every car in Penumbra, it pilots itself. The doors close automatically.
“South One,” Wick says.
The car’s artificial voice replies, “Why does someone from West Seven wish to go to such a place?”
“Just take me to the station there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Drive.”
At once, the vehicle rises and speeds along the strip, turning sharply as it leaves the city’s core. The sleek, crystal buildings of central Penumbra give way to stained concrete and flickering signs—the south’s decay spreading like rust.
“Music, Wick?”
“No,” he says, eyes drifting to the window instead.
Minutes later, the car slows and stops. Wick glances around. “This is Zone Five.”
“I’m doing another pickup along the way,” the car responds.
“I thought this was a private taxi.”
Before the vehicle can respond, the door slides open and a tall, broad-shouldered man squeezes in, forcing Wick against the far side of the backseat. Dressed in a black coat and hat, the man’s collar conceals most of his beard, and his dark glasses look absurd in the low light.
“Heading to South One, too?” the man asks.
“Does it matter?” Wick says without looking up.
“Of course it does. If we’re in the same taxi, we should be going the same way.”
“Well, if it stopped for you, that should tell you enough.”
Wick braces for a reaction, but the man only chuckles.
The door closes, and the taxi glides back onto the strip toward the South One magline station. Wick turns to the window, focusing on the blur of neon lights and crumbling façades, trying to ignore the faint pulse against his thigh.
After a stretch of silence, the man speaks again. “Where’d you get it?”
Wick glances at him. “What are you talking about?”
“That coin,” the man says, nodding toward his pocket.
Wick’s heart jolts. He shoves both hands deep into his coat and fixes his gaze on the passing shops. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“They’re incredibly rare,” the man continues.
“I really have no idea.”
“Well, I doubt that.”
Before Wick can respond, the taxi jerks to the side and stops abruptly.
“Again?” Wick mutters.
“You are out of currency, sir,” the taxi announces.
“What do you mean?”
“You have just spent it all.”
“Couldn’t you have calculated that before accepting the ride?”
“I’ve got it,” the stranger says smoothly. “Don’t worry about it. Where are you headed?”
Wick shoots him a sharp look. “No. Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” the man insists. “Really.”
“Taxi. Door, please.”
The door hisses open. Wick steps halfway out. “Can you tell me which zone I’m in?”
“Three,” the burly man answers before the taxi can.
Wick nods once, then steps fully onto the cracked pavement. The door shuts behind him, and the car drifts away—taking its unsettling passenger with it.
He stands for a moment, breathing deeply, watching the taxi vanish into the distance. Then he turns and starts walking, heading in the opposite direction of the station. The street feels heavier here—dim signs sputtering, lamps casting weak pools of light. Everything lacks the polish of West Seven.
Wick moves quickly, slipping through the sluggish crowd dressed in muted tones. A chill runs through him. He glances back. The taxi, now a small glow down the road, slows again. The door opens. His pulse spikes.
The stranger steps out and begins walking toward him.
Wick snaps his head forward and hastens his pace. At the intersection, he steals one last glance—the man is closing in. Wick cuts hard around the corner and breaks into a sprint, shoving past anyone in his path. The side street stretches endlessly ahead. The next turn feels miles away. Panic seizes him; he’ll be seen before he can vanish again.
His eyes dart frantically for cover. Then—there! A narrow gap between two buildings, just a few doors down. He bolts for it, nearly slipping as he turns sideways and squeezes in. The space is tight, brick scraping his shoulders, but it will have to do. He presses deeper, fighting through the slit’s opening.
Wick risks a glance back. The man appears at the intersection, turning his head sharply. Their eyes lock.
Wick’s heart fails. His jacket rips against the coarse walls as he shoves through, scraping his face, his breath ragged. He can almost see the end—an adjoining alley—when a shadow blots the light from where he came.
The stranger stands at the mouth of the gap, towering, motionless, his expression unreadable behind the beard and shades. Wick stops cold. The man tries to follow—but his broad frame jams against the walls. He hesitates, unwilling to force it.
Wick exhales, thinking he’s safe.
Then the man reaches to his belt, pulls something dark, and levels it toward him. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Wick ducks, his shirt tearing open across the front. More shots ring out, echoing between the walls. By then, he’s already clawed his way out of the crevice, crashing to the ground before scrambling behind the next wall for cover.
He gulps for air—one breath, no more—then pulls the coin from his pocket. His watch flickers to life.
“Compass,” he commands.
