Chapter 1 — End of Line Bus 08

Mien Dong Bus Station at 11:30 p.m. did not have the hustle and bustle of late trips home, but wore a gray, gloomy, and damp cloak. The sudden shower that fell on the city at the end of the day washed away the dust and smoke, but left behind puddles of water reflecting the yellow, dim lights from rusty streetlights. The screeching sound of the loudspeaker announcing the final bus ride seemed as disjointed and tired as the people huddled together waiting.

Lam Huy pulled up the collar of his frayed windbreaker, shivering as a cold wind blew through the gap in the bus station waiting room. He is an investigative journalist affiliated with the Law & Society page of a famous online newspaper in Saigon. At the age of thirty-five, Huy's eyes were always filled with red blood from countless sleepless nights spent working at the keyboard, and a skeptical, bored look at everything around him. He had just had a bad day: his passionate investigative report on the theft of waste from a large industrial park was mercilessly "cut" by the Editor-in-Chief under invisible pressure from advertising sponsors.

The roar of the engine tore through the quiet night, pulling Huy out of his irritable thoughts. A large bus, with license plate number 08, its body covered in mud, slowly entered the station. This is the last bus trip of the day, the route starts from the city center, runs along the highway, passes through industrial zones and ends in a suburban area in the process of urbanization in Thu Duc area.

Huy stepped into the car, the sound of the folding door screeching loudly. Different from the image of middle-aged, bearded and tattooed male drivers often seen on night routes, sitting behind the wheel of this bulky 08 bus is a young girl.

She has shoulder-length hair, wears a cap that falls down to cover half of her face, revealing a sharp chin and fluttering black eyes, highly focused on the road ahead. She wore a faded blue uniform shirt, rolled up the sleeves to her elbows, revealing her toned, plump arms. The way she puts the gear in gear, reverses the steering wheel, and brakes suddenly is all decisive, neat and powerful, completely controlling the giant machine weighing more than ten tons in slippery road conditions. Her name, written on the small mica sign posted on the dashboard, is Tran Tue.

Huy found a seat at the very end of the bench, out of sight. He likes this position, it gives him an overview of all the passengers in the car, a professional habit that is hard to break.

Besides Huy, the 11:30 p.m. bus tonight only had about five or six passengers. A tired old woman selling lottery tickets fell asleep, her head leaning against the shaking glass window. The young couple hugged each other and whispered loudly in the middle row. A young man covered in tattoos, reeking of alcohol, crossing his legs and snoring. The atmosphere in the car was filled with the smell of gasoline mixed with the lingering sweat of thousands of passengers passing by during the day, creating a stuffy smell typical of public transportation.

The car started rolling, leaving the Eastern bus station, entering the spacious but deserted Hanoi Highway. Neon lights from giant real estate billboards on both sides of the street flashed through the window, illuminating everything Bright, magical light shines on the tired faces inside the car. Saigon at night always has two faces: one luxurious and luxurious, the other dark and struggling. And the passengers on bus 08 clearly belong to the second face.

Huy's attention was attracted by a middle-aged man sitting in the third row from the back door. Unlike the tired and lethargic looks of the others, this guy seemed extremely restless. He wore a dark fleece jacket and a hood that covered his head even though it wasn't too cold. He kept glancing at the clock, then nervously looked out the window into the pitch black darkness. His rough, calloused hands continuously clutched the parachute bag placed on his lap.

The bus turned off the wide main road, onto a bumpy branch road, on both sides were overgrown wastelands, interspersed with giant construction projects in progress, covered with corrugated iron fences. This area is planned to become a high-end ecological urban area, but currently it is nothing more than a messy, dusty and desolate construction site.

"Stop... Dai Nam Dong Urban Area," Tran Tue's voice rang out coldly and evenly through the crackling speaker system.

The car suddenly stopped in front of a waiting station with no lights, lying alone in the middle of a muddy vacant lot near the edge of a construction site surrounded by roofs high above people's heads.

The restless man jumped up like a spring, clutching his bag, hastily bypassing the others and rushing down the side door, not bothering to wait for the door to open completely. He stepped into the mud, glanced around wildly like a hunted animal, then quickly slipped into a dark alley right next to the construction's corrugated iron fence, disappearing in the rain.

Huy frowned. An investigative journalist's intuition told him there was something unusual about this man. Why would a person take the latest bus to get off at a deserted field stop, no houses, only a locked construction site like this? What is he carrying in that bag?

But then, physical fatigue pulled Huy back to reality. He rubbed his temples, telling himself that he was suffering from an occupational disease again. Everywhere he looked, he saw conspiracy theories and criminals lurking. He closed his eyes and let the hum of the engine lull him to sleep.

The bus continued its long journey, dropping passengers one by one down the dark, winding roads of the suburban area. The old woman sold lottery tickets at Binh Phuoc intersection. The young couple landed in the university village. The tattooed guy swore loudly when driver Tue chased him straight to the last stop because he was drunk.

Only Huy was left alone on the spacious bus, slowly turning around and heading towards the night parking lot.

"Last stop. Linh Xuan transfer station. Brother, get off the bus, the line is over!" Tue nodded and called down to the last row of seats through the large rearview mirror. Her voice is clear, filled with the popular, cheerful but also very decisive quality of street workers.

Huy woke up startled, stretched his arms and yawned. He reached for the heavy camera backpack placed next to him. In his haste, he waved his hand and dropped the tiny metal recording pen on the floor of the car. The pen rolled into a dark narrow slot under the last chair, next to the wall of the machine car.

Huy cursed under his breath, turned on his phone's flashlight, and knelt down on one knee to the sticky, muddy floor of the car to grope around.

His hands wandered in the darkness filled with dust and trash. He touched an empty plastic bottle, a crumpled bus ticket, and finally, his fingers touched a soft, rough surface. Not the metal of a recording pen.

Huy curiously took the object out from under the seat and brought it to the dim light of the neon light on the ceiling of the car.

It was a small notebook, about the size of a hand, with a cover made of brown suede that was old and worn and peeling in many places. The notebook has no lock and is loosely tied with a black braided parachute cord. No name, no address, no identifying marks on the outside cover.

"Are things forgotten?" Huy muttered. As the last passenger, he could have turned it in to the driver to put it in the lost and found section. But the inherently curious nature of a journalist emerged strongly. Just a glance, he told himself.

Huy pulled the parachute cord and flipped through the thin, yellowed polythene pages inside.

The handwriting inside is very neat and sturdy, but carries an unusual urgency and haste. It is not a diary to record the feelings and emotions of teenagers, nor is it a book of income and expenditure of traders.

It is a list.

Each page contains only one name, a brief address, and a detailed timeline down to the minute.

*Page 1: Nguyen Van Hung. Carpenter. Temporary settlement area Lot 4. Time: September 2, 2025 - 23:45. (Absent)*

*Page 2: Tran Thi Lan. Selling rice noodles. The foot of Linh Trung overpass. Time: September 15, 2025 - 23:30. (Absent)*

*Page 3: Le Huu Phat. Traditional motorbike taxi. Dai Nam intersection. Time: October 5, 2025 - 23:45. (Absent)*

*Page 4: Vo Van Bon. Freelance bricklayer. Camp number 7. Time: October 18, 2025 - 23:30. (Absent)*

*Page 5: Dinh Trong Quy. Measurement engineer quit his job. Alley 12A. Time: November 1, 2025 - 23:45. (Absent)*

What gives Huy chills is not the unfamiliar names, but the way the writer marks them. Next to each phrase "(Absent)", someone used a pen with red ink to draw a cruel, decisive diagonal X over it. The pen's strokes were deeply imprinted on the thin page, sharp as a knife.

Five names. Four freelance careers. An engineer. All take place in the time frame from 11:30 p.m. to 11:45 p.m. In just three months. And the last note, Dinh Trong Quy, the time is November 1, 2025. Huy glanced at the phone screen. Today is November 8, 2025. Meaning, that last deadly note was written just a week ago.

This is not an attendance list. Huy's sharp intuition honed through dozens of criminal cases screamed warning. This is a watch list. A list of people who are "absent", have completely disappeared from society. Names erased.

"Did you lose something down there, brother? Do you need to help with the light?"

Tue's loud call rang out from the front of the car, pulling Huy awake from his trembling. He quickly closed the sheepskin notebook, stuffed it into his coat pocket inside his chest, and at the same time picked up the recording pen with his other hand.

"No, I found the pen," Huy cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure Face as calm as possible, carry your backpack and walk towards the front door.

When he walked down the steps of the bus, the rain outside had completely stopped, but the air was still cold and damp. Darkness surrounds the large, desolate parking lot.

"This area is very complicated at night. There's all kinds of drug addiction and robbery. When you walk on the main road, remember to look carefully, journalist," Tue said dryly, quickly cleaning the cockpit and wiping the steering wheel with a damp cloth. She recognized the press card hidden in the mesh compartment of Huy's backpack.

Huy paused for a moment, looking at the young driver with searching eyes. "Do you know this area very well?"

Tue stopped, looked up and looked straight into Huy's eyes. His deep black eyes shone with the callousness and thorns of those who make a living by driving in the dark.

"I've been driving this last trip on route 08 for three years now. This car runs through places that no one cares to look at during the day, but at night contains all kinds of social dregs. If there's anything scarier than the darkness in Saigon, it's those who take advantage of the darkness to devour others. Have a safe journey."

She pressed the button to close the car door. Huy stood quietly under the dim high-pressure lights, watching the huge No. 08 bus stumble into the parking lot, like a giant steel monster that had just swallowed the night, falling asleep. His hand was in his coat pocket, clutching the cold sheepskin notebook tightly. Five red names lingered in his mind. Tue is right, Saigon at night always harbors people who take advantage of the darkness to devour others. And it seems like he just accidentally picked up their menu. The last bus on route 08 tonight did not bring him home safely, but took him straight into the vortex of a bloody storm.