Brinlake didn't sleep.It murmured —low, constant and restless like something breathing in the dark.By the time Ethan emerged from the substation,dawn had cracked the sky,but the cloud turned it a sickly orange.Rain threatened,heavy and still clinging to the edge of the wind.
He had the notebook in his coat. It weighed more than it should.
Every few blocks, he stopped in shadowed corners or behind old newsstands, checking over his shoulder. The map inside the book wasn't just a series of tunnels and substations—it had names. Code names, symbols. Places marked in red and underlined like they meant something urgent.
The first one was called "Lion's Den."
No address, just an icon—a crouched lion beneath a flickering neon sign. Ethan recognized it. A tattoo parlor turned into a bar in South Brinlake. Used to be owned by some ex-con named Diggs, if memory served.
It was far. And risky.
But it was a lead.
By mid-morning, Ethan had traded his hoodie for a secondhand jacket from a street vendor and tucked his hair under a beanie. He avoided cameras. Cut through alleyways. Watched reflections in windows more than the streets ahead.
South Brinlake was older, grimier. Built on rust and regret. Most buildings had been abandoned and reclaimed as housing by squatters or converted into illegal clubs. The further he walked, the more the city felt like a different country entirely—lawless, thick with forgotten corners.
He found the Lion's Den tucked between a closed pawn shop and a collapsed arcade. The windows were boarded, the entrance barely marked by a cracked sticker on the glass door: a lion head missing half its mane.
Ethan stepped inside.
The place was nearly empty. Graffiti covered the walls. A few broken pool tables lined the back. A long counter sat against the wall, and behind it was a bald man polishing a glass with the kind of disinterest that came from years of seeing too much.
He didn't look up. "If you're here for ink, I stopped doing art three years ago."
"I'm looking for someone," Ethan said.
The man's eyes lifted. "Aren't we all"
Ethan reached into his coat and took out the black notebook. He didn't show it—just held it up enough for the man to see the frayed edge.
There was a pause. Then the glass clinked gently onto the counter.
"What page?"
"Nineteen," Ethan said.
The man stared a second longer, then motioned with his chin toward the back.
Ethan followed him through a door, down a flight of creaky stairs, and into a concrete basement.
It was colder there. Smelled faintly of bleach and steel.
At the far end of the room, three people sat at a table covered in maps, photos, and old phones. They all turned when Ethan entered. One was a woman in her 50s, thin with a permanent scowl and a scar across her temple. The second was a guy no older than twenty, sleeves rolled up, hands covered in ink and grease. The third was harder to place—short, solid, calm. Like a soldier trying not to look like one.
The bald man spoke first. "He's got Caleb's book."
That shifted the room.
The older woman stood. "You're the new mark, then?"
"I guess so."
"Name?"
"Ethan Cole."
She nodded slowly. "I'm Marla. That's Finch," she pointed to the younger man, "and that's Grayson."
Grayson gave a slight nod. Ethan noticed a long-healed bullet scar on his neck.
"Sit down," Marla said. "We've got a lot to catch you up on."
Ethan sat, placing the notebook on the table.
"Where'd you find it?" Finch asked, already flipping through pages.
"Maintenance station under the Brinlake Grid. Found it by accident."
"Nothing's by accident," Grayson murmured.
Ethan glanced between them. "You all in this thing?"
"We're what's left of those who made it out," Marla said. "Some of us were drivers. Some were targets. Some… didn't know what they were until it was too late."
"I got a key. Then the package. They wanted me to deliver it to an apartment downtown. A guy named Elias Wynn."
Marla's jaw tightened. "Wynn's dead."
"I didn't kill him."
"No, but someone used your delivery as cover. That's how it works. You're the decoy. The loose thread. They watch how you react."
"Who's 'they'?" Ethan asked.
"The Chain," Grayson said. "We don't know who started it. Maybe it began as a cleanup operation. Maybe something worse. But they have eyes in everything—old tech, dead systems, even buildings no one remembers. You're part of it now, and there's no going back."
"They'll come for me."
"They already are," Finch said, pointing at a monitor in the corner. On it, a fuzzy black-and-white feed showed the alley behind the bar.
A black van had just turned into view.
"Same van from my first delivery," Ethan said.
Marla moved fast. "Grayson. Contingency Two."
Grayson opened a locker and pulled out a duffel bag, tossing it to Ethan. "It's got burner phones, IDs, cash. New jacket too."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Disappear," Marla said. "Head to the second mark on the map. Page thirty-one. Safehouse in the west ward. We'll reconnect in two days."
"What about the van?"
"Leave that to us."
Ethan hesitated.
Grayson stepped forward, lowering his voice. "Don't play hero. We've lost better people who tried. Survive first. That's the only rule."
Ethan nodded.
He took the bag and followed Finch through a hidden stairwell that opened into a boarded-up storefront. They emerged into the morning streets just as the rain finally broke, drenching the world in seconds.
Ethan vanished into the downpour, bag over his shoulder, map in his hand, eyes forward.
The game had changed.
He wasn't just surviving now—he was part of something.
And the next move was his.