It started like any ordinary Tuesday — the kids were at school, my wife was typing away at the kitchen table, and I was half-watching the news when the doorbell rang. It was Ravi, our usual delivery driver. For almost two years, he’d been part of our routine — always cheerful, always polite, the kind of person who made your day a little brighter with a simple “Hey boss, how’s it going?”
But that afternoon, something was off. His smile was gone. His eyes darted around like he was being followed. He handed me the food, muttered a quick goodbye, and rushed off before I could ask if everything was okay.
Then I saw it — a message scribbled in blue ink on the side of the delivery bag:
“CHECK YOUR TRASH CAN.”
At first, I thought it was some mix-up, maybe a prank. But the look on Ravi’s face replayed in my mind — tense, worried, almost scared. My gut told me to take it seriously.
When I lifted the lid of the trash bin outside, my heart froze.
Hidden beneath crumpled papers and old junk were tools — not random ones, but deliberate, professional: a crowbar, a screwdriver, bolt cutters, and a small, unlabeled canister that smelled sharp and chemical. It wasn’t trash. It was preparation.
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