Ethan didn't go straight to Reaver's point.
He stood on the corner,the package in his hand like a live wire, it's faint ticking growing louder inside his ears.He couldn't tell if it was real or imagined.The cold air pressed against his neck as if Brinlake itself is trying to lean in and listen.
He scanned the street. No black van. No witnesses. Just