Chapter Two – Shattered Routine
Life has a rhythm, even when it’s heavy and hard. Mine was simple: wake up, work, come home, worry about bills, sleep. Repeat. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t exciting, but it was familiar. And sometimes familiarity is the only thing that keeps you sane.
The day everything began to change started just like any other. My alarm went off at six, its shrill beeping dragging me out of a restless sleep. I groaned, slapped it off, and stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the weight of another long day settle on me. Twenty-two years old, and already I felt like mornings had become battles I didn’t have the energy for.
I dressed quickly—black jeans, the least-wrinkled blouse I could find, and my scuffed sneakers. The mirror above our bathroom sink was cracked, so my reflection stared back at me in fractured pieces. Maybe that was fitting. I twisted my hair into a ponytail, dabbed on some lip balm, and grabbed my worn canvas bag. Another day, another shift at the diner.
The diner had been my steady paycheck for nearly two years. Greasy floors, clattering dishes, and the constant smell of burnt coffee—it wasn’t exactly my dream job, but it paid just enough to scrape by. The manager, Mrs. Porter, wasn’t unkind, but she wasn’t exactly soft either. She had that no-nonsense way of speaking that made you straighten up the second she looked at you.
By seven-thirty, I was behind the counter, tying on my apron, plastering on the smile I’d perfected over time. Fake cheer for the customers, quiet efficiency for the staff. I knew the regulars by heart: old Mr. Grant who always wanted his eggs runny, the truck drivers who took their coffee black, the young mothers with strollers who ordered pancakes to keep their kids occupied.
It was routine. Predictable. And I relied on that predictability.
But that morning, something was off.
It started when my father called. He never called me at work unless something was wrong. I answered in the tiny breakroom, already bracing myself. His voice came through rough, hurried, almost panicked.
“Annie… they came.”
My stomach tightened. “What do you mean, they came?”
“The men… the ones I told you about. They came to the apartment. They’re not playing around anymore. They said if I don’t pay up soon, things will get ugly.”
I closed my eyes, my grip tightening around the phone. We’d had close calls before. Men knocking on the door, warning notes slipped under it, vague threats muttered on the street. But the way Dad’s voice shook made this feel different.
“How much?” I whispered.
He hesitated, and that silence told me everything. Too much. More than we had, more than we could scrape together if I worked three jobs instead of one.
“Don’t worry,” he finally muttered, but his words rang hollow. “I’ll fix it.”
I wanted to believe him, but belief had burned me too many times. “Dad…” I started, but he hung up before I could finish.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the wall, my chest tight. The breakroom clock ticked loudly, as if mocking me. I wanted to cry, scream, do anything to release the pressure building inside me, but instead I stood, smoothed my apron, and walked back out to the counter. Endurance. That was all I had.
But the routine kept unraveling.
Mid-morning, two men I’d never seen before walked into the diner. Dark suits, sharp eyes, the kind of presence that made the air heavier. They didn’t belong here, not with the truckers and tired moms. I felt their gaze sweep over the room until it landed on me.
One of them—tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar cutting through his eyebrow—smirked as he leaned against the counter. “Annabel Johnson?” he asked, his voice low, almost casual.
Every instinct in me screamed don’t answer. But my name sounded dangerous in his mouth, like a secret I hadn’t meant to share.
“Yes?” My voice came out steadier than I felt.
He slid a folded piece of paper across the counter. “Consider this… a reminder. Your father’s debts don’t vanish just because he hides. People are getting impatient.”
I didn’t touch the paper. My hands trembled against the counter. The other man, silent and watchful, leaned closer. “It would be smart to tell him time’s running out. Smart for both of you.”
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet their eyes. “This is my workplace. You can’t just—”
But they were already walking out, leaving the paper behind like a poisoned gift.
I waited until the bell over the door jingled shut before snatching it up. My heart pounded as I unfolded it. Three words, scrawled in bold ink: PAY OR ELSE.
That was it. No details, no numbers, just a threat sharp enough to slice through the thin thread holding my life together.
The rest of my shift blurred. I took orders, carried plates, smiled when I needed to, but inside, panic throbbed like a drum. I couldn’t stop picturing the men’s faces, the way they said my name. This wasn’t just about my father anymore. They knew me. They wanted me scared. And it was working.
By the time I left the diner, the sun was sinking low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. I walked home with quick steps, clutching the note in my bag, every shadow on the street suddenly sharper, every passerby suspicious.
Our apartment door stuck, as usual, but when I pushed it open, I froze. The place was a mess—drawers pulled open, papers scattered, cushions tossed aside. My father sat slumped in the armchair, head in his hands.
“They came again,” he muttered without looking at me. “They wanted to make a point.”
Fear clawed at my throat. “What point?”
“That we’re out of time.”
I sank onto the couch, my body numb. For years, I’d kept our fragile life balanced—barely, but balanced. Now it felt like the ground was cracking beneath me, and there was nothing to hold onto.
I didn’t know it then, but that day—the phone call, the men in the diner, the wrecked apartment—was the moment my routine shattered. The moment my small, invisible world caught the attention of powers far larger than me.
And it was only the beginning.