The Omen

The world had the taste of copper tonight.

Shane Everhart jammed the ambulance into park, the old engine ticking with heat beneath the hood. Sirens still wailed, echoing off the empty brick carcasses of the warehouse district. His partner, Sonia, was already climbing out, calling for him. He paused, looking at the address again. 923 Halloway. Dispatch said one victim, possible critical, details unclear. Shane’s thumbs hovered over the notepad—he wanted to give it ten seconds. To just… breathe. But Sonia’s voice cut the night again, sharp: “Shane! You coming?”

He grabbed the trauma kit and jogged after her. As soon as he cleared the ambulance’s blinding headlights, the night swallowed all sense of color. Everything was gray and shivering, even the streetlights afraid to shine too far. The warehouse squatted at the end of the alley, windows shattered, a door hanging open like a wound.

Inside, their footsteps echoed. Empty beer cans crunched underfoot, rolling into puddles of oil and stagnant water. Shane coughed, the metallic tang already filling his lungs. Sonia swept her flashlight across the graffiti-scrawled walls, the beam landing on something at the far end. “Here!” she hissed.

The world condensed into a tunnel. As Shane approached, the first thing he saw was red—everywhere. It glistened in pools and constellations, painted symbols on the concrete floor that pulsed under Sonia’s light. Shane’s instincts, honed by too many years in this city, screamed for him to turn around. But he moved closer. The body lay at the center of a spiderweb of blood, arms and legs splayed, chest flayed open with surgical precision.

Shane froze. "Jesus..."

The victim's face was oddly peaceful, eyes open. Deep carmine lines crisscrossed his skin—spirals, glyphs, a language Shane had seen only in nightmare sketches. Half the heart was gone. Shane reached out. His gloved hand hovered, uncertain.

"Sonia, call it in. Get homicide."

He knelt, checking for a pulse out of habit. When his fingers touched the body, something hot screamed through his veins—a jolt like licking a live wire. The world exploded into color, into pain.

He saw fire and teeth, bodies writhing, skin shredding from muscle. He saw a city drowning in shadow, people burning, an iron gate torn open to a roiling crimson sky. He felt someone watching. Someone waiting.

The vision faded and left him gasping in the cold, sticky air. Shane yanked off his glove, shaking his hand as if it were full of ants. Sonia crouched beside him, eyes wide.

"Shane? Jesus, you spaced out. You okay?"

He tried to answer, but all the words stuck together. He caught movement by the ruined windows—just a flicker, a silhouette vanishing behind jagged glass. A cold finger traced his spine.

Cops arrived fast. Blue strobes painted the warehouse with sickly light. Two uniforms started shoving Shane and Sonia back, already cursing at the blood, blocking off the scene while detectives clustered by the body. Shane scrubbed his face, trying to keep his hands steady. Even now, his palm itched where he touched the corpse.

A detective—tough, graying, eyes ringed with sleeplessness—cornered Shane near the ambulance. “You want to tell me what you found in there, Everhart?”

He tried to shake the vision from his memory. “We got the call. Guy was dead when we arrived. Looks like… something ritualistic. I don’t know what the hell it means.”

The detective squinted, sizing him up. “You see anyone? This looks like cult shit.”

Shane hesitated. He remembered the shadow in the window. The sense of being watched hadn’t faded. He shook his head. “No. Just the body. Symbols everywhere.”

“Who was your last call before this?”

He rattled off the details, careful, knowing too well that paramedics always drew suspicion with their blood on their boots. The detective kept writing, unimpressed. Shane wiped the sweat from his brow, nerves thrumming. Sonia shot him a worried look from the curb.

Before they let him go, the detective fixed him with a deadman’s stare. “If I find out you’re holding anything back, Everhart, I’ll make your life hell.”

Shane couldn’t help but laugh—a bitter sound. “Too late.”

When the cops finally released him, he slung the trauma kit over his shoulder and made for the alley. The city felt different out here now, like the air was bending around a secret. He thought about the symbols, the vision, that shape in the shadows. He pressed his hand to his chest. His heart beat steady, but the edges felt wrong, as if something else had slipped inside the rhythm.

Above him, a gull screamed. Or maybe it was something else, something hungry and old. He didn’t look up.

By the time he got back in the ambulance, eyes gritty with fatigue, Shane knew this wasn’t just another fucked-up night on the job. Blood, symbols, visions. The way the darkness seemed to move, curious, aware. He could feel the world tipping below his feet, something ancient slouching toward the city.

Sonia slid into the passenger seat. “You alright, man? You looked… you looked like you saw a ghost.”

He gripped the wheel, knuckles white. Somewhere inside, a voice he hadn’t heard since childhood whispered, You have to run. But something else—darker, heavier—growled, You have to stay.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I think this is just the beginning.”