The rain hadn't stopped.It fell in sheets, drumming on Brinlake rooftops like a warning no one could hear.
Ethan Cole moved fast, slipping between buildings, avoiding cameras, light, and eyes. His breath fogged in the cold, and the duffel bag slapped against his back with every step. Page thirty-one. West Ward.Safehouse. That was the next destination. The city around him felt hungrier now—its corners sharper, its shadows deeper.
The further west he went, the older everything looked. Rows of abandoned motels, gutted storefronts, and burned-out cars formed a kind of decaying border. People didn't walk here unless they had nowhere else. And those who lived in West Ward didn't ask questions.
He ducked into an alley off Crown Street and pulled the notebook from the bag. Page thirty-one. A hand-drawn X on a crumbling square marked "Morrow Industrial." Just beneath it, a warning:
"Enter alone. Trust no one. Stay only one night."
That didn't sit well, but Ethan had no better options.
It took him thirty minutes to find the place. Morrow Industrial had once been a textile warehouse. Now it looked like a carcass. Half the roof was gone, and the metal siding had curled with rust. A single, twisted sign still hung over the door.
He knocked once. Waited. Knocked again.
No answer.
He stepped inside, the floor creaking underfoot. The air smelled of wet concrete and old machine oil. A staircase to the left led to an office space above. The door at the top had a red smear across it—paint, he hoped.
Inside the room, someone had tried to make it livable. A mattress lay in one corner, a lantern and canned food nearby. A cracked mirror was nailed to the wall. On the floor, someone had drawn strange symbols in chalk—half-faded, but still visible.
He locked the door behind him and sat on the mattress, his body finally screaming from fatigue. He let the duffel drop and opened it. Two burner phones. A small pistol. Cash. Extra clothes. No names, no identifiers. Every piece screamed preparation.
Who the hell had Caleb been?
Ethan lit the lantern. Its flickering glow turned the warehouse into a haunted cathedral. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed. The city never let go for long.
He opened the notebook again. Flipped through pages at random. Page forty had a list of codes, most crossed out. Page forty-seven had a map of an underground tunnel network labeled "Operation Ember." A name caught his eye near the bottom.
"See: Maxwell Juno — Initiated 12/19 — Terminated?"
He didn't know the name, but something about it stuck.
He was still flipping through when the phone in the duffel vibrated.
Unknown number.
He froze.
It buzzed again.
Against all instinct, Ethan answered.
A voice came through—calm, composed, male.
"You're early."
Ethan didn't speak.
"That's alright," the voice continued. "Caleb was early, too. Just not fast enough."
"Who is this?" Ethan asked.
"I'm someone watching the clock tick down. You've moved the hand, Ethan. We didn't expect that."
"What do you want?"
The voice paused.
"To see if you're a problem. Or just another name we'll cross out."
The line went dead.
Ethan stared at the phone until the screen faded to black. His heart pounded. He wanted to believe it was a prank, but he knew better. They were watching. Maybe they always had been.
He turned off the phone, stuffed it back in the bag, and stood. Sleep was out of the question now.
Instead, he searched.
Behind a loose panel in the wall, he found an old box—wooden, covered in dust. Inside was a stack of Polaroids, all showing different people standing in front of the same white wall. Everyone had a red number written across the top corner. #6. #12. #19. #24.
Faces of fear. Some had their eyes closed. Some were mid-sentence, mouths twisted in half-formed words. Ethan flipped through them, sickened.
At the bottom of the pile, one photo was newer.
It was him.
Standing outside his apartment, delivering the package to Elias Wynn.
The timestamp was from two days ago.
Ethan dropped the photo, heart slamming into his ribs.
Someone had been right there. Watching. Recording.
He stumbled back and nearly knocked over the lantern. He caught it in time, but his fingers burned from the heat.
He needed to get out.
As he stuffed the photo into the notebook and packed his things, a loud knock echoed from below.
Three knocks.
Then silence.
Ethan turned off the lantern and backed against the far wall. He drew the pistol with shaking hands and waited. The knock came again—louder, deliberate.
Then a voice.
"Caleb, it's Juno."
Ethan didn't respond.
"Open the damn door. I know you're in there."
He crept to the window and peered through a gap in the boards. Below, a man in a leather jacket stood under the warehouse's broken light, holding something in his hand.
A notebook.
Ethan's heart stopped.
Another black notebook, nearly identical to his.
"I'm not Caleb," Ethan finally called out.
The man looked up.
"I know. But you've got his key."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Maxwell Juno," he said, and his voice cracked. "And if we don't leave now, you're going to die in that room."