The rain started again as Ethan stepped out of the dinner.Not the kind that soaked you instantly but a slow, cold drizzle that crept under your collar and reminded you how small you're under Brinlake's vast,grey sky.
He shoved the napkin deeper into his pocket, careful not to wrinkle it, even though it told him to burn it. There was something about the handwriting—quick, desperate strokes—that made him hesitate. Someone had gone out of their way to warn him. That had to mean something.
He took the long way home.
Every alley, every window felt like an eye.
Twice, he caught himself staring into reflections—shopfront glass, bus windows, puddles—half-expecting to see the man in the blue cap staring back. But there was no one.
Not until he got back to his apartment building.
At the foot of the stairs, sitting cross-legged by the entry buzzer, was a kid—maybe ten years old—wearing a school uniform that looked a size too big and shoes that barely matched. His backpack was shaped like a dinosaur, but it was torn at the mouth.
He looked up as Ethan approached.
"You live here?" the kid asked, too calm, like he wasn't sitting in the rain.
Ethan hesitated. "Yeah. Why?"
The kid stood slowly and unzipped his bag.
Out came a small white envelope.
No stamps. No writing.
He held it out. "They said you'd understand."
Ethan didn't take it right away. "Who told you to give me this?"
But the kid just dropped the envelope at his feet, turned, and walked off into the rain. No rush. No backward glance.
Ethan stared after him, then finally picked it up.
Inside was a single Polaroid photograph.
It was grainy, slightly water-damaged, but the image was unmistakable: Ethan, crouched behind the dumpster from the day before—eyes wide, clutching the package. Taken from above. As if someone had been watching from a window.
On the back, someone had scrawled: "There's always another pair of eyes."
He didn't go upstairs right away. Instead, he walked three more blocks to a run-down internet café he used to hang out at in college. It was still open, mostly filled with gamers and people hiding from the rain.
He took a booth near the back, plugged in his headphones, and opened a private browser.
He typed in: "Brinlake hospital fire 1997."
The results were thin. A local news article from twenty-seven years ago. Three lines. "An electrical fire broke out in the west wing of Brinlake General's psychiatric unit late Thursday night. Two staff members injured, one patient dead. Cause still under investigation."
One patient. No name.
Ethan kept digging.
Next search: "Courier locker Room B – North Terminal – access logs."
Nothing. Not even a mention of Locker Room B existing. Just a map of the main floor and the public lockers on Level 1.
He leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
Whatever he'd been pulled into—it was built to stay hidden.
And yet... there was a pattern forming.
Secret drop locations. Shadowy watchers. Polaroids from impossible angles. Kids delivering messages. Notes in napkins.
This wasn't just a job anymore.
It was surveillance.
It was control.
It was a test.
Back at his apartment, he finally burned the napkin—watched it curl and blacken in the sink until it was just ash. But the words lingered in his mind like smoke:
"Trust no one at the checkpoints."
He didn't know what "checkpoints" meant, but he had a feeling he'd find out soon.
And he was right.
The next morning, he got another message.
"Checkpoint A. 8PM. West Brinlake Bridge. Package will find you."
That was it.
No package pickup. No instructions. Just… wait.
By the time the sun started setting, Ethan was pacing under the rusted framework of the West Brinlake Bridge, where water lapped at cracked stone pillars and graffiti covered the railings like battle scars.
At exactly 8:00PM, headlights rounded the curve from the west side of the bridge.
A black sedan pulled up slow, engine still running. Tinted windows.
The passenger side door clicked open.
No one got out.
Ethan approached cautiously. "Hello?"
From inside, a woman's voice: "Get in. Keep your head down."
He hesitated, but the door opened wider. There was no face visible—just shadows.
Something inside told him: this was a line. Once he crossed it, there was no going back.
He slid in and shut the door.
The car took off immediately.
She didn't speak for several blocks.
Then, in a low voice, she said, "You don't know what they've picked you for, do you?"
Ethan didn't answer.
She passed him a small package, square and heavy.
"Take this to Reaver's Point. The parking garage. Third level. Look for a black van. Put it under the front passenger tire."
He stared at her. "What's in it?"
She didn't look at him. "You don't want to know."
Ethan gripped the package tighter. "I'm not a criminal."
She smiled faintly. "Then pray it's not evidence."
The car slowed again.
"Here's your stop."
He got out in the middle of an empty street, the car pulling away into the dark.
Ethan looked down at the package in his hands.
It was ticking.