The black string first appears at the base of the neck.

Yvonne Vondagier has watched it enough times to know the pattern. First, a single thread appears—thin as spider silk, black as pitch—coiling slowly and steadily around skin no one else can see. It starts at the neck, then spreads across the shoulders and down the arms as days pass. The moment she sees them: fragments of how their life will end. Eventually, more threads will emerge until the person is completely wrapped in a shroud of black, visible only to her and eventually meet their end just as she saw in her vision.

She has learned when she was young not to speak of it. Learned to look away when the darkness unfurls. To smile and nod and pretend the world is as solid and predictable as everyone else believes it to be.

Dark clouds cover the sky as rain streaks the coffee shop window, blurring the afternoon crowds on the street below. Yvonne sitting alone in the corner sips her lukewarm latte, tracing the rim of her cup with a finger, when a familiar laugh cuts through the low murmur of conversation.

Cara Montenegro. They were classmates in tenth grade—memories of the past came back on how they swapped notes along with other classmates and ate together during lunch break. Yvonne smiled as their eyes met across the room.

Then she sees it.

Thick black threads twist around Cara’s arms, her waist, her throat—denser than any Yvonne has ever witnessed, swallowing the light from the overhead lamps. Before she can look away, the world tilts.

She was no longer in the coffee shop. She was surrounded by darkness. Fragments like watching a film, flashed before her eyes a hand clad in dark leather, fingers wrapped around a knife that glistens wet and red. On the attacker’s index finger gleams a silver ring, twisted into the shape of a serpent, its eyes tiny chips of obsidian.

Cara is on the floor, her own eyes wide with shock and fear. The knife descends. Crimson spreads across the pavement like spilled wine.

Yvonne gasps as she closes her eyes and the vision fractures and fades. Her heart hammers against her ribs. It’s not an accident. Not an illness either, it was murder.

She starts to rise, intent on warning Cara somehow. Across the room, Cara is looking at her and smiling. As Yvonne stands up a movement in the window catches her eye. A figure stands just outside, the hood pulled so low it completely obscures their face—no eyes, no features visible beneath the dark fabric, only deep shadow where a face should be. They stand perfectly still, watching through the rain-streaked glass as water streams down the pane in crooked lines, distorting the shape of their shoulders but doing nothing to lift the veil of darkness hiding who they are.

Yvonne’s breath catches in her throat.

There, on their hand, catching the faint glow of the street lamp, is the serpent ring.

The figure’s head tilts slightly. Even with the shadow of the hood, Yvonne knows—they are not looking at Cara.

They are looking at her.

The alarm clock on the table beside the bed shrieked like a wounded bird. Yvonne’s eyes remained sealed shut as she flailed her arm at the offending device—thwap—she missed. Thud—she knocked over her water glass instead. On the third attempt, her fingers finally found the snooze button, and silence returned to the room.

Why does night shrink like a cheap sweater every single time I need it to stretch? she grumbled to herself, burrowing deeper under her comforter until only the tip of her nose peeked out. At 23, she should’ve outgrown her hatred of mornings by now—but then again, being a part-time librarian meant she spent most of her evenings helping late-night readers and organizing book clubs, so sleeping in was practically part of her job description. And it’s Saturday, she reminded herself gleefully. No shelving books, no dealing with people who think “Dewey Decimal” is a type of coffee order.

She’d barely had time to finish her dream about winning a pie-eating contest against a talking cat when reality came knocking.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Yvonne! Get up this instant! Are you planning to hibernate until lunch?” Her mother’s voice carried through the door with the force of a drill sergeant.

Yvonne cracked one eye open, squinting at the sunlight streaming through her curtains like it had personally insulted her. “I’m awake, Mother… I’m just… calibrating my consciousness,” she mumbled, her words muffled by her pillow.

“Calibrate all you want—come downstairs for breakfast!” The footsteps in the hallway faded, and Yvonne could’ve sworn she heard her mother mutter something.

With a theatrical groan that would’ve earned her an Oscar nomination, Yvonne dragged herself upright. Her hair stuck up in seven different directions, looking like a bird had built a nest there overnight. She stretched her arms overhead until her joints popped like popcorn, then shuffled toward the bathroom.

