Max Blake wasn't the kind of guy to go straight home after class. Not when the weather was good, the light was soft, and there were still a few unexplored streets in Graymark left on his mental map. Today, his shoes led him to a side road tucked between a stationery store and a half-abandoned fitness studio—quiet, shaded, and comfortably ignored. It felt like a dead end, which was exactly the kind of place that piqued his interest.
That's where he saw the café.
It was narrow but charming, with no signboard, just a name—"Bitterroot"—painted in fading serif letters on the glass door. One push later, and the quiet murmur of the outside world vanished. Inside, the place could seat no more than twenty-four people at full capacity: six small tables, each with four chairs, spaced evenly apart with frosted-glass partitions that offered privacy without total isolation.
It was… odd. Not weird, just deliberate. Designed for quiet.
Max liked that.
There was no counter. Instead, a wide rectangular window cut into the back wall acted as both kitchen and service station. A handwritten sign above it read:
"Self-service. Order here. Take a seat. No rush."
Behind the window sat a man who looked like he hadn't moved in years—round glasses, grey beard, eyes like someone who'd read more than spoken. Max gave a casual nod, placed his order for a cappuccino, and slid a bill into the small tray provided. He took his coffee when it appeared, gave a quiet thanks, and chose the seat by the window.
That's when he noticed them.
A guy and a girl—both around his age, maybe a year or two older—were seated at the farthest table, tucked near the back, barely visible behind the translucent partition. They weren't touching their coffee. Their posture wasn't romantic. They leaned close, voices low, papers between them.
Max might've ignored them if not for one thing: the name he just barely caught the girl say.
"...Jared Kent. That's two deaths in a month. Both ruled suicide."
Max blinked.
He tapped his phone's screen, bringing back the article he'd scrolled past ten minutes ago.
[Local Student Found Dead in Apartment: Police Suspect Suicide]
The headline hadn't grabbed him then. But now...
He sipped his coffee. And listened.
The girl's voice—measured, sharp. The guy's—nervous, fast, like he was used to being interrupted and had learned to talk around it. They weren't on a date. Not unless dates these days involved timelines, case files, and whispers about things that didn't show up on camera.
Max's eyes drifted to his phone again, then to the wall-mounted clock. Still early. No one else had entered. The café was quiet. The kind of quiet that made it impossible not to overhear.
He adjusted in his seat, angled his chair slightly toward them, and reopened the article. As he read, their voices became clearer—not just words, but ideas. Observations.
And a pattern.
Max smiled to himself, the first spark of real curiosity lighting behind his eyes.
This was getting interesting.
Max didn't usually eavesdrop, but when you're in a quiet café with six tables, no music, and two people whispering about a string of suicides, it's practically public broadcast.
"I saw them," the girl said—voice steady but low. "Same day. Same mall. They weren't there to shop. They were trying to act normal. But they weren't."
Max didn't glance up, but his ears sharpened.
"One of them dropped their phone. Didn't even look back. Hands shaking. Sweating. Looking behind them every few steps. Like they were walking away from something they couldn't afford to be seen with."
He had half a cappuccino left and an article about one of those three victims still open on his phone—Jared Kent, apparent suicide, no signs of foul play. Nothing caught his attention the first time.
Now? Now it scratched at him. Softly. Repeatedly.
He stood, walked over to their table as if drawn there by gravity, and without a word, reached down and picked up the top file from their spread of notes and printouts.
The guy looked up mid-sentence, startled.
The girl blinked—and lunged for it instantly.
"Hey—!"
But Max stepped just out of reach, lifting the folder to eye level like it was a casual menu. The girl's hand swiped at empty air. Her expression tightened as her other hand instinctively slid toward the ceramic sugar holder.
"Relax," Max said, flipping open the file. "You left it defenseless out in the open like that. I couldn't resist."
He skimmed the contents, page by page. A grainy mall camera still. News printouts, underlined sentences. A scribbled note:
Why were they together? Who made them leave?
The guy stood now, uncertain whether to confront or question.
Max closed the file and placed it gently back on the table with an audible clap.
"Interesting."
The girl didn't sit down. Her hand hovered just beside the sugar holder, and her eyes drilled into him.
"Who the hell are you?" she asked.
"Max," he replied calmly. "Max Blake. And yeah, that was bold. But I'm guessing this isn't the first strange thing you've seen this week."
"Why are you listening to us?" the guy asked—not harsh, just curious.
"Because I was already reading about him," Max said, gesturing to the Jared Kent page. "And suddenly you're connecting the dots I didn't realize were dots."
"Most people wouldn't walk over and steal a file," the girl muttered.
"I'm not most people," Max said, then sat down without asking. "What made you two dive into all this? Doesn't exactly sound like small talk."
Both of them looked at each other, exchanging a loaded glance—suspicion, calculation, decision.
"You saw them," Max continued, now looking at Grace. "That's what started it?"
She nodded, slowly.
"Yeah. I saw them. Three strangers in the same place, trying not to look afraid—and failing. And now they're dead."
"All ruled suicides," Max added quietly.
