The rain had returned by evening,the kind that made Brinlake feel like it was sinking.The gutters overflowed reflecting the yellow glow of flickering streetlamps, and the alleys ran like thin rivers between buildings that looked older than time itself. Ethan kept his hood up as he walked, avoiding puddles and people. He'd spent most of the day holed up in his apartment, staring at that damn business card Detective Bennett had left.
But he couldn't shake what he saw at 47 Ashmoor Lane.
The delivery logs.
His name written down before he ever stepped into that place.
And the man—gaunt, pale, and cold-eyed—who vanished into nothing.
Something about the city had shifted. Or maybe he had.
He turned down an alley near the old train station, hoping to cut through to Abbey Street. That's when he saw the man standing at the other end. He wasn't moving. Just standing, like he'd been waiting.
Ethan slowed.
The man was average height, face obscured by a low cap and the shadows cast by the narrow passage. No umbrella, no jacket—just a plain black hoodie soaked through. Strange thing was, he wasn't shivering. Wasn't even blinking.
Ethan swallowed hard, the hairs on his neck prickling.
He told himself it was nothing. Just a guy. A weird one, maybe, but Brinlake had plenty of those. Still, as he moved forward, something inside him tightened. The guy hadn't moved at all.
Just watched.
When Ethan was about halfway through the alley, the man suddenly turned and disappeared down a side path. Silent. Fast.
Ethan hesitated. He could turn back—but something told him not to. Instead, he followed. Not out of bravery. Out of a need to understand. Maybe this was connected. Maybe that man had something to do with the package. The delivery, and that house.
The side path opened into a smaller alley, even darker. The walls were covered in graffiti and old posters. Trash spilled from dented bins. He stepped cautiously, listening to the wet squelch of his boots.
Then he heard it. A whisper.
"Cole."
His breath caught.
The voice had no clear direction. Like it came from everywhere at once.
"Who's there?" he called, his voice sharp but unsteady.
No answer.
He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness in a narrow cone—and landed on something taped to the wall ahead.
A small, square envelope.
It was stuck beneath an old flier. Ethan stepped closer, heart pounding. The envelope was unmarked. No name. No seal. Just…waiting for him.
He hesitated for a long second before peeling it off the wall.
Inside was a single photo. A blurry, nighttime image of someone walking near the pier —someone who looked just like him.
Behind the figure in the photo, half hidden by shadow, was another person. Tall. Lean. A faint white blur for a face. Watching.
Ethan's blood turned to ice.
Then his phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
"You're late for the next one."
No name. No context. Just that.
His heart pounded as he turned to leave—but the alley wasn't empty anymore.
The man from before stood at the entrance, blocking the exit. Still unmoving.
Ethan backed up.
Another figure stepped out behind him.
Now he was boxed in.
The second man wore gloves, his face hidden behind a black mask. He held something in his hand—a long, thin package wrapped in brown paper.
"Take it."the man said, his voice muffled but clear. "It's yours now".
"I didn't ask for this." Ethan replied, panic in his throat.
"But you opened the first one."the man said. "That was the agreement."
"What agreement!. I didn't agree to anything!"
The man in the mask took a step closer, holding out the package.
Ethan looked between them. Something told him this wasn't just a threat—it was a test. Refuse, and things might get worse. Accept, and he might dig deeper into whatever mess he'd stumbled into.
His hand shook as he reached out and took it.
The men stepped back, simultaneously, into the shadows.
And then… they were gone.
Just like that.
Ethan stood alone in the alley, rain dripping from the edges of his hood, clutching the mysterious package like it was a bomb.
He didn't know what was inside.
But deep down, he knew—it was only the beginning.
Then came the sound of distant footsteps, faint but approaching. He turned around quickly, expecting one of the men to return, but the alley was empty again. Still, something shifted in the air. That sensation of being watched. It clawed at the back of his mind.
He stuffed the package into his backpack and walked fast, not stopping until he was out of the alley and back on a well-lit street. The normalcy of passing cars and neon signs did little to calm him. It all felt like a facade now, like the real Brinlake lived in the shadows—hidden just beneath the surface.
Back at his apartment, he locked the door, pulled the curtains tight, and set the package on the kitchen counter. It sat there, silent, ordinary. But nothing about this was ordinary. He didn't dare open it. Not yet.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found someone he hadn't spoken to in over a year.
Callum Wade.
They used to work together at Grayline Couriers, before Callum got fired for digging into deliveries that weren't his. Everyone thought he was paranoid. But Ethan remembered the fear in his eyes. The way he talked about things that didn't make sense—packages that couldn't be traced, clients that didn't exist.
Maybe Callum had seen this side of Brinlake before. Maybe he had answers.
Ethan hesitated for just a second, then hit "Call."
The line rang. Once. Twice.
And then, someone picked up.
But the voice on the other end wasn't Callum's.
"He shouldn't have talked to you," the voice said.
And the line went dead.