After a perfunctory teeth-brushing session and a splash of cold water to her face, she leaned closer to the mirror. Her gaze drifted to her neck, then traced the air around her shoulders, searching for the telltale strands that haunted her every morning.

Nothing. Not a single thread in sight.

She exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Well, looks like today isn’t my turn to check out of the mortal hotel. Good thing—I still haven’t visited many places.

Yvonne had been able to see the black threads since she was old enough to understand mirrors. She called it her “curse with benefits”—though so far, the scales tipped heavily toward the curse. Over the years, she’d seen more deaths than most people twice her age: the kindly baker who’d ignored her warning about crossing the street, the college student at the library who’d laughed off her advice to skip that late-night drive, the little girl at the park whose mother had brushed off her concern about the loose swing set. But she’d saved people too—like Mrs. Quinn from next door, who’d taken her word about avoiding the elevator the day it got stuck between floors, or the teenager she’d pulled back from stepping into traffic just as a car sped by.

Now she’s learned to balance caution with acceptance. She’d warn people if she could find a way to do it without sounding crazy, but she’d stopped letting every set of threads weigh on her shoulders like a boulder. Some fates, she’d realized, were as stubborn as overdue library patrons.

She ran a brush through her hair until it lay mostly flat, pulled on a faded hoodie and jeans, and trudged downstairs. The smell of pancakes, bacon, and coffee hit her like a warm hug, and her stomach did a little happy dance that her brain refused to acknowledge.

In the dining room, her father sat at the round mahogany table, his nose buried in the newspaper. “Morning, Dad,” Yvonne said, plopping into her usual chair.

“Mm-hmm,” he replied without looking up, tapping his finger on an article about local politics.

“Morning, Sleepyhead.”

Yvonne whipped around to find her older brother Zachary leaning against the doorway, looking annoyingly put-together in a crisp dress shirt and slacks. She blinked twice. Is that really him? Or did a well-dressed clone replace my workaholic brother while I was asleep?

“Since when do you not leave for work before the sun rises?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “Did you finally burn out? Do we need to stage an intervention? I’ve already got a sign ready that says ‘WORK LESS, LIVE MORE’—I made it in art class last year.”

Zachary’s lips twitched into a rare smile—so rare, Yvonne almost pulled out her phone to take a picture. “Very creative, but no intervention needed. Mother ran into Sidney at the market this morning and invited her over for breakfast. I thought I’d stick around to help.”

Sidney. The name landed in Yvonne’s stomach like a lead weight. She’d never liked her brother’s girlfriend—not because Sidney wasn’t gorgeous (she had cheekbones that could cut glass and a smile that made strangers stop and stare), but because Yvonne’s gut had been sending her warning signals louder than a foghorn. Plus, she thought petulantly, Aurora was way nicer. She used to bring me homemade cookies every time she visited.

“Right. Sidney,” Yvonne said, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Great. I’ll just… save her a seat next to the salt shaker she probably doesn’t need because she’s too perfect to eat anything with flavor.”

Before Zachary could respond, the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs announced the arrival of her second brother, Zane. He skidded into the room in his worn-out sneakers, his hair even messier than Yvonne’s, clutching a half-eaten granola bar.

“Morning, morning, morning!” he chirped, dropping into his chair like a sack of potatoes. “Did I hear someone say Sidney’s here? Is she bringing those fancy macarons she likes to show off?”

“Zane, please chew with your mouth closed,” their father said, finally lowering his newspaper. “And where have you been? I thought you said you were going for a run at six.”

“I did go for a run!” Zane protested, swallowing his food. “I just… got distracted by a street vendor selling fresh lumpia. It was research for my food blog!”

As if on cue, their mother’s voice floated from the kitchen, warm and bright: “Everyone take your seats! Breakfast is ready—and Sidney, dear, could you hand me those plates?”

Yvonne felt a prickle at the back of her neck. Not now, she thought, straightening up in her chair. Please don’t let it be now.

She glanced toward the kitchen doorway just as two women walked in—her mother, carrying a stack of pancakes that glistened like gold, and Sidney, whose dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that made Yvonne’s own efforts look pathetic.