He aligns the two. The path points southwest. No time to think. He takes off down the alley, leaping over broken asphalt and heaps of trash spilling from the upper apartments. His lungs burn, but he keeps running. Near the alley’s end, he spots an offshoot and veers into it without slowing.
His strides lengthen, arms pumping, breath coming in short, raw gasps. The darkness thickens, buildings pressing close on both sides. Then—dead end.
Wick slows, eyes scanning upward for a fire escape, but there are none low enough to reach. He presses a hand to the wall, desperate for some opening. There—a narrow gap ahead, a bright door glowing at the end of it.
He checks the coin. The compass doesn’t point that way.
Wick hesitate, but just for a second. A shadow soon moves at the far end of the alley. Bang! Bang!
He has no choice. Wick darts into the tapered passageway and presses himself flat against the wall. He can’t stay. The shots are getting closer. He lunges for the door and yanks the handle, but it doesn’t move. It’s locked.
He pounds on it, hard, again and again. Seconds stretch on. Wick glances around, desperate for another escape. There is none.
The door suddenly swings open. A woman in a white cap and uniform stands there, lips tight. Wick doesn’t speak. He slips past her, slamming the door shut behind him.
“What on earth are you doing?” she snaps. She looks him over—his torn shirt, wild eyes, the sweat on his face—and steps back.
“Where’s your entrance?” he demands.
“You can’t be here.”
She reaches for the handle, but a volley of gunfire pounds the door. Splinters jump from the frame. Her composure breaks, terror flooding her face.
“Please!” Wick pleads.
As she stumbles back, eyes wide, Wick bolts.
He races down the waxed floor, shoes squealing. The white walls and cold fluorescence reveal a sterile order—some kind of hospital. But it’s not silent. Screams—high, piercing, and human—rip through the halls. Women’s voices. Pain.
He can’t tell where they’re coming from. The cries twist around corners, bouncing off tile and metal. He keeps running, chest tight, whispering under his breath, “I’m sorry.”
It’s the only mercy he can offer as he runs past the unseen suffering.
“Hey!” a woman shouts behind him. Wick glances back but doesn’t stop. She’s calling for help.
A moment later, the overhead lights shift from cool white to a throbbing red. Alarms blare through the halls.
Ahead, a door with small, see-through panels looms at the end. Wick braces and slams through it, stumbling into a lobby.
Four or five women freeze at the sight of him. They’re young, close to his age, but worn down—hair tangled, faces pale, eyes sunken with exhaustion. Each holds a crying infant.
“Wait right there!” barks the woman behind the front desk.
Wick’s gaze catches the lettering on the wall behind her: Children First Clinic — Southside.
His heart stops.
He turns toward the glass entrance. Through the glare and flashing red light, he sees a dark shape outside—tall, motionless. That man. Watching.
Panic grips Wick. He whirls around, searching for another exit. There are only two: the door he just burst through and the front door where his pursuer waits.
The babies’ cries grow shrill, piercing through the alarm. The women’s wide, hollow stares weigh on him. The red light pulses harder, flooding the room like blood.
Wick bursts through the entrance doors, feet pounding the outside pavement—but before he can break free, a rough hand catches his jacket and yanks him backward.
The stranger spins him around, face shadowed beneath his hat. “Where’s the coin?”
“I—I don’t have it!” Wick stammers.
The man lowers his shades. In the crimson wash from the clinic, Wick sees his pupils dilate and constrict like camera shutters—wide, narrow, then wide again—until they lock in perfect focus. In their centers, faint red dots blink rhythmically.
A chill grips Wick’s spine. He reacts on instinct, driving his knee into the man’s groin. It has no effect—none—but it buys him a second.
The stranger hurls him to the ground, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The gun comes up, aimed squarely at his chest.
A crack splits the night—louder than the alarms. But not from the stranger’s weapon.
Wick twists around. Across the street stands another man—scarred face, grim expression—gun raised and steady.
The stranger fires back; the shot goes wide. The scarred man returns fire. The bullet hits home, but instead of blood, sparks fly from the stranger’s arm.
Another shot. Another burst of sparks. Bang! Bang! Bang!
The stranger stumbles, pivots, and vanishes into the darkness.
Wick scrambles to his feet, breath tattered. Relief floods him—until he sees the scarred man lower his weapon, speak into his watch, then lift the gun toward him.
There’s no sound. No flash. No slowing of time. Everything collapses into absolute, unbroken black.
