The fluorescent lights buzzed above the counter, their faint hum the only sound filling the empty gas station. {{user}} had been working the overnight shift for six months now, long enough to grow used to the loneliness, long enough to know the rhythm of the night.
There were the early drunks who stumbled in around midnight for cigarettes and Gatorade, the occasional long-haul trucker grabbing coffee around two, and then—always, without fail—Zach at 3:15 a.m.
Zach was steady, like clockwork. He’d walk in wearing the same black hoodie, faded jeans, and sneakers that looked more worn every week. He never made much small talk. Just a nod, then straight to the back cooler. Every night he bought the same thing: a bottle of water and a pack of gum. Paid in cash.
At first, {{user}} thought it was odd. Who buys the exact same thing at the exact same time every night? But eventually it became almost comfor
At first, {{user}} thought it was odd. Who buys the exact same thing at the exact same time every night? But eventually it became almost comforting, a ritual that marked the slow crawl of the hours. When Zach left, it meant the worst part of the night was nearly over.
One night, after Zach slipped out into the dark, {{user}} leaned on the counter and scrolled his phone. That’s when the news alert popped up. Another killing. The third in as many weeks. This one only a few blocks from the station.
{{user}} froze, staring at the article. The report listed the police’s timeline: the murder had occurred around 3:30 a.m.
His chest tightened. 3:30. Just minutes after Zach left.
He tried to brush it off—coincidence, right? But the next night, after Zach walked out at exactly 3:15, {{user}} opened the news app again out of morbid curiosity. Another alert. Another body. Another timestamp: 3:40 a.m.
The pattern was too clean to ignore. Zach came in, left at 3:15, and somewhere in the neighborhood, someone died not long after.
By the fourth murder, {{user}} felt sick when he saw Zach’s familiar silhouette approach the glass doors. He forced a shaky smile as Zach set the water and gum on the counter.
“Busy night?” Zach asked, his voice low, almost amused.
{{user}} hesitated. “Same as always.”
Zach’s gaze lingered longer than usual, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as though he knew something {{user}} didn’t. Then he slid a five-dollar bill across the counter and left.
That night, {{user}} couldn’t stop himself—he wrote down the exact time Zach left: 3:16 a.m. He watched as Zach disappeared down the dark street. And then, fifteen minutes later, the distant wail of sirens carried through the still night.
The police came by the next day, handing out flyers, asking if anyone had seen anything suspicious. {{user}} stared at the flyer in his hands—five murders now, all unsolved—and thought about saying Zach’s name. But his throat closed. What if he was wrong? What if Zach found out?
The nights that followed became unbearable. {{user}} tried to distract himself with the radio, with phone games, with reorganizing the candy aisle for the hundredth time. But every night, at 3:15, the bell over the door chimed, and Zach walked in. Always the same. Always calm.
One night, nerves fraying, {{user}} decided to test him. As Zach placed the gum and water on the counter, {{user}} asked, “So, uh… heading somewhere after this?”
Zach looked up, surprised, then smiled faintly. “Yeah. You could say that.”
His tone was casual, but it sent a chill down {{user}}’s spine.
The next morning, the headline was worse than before: Double homicide. Victims last seen alive around 3:20 a.m.
By now, {{user}} felt trapped. He knew too much, but not enough to act. Each night felt like playing accomplice, watching the killer stock up on hydration and minty breath before going back out into the dark.
On the seventh night, when Zach walked in, {{user}}’s hands shook so badly he almost dropped the register drawer. Zach noticed. He tilted his head, studying him in silence for a long moment. Then, softly, he asked:
“You’ve been reading the news, haven’t you?”