The guy leaned forward slightly. "You read about it after?"
"This morning," Max said. "Didn't think much of it. Then I heard you two going deeper. Couldn't help but join in."
"So what—this is just curiosity?" the girl asked, brows narrowed.
"Mostly. That, and I've got a soft spot for weird coincidences. And coffee. Both are better with company."
The girl didn't smile, but she didn't argue.
"I'm not trying to hijack your case," Max said. "Just want to know what you've noticed. That's all."
"And why should we tell you anything?" the girl asked.
Max shrugged.
"Because I listened without judging. Because I noticed something most people wouldn't. And maybe," he added, "because some part of you is wondering if someone else noticing it too means you're not completely crazy."
They said nothing for a moment.
Then the girl slowly let go of the sugar holder.
And no one asked him to leave.
---
Max leaned back just enough to show he wasn't there to take over—just to stay.
"If you're not kicking me out," he said, "why not go through it together? Maybe fresh eyes help."
The girl hesitated, then slowly slid the folder back in front of her.
"Fine. But no more grabbing."
" Alright, promise," Max said, holding up two fingers with a grin.
The guy reached into his bag and pulled out a second folder. "We've got more," he said. "Printed everything that even remotely lined up."
"And you two are…?" Max asked, gesturing between them.
The guy gave a small nod. "Ben."
"Grace," the girl said, still watching him warily. "And no, we're not with the cops or detectives. Just part of a small group online with special intrests in—cold cases, strange deaths, unsolved weirdness."
"And this one hit close to home," Ben added. "Three suicides. Same week. Same city. All ruled clean. But Grace saw them together."
Max nodded. "The mall incident."
They laid out the papers: obituaries, incident summaries, police write-ups, two forum posts that had since been deleted, and Grace's handwritten notes.
Ben tapped one page. "Jared Kent, twenty-nine. Engineer. Found in his apartment. No signs of struggle. No note."
"Maria Lang," Grace added. "Thirty-four. HR manager. Jumped from her own balcony. Quiet life. Nothing weird—until that day."
"Daniel Cross. Uni dropout. Found in a rental car, parked two blocks from his place. Carbon monoxide poisoning."
Max flipped through the documents, eyes scanning quick and sharp.
"And no connection between them?" he asked.
Grace shook her head. "Nothing we could find. They didn't know each other. Different circles. But I saw them in the same mall. Same hour. Each one acting like they were being followed, but trying not to show it."
"Then they all end up dead," Max murmured. "Clean suicides. No mess."
He lingered on a printout from Daniel Cross's Death report.
Then he tapped it lightly.
"This detail. That's not right."
Grace leaned in. "What?"
> "Passenger-side window was partially open. For carbon monoxide to be effective, that window's usually closed tight. It's weird. Don't you think so?."
Ben blinked. "How did we miss that ?."
"That, and he wiped his phone two hours before it happened," Max added. "Thoroughly. No social media, no photos, no messages."
Grace frowned. "You don't do that unless you're hiding something. But if you're hiding something, you usually leave a note to control the story. So which is it?"
"Or," Max said, "he wasn't the one who wiped it."
A quiet moment passed between them. No one spoke. The hum of the café seemed to fade beneath the weight of the theory settling in.
Ben finally broke the silence.
"I'll check the mall again. Their last known locations. Staff might've seen something. Security guards, store cameras. I'll ask around."
"And I'll go through their digital activity," Grace said, already pulling her phone closer. "Search logs, social apps, archived posts. Anything that might've survived the wipe."
They both turned toward Max, pausing—wordlessly asking: What about you?
Max smiled faintly, unfazed by the attention.
"I'll look into the official records. Internal logs, autopsy notes, maybe police reports that didn't make it public."
That got a reaction.
Ben stiffened slightly.
Grace's brows lifted. "You… have access to that?"
"Let's just say I know where the cracks are," Max replied with a shrug and an easy grin. "Might take a little effort to peek through them."
"Be careful," Grace said, more serious now. "Don't take unnecessary risks. This kind of thing—it might go deeper than we think."
Max gave her a lazy, half-teasing smile.
"Alright, alright. I'll keep it boring. Pinky swear."
Ben pulled out his phone. "Let's exchange contact info."
They exchanged numbers quickly, Max typing with one hand and sipping the last of his coffee with the other.
"See you two soon," he said, standing and stretching. "Unless I disappear in the night. In which case… avenge me."
He left with that same casual ease he'd walked in with—like he was already chasing the next clue.
------
Later, at the same table
Grace hadn't touched her drink in minutes. She stared after the door Max had walked through, then glanced at Ben.
> "He's strange."
> "Yeah," Ben said. "But he saw things we didn't."
Grace nodded slowly. "He's reckless too. The way he picked up the file without blinking—like he expected it to belong to him."
> "You trust him?"
> "No," Grace said flatly. "But I'm curious."
Ben cracked a faint smile. "You think he's hiding something?"
"Definitely. But that doesn't mean he's lying."
She leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly.
"Keep him close. But we should figure out who Max Blake is ."
-×-