The breakfast plates had barely been cleared when Yvonne shot to her feet, her chair scraping against the floor with a screech that made everyone wince.

“I’m heading out!” she announced, already backing toward the hallway. “Got… uh… library business to take care of. Important book-related stuff that can’t wait until Monday.”

As if organizing the romance section counts as an emergency, she thought, but her mother was already turning her attention to Zachary and Sidney, who’d been roped into staying for lunch per her “request” which was really more of a royal decree.

“Marriage is a serious commitment, dear,” Yvonne overheard her mother say as she ducked out of the dining room. “One year is perfectly reasonable—your father and I were engaged after six months!”

Yvonne rolled her eyes as she jogged up the stairs to grab her jacket. Six months? No wonder they argue about where to put the Christmas tree every year. She’d always thought you needed at least eight years to really know someone—long enough to discover if they pick their nose when they think no one’s looking, or if they secretly hate your favorite movie. What if Zach and Sidney wake up ten years from now and realize they’re as compatible as oil and water? she mused, pulling on her worn leather jacket. I’ll have to be the one to hide their divorce papers between the encyclopedias.

She grabbed her helmet from the hook by the door and made a beeline for the garage. Her motorcycle—a glossy black Honda that she’d nicknamed “Shadow”—was parked in its usual spot, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. As she kicked the stand up and fired up the engine, the familiar rumble sent a jolt of relief through her. Nothing clears your head like a good ride.

She pulled out her phone and fired off texts to her two oldest friends:

To: The Dream Team

Guys, to our usual spot in 15 mins. Bring snacks.

Bianca replied first: Already on my way! Grabbed those cheesy puffs you love [smirking emoji]

Mateo followed seconds later: Saving you a seat. Also… need your help. Emergency gift situation.

Yvonne grinned, revving the engine before pulling out of the driveway. The wind whipped through her hair as she weaved through the streets of Rewon City, past bustling markets and tree-lined avenues. By the time she pulled up to their usual hangout spot—a small park with a weathered gazebo that they’d claimed as their own since elementary school—Bianca was already there, sprawled on a bench with a giant bag of snacks, and Mateo was pacing circles around the gazebo like a caged tiger.

“Okay, spill,” Yvonne said, yanking off her helmet and shaking out her hair. “What's the emergency?”

Mateo ran a hand through his curly hair, looking more stressed than when their seventh-grade math teacher announced a surprise final exam. “It’s Sophia’s birthday next week,” he said, his voice tight with panic. “I want to get her something meaningful—not just another stuffed animal or perfume. I need it to say… you know… ‘I’m not just dating you for your amazing cooking skills’.”

Bianca snorted, tossing a cheesy puff at him. “Please. We all know you’re dating her for the adobo alone.”

“Hey!” Mateo protested, but he was grinning. “It’s really good adobo.”

Yvonne leaned against the gazebo railing, already mentally cataloging gift ideas. Something personal, not too flashy… “What about jewelry? Something small, not too expensive, but with meaning.”

“Exactly!” Mateo’s face lit up. “I was thinking a necklace—but I have no idea what style she’d like.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bianca declared, jumping to her feet. “We’re going to the mall. Operation: Find The Perfect Necklace That Won’t Make Mateo Go Broke.”

An hour later, they were wandering through the gleaming halls of Tarlac City Mall, dodging strolling families and teenagers clustered around the arcade. They’d hit three jewelry stores already—Mateo had nearly fainted at the price tags in the first one, and the second had only sold pieces that looked like they belonged in a royal treasury.

Then they spotted it: tucked away in the corner of a small, cozy shop, a silver butterfly necklace with delicate wings that caught the light like tiny prisms.

“That’s it,” Yvonne breathed, pointing at the display case. “Sophia loves butterflies—she has that whole garden dedicated to them in her backyard.”

Mateo pressed his face against the glass like a kid in a candy store. “How much?”

The shop owner—a kind-faced woman with graying hair—smiled as she pulled out the necklace. “For such a lovely piece for a lovely girl? I’ll give you a discount. It’s perfect for someone special.”

When Mateo saw the price, he practically did a happy dance. “Sold! Wrap it up—with a bow, please!”

With the gift crisis averted, they decided to celebrate with lunch at a small restaurant just outside the mall, where they’d been regulars since high school. They shared a table piled high with sinigang, lechon kawali, and garlic rice, laughing as they traded stories about their days in tenth grade.

“Remember when Mr. Dela Cruz caught you trying to feed your lunch to the class lizard?” Bianca asked Yvonne, nearly choking on her rice.

“In my defense, he looked hungry!” Yvonne protested, though she was grinning. “And he was a very good listener during history lectures.”

After lunch, they spent another hour wandering through the mall—Bianca trying on every pair of shoes she could find, Mateo stopping to look at every video game display, and Yvonne browsing through a bookstore that had just opened up on the ground floor. She’d just found a copy of a new mystery novel when Bianca’s phone buzzed loudly.

“Ugh, it’s Mom,” she groaned, answering the call. Her face fell a moment later. “Okay… okay, I’ll be right there.” She hung up and sighed. “Emergency at the bakery—one of the ovens broke and they need extra hands to finish the wedding cakes for this weekend.”

“Go,” Yvonne said, giving her a quick hug. “We’ll hold down the fort without you.”

As if on cue, Mateo’s phone chimed with a text. He read it and grinned like a fool. “Speaking of forts… Sophia just texted. She wants to take me on a surprise date.”

Yvonne rolled her eyes playfully. “Fine, fine—abandon me for your significant others. I see how it is.” But she was smiling as she hugged him goodbye. “Tell Sophia we found the perfect gift.”

By the time Yvonne stepped back outside, the bright afternoon sky had turned dark and heavy, clouds rolling in like a blanket ready to pour. Looks like rain’s on the way, she thought, pulling out her phone to check the weather app—sure enough, rain was expected to hit within the hour.

Instead of heading home right away, she decided to duck into a small coffee shop she’d noticed when she and her friends passed by earlier—a cozy place with warm lighting and a chalkboard menu covered in fancy latte names. She ordered a vanilla latte with extra foam and found a corner table tucked away from the main crowd.

Settling into her seat, she pulled out her phone to see if anyone had messaged her, then set it aside and sipped her drink. Rain began to streak the window, blurring the afternoon crowds on the street below. Yvonne traced the rim of her cup with a finger, letting the low murmur of conversation wash over her—until a familiar laugh cut through the noise.

Cara Montenegro. They’d been classmates in tenth grade—Yvonne remembered swapping notes during math lectures and eating together at lunch break. A warm smile crossed her face as their eyes met across the room. To her surprise, Cara smiled back and gave a small wave, then started gathering her things as if to come over.

Then Yvonne saw it.

Thick black threads twisted around Cara’s arms, her waist, and her throat—denser and darker than any she had ever witnessed, swallowing the light from the overhead lamps. Before she could look away, the world tilted beneath her.

She was no longer in the coffee shop. Darkness surrounded her, and fragments of vision flashed before her eyes like frames from a broken film. A hand clad in dark leather wrapped around a knife that glistened wet and red. On the attacker’s index finger gleamed a silver ring, twisted into the shape of a serpent, its eyes tiny chips of obsidian.

Cara was on the floor, her eyes wide with shock and fear. The knife descended. Crimson spread across the pavement like spilled wine.

Yvonne gasped, stumbling back in her chair as the vision fractured and faded. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought it might burst through her chest. This wasn’t an accident. Not illness.

Murder.

Without hesitation, she pushed her chair back and stood up, weaving through the tables toward Cara—she had to warn her, somehow find a way to speak without sounding insane. But as she took her first step forward, movement in the window caught her eye.

A figure stood just outside under the awning, hood pulled low over their face, watching through the rain-streaked glass.

Yvonne’s breath caught in her throat.

There, on their hand, catching the faint glow of the street lamp through the downpour, was the serpent ring.

The figure’s head tilted slightly. Even through the deep shadow of the hood, Yvonne knew with bone-deep certainty—they were not looking at Cara, who was now standing and making her way toward her.

They were looking directly at her.