The sterile scent of antiseptic usually made Quianna Ross feel grounded, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of her daily life as a corporate intern. But today, even the familiar hum of the hospital seemed to mock the frantic beat of her own heart.

“Your father was in a car accident! He’s in the hospital now!” Her mother’s hysterical words still echoed in her ears, a cruel hammer blow against the fragile peace she’d tried to maintain.

Now, standing outside the operating room, the white walls blurred, and the muffled cries of her mother felt like a physical weight. Quianna squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the memory of a cryptic message she’d dismissed hours ago: 'Your father will die tonight, at exactly 6 pm. He will die from a car accident and the killer will not be arrested immediately.' She’d thought it was a sick prank. Now, it was a terrifying prophecy.

The operating room doors hissed open, and the doctors emerged, their faces grim. “We’re sorry… he lost too much blood.” The words hung in the air, a death knell that shattered Quianna’s world. She felt her legs give way, but she had to be strong, for her mother. Clutching her phone, she scrolled through messages of condolences, until one, from an unsaved number, made her blood run cold: the exact message she’d received earlier.

As Dylan led her away, the weight of the prophecy settled over her. Was this a pre-meditated murder? Was she just watching too many movies? Then, another message vibrated, chilling her to the bone: 'A huge flowerpot will be falling over you. For that you will be hospitalized for weeks.' Quianna looked up, and saw it.