Darwin. Northern Territory. The 4th of June 2019. 5.39pm

The city moved in its usual rhythm, even under the oppressive weight of the late afternoon humidity. The tropical heat clung to streets and buildings like a wet blanket. The scent of saltwater drifted from the harbour, mingling with the faint aroma of frangipani and tropical blooms. 

Palm trees lined the streets, swaying gently in a warm breeze that carried the distant hum of cicadas.

Tourists shuffled back toward motels after long days exploring the waterfront, the markets, and the lush greenery of the botanical gardens. Some paused at street-side cafes for a final iced coffee, wiping sweat from their foreheads, unaware that the ordinary rhythm of the city was about to fracture.

At the Palms Motel on Finniss Street, tucked among low-rise units and tropical foliage, that calm shattered in an instant.

A deafening shotgun blast tore through the air, rattling windows and walls, a violent punctuation against the ordinary hum of city life. Guests screamed and scattered, pressed themselves against bathroom tiles, and crawled beneath beds, clutching whatever they could grab. Each blast ricocheted down narrow corridors, bouncing off walls, doors, and mirrors, creating a chaotic, terrifying symphony that seemed to stretch the moments into eternity.

The gunman moved deliberately through the motel, a pump-action shotgun clutched firmly in his hands. His heavy boots thumped against the worn carpet, deliberate, steady. His voice cut through the panic, sharp and demanding:

“Where’s Alex? Where the fuck is Alex?”

Guests froze, faces pale with shock. Every hallway became a trap. Every doorway a potential threat. The air vibrated with fear, broken only by the echoing blasts and the frantic cries of those caught in the corridor.

The ordinary calm of Darwin—a city usually defined by its laid-back, tropical ease—had been replaced with sudden, unpredictable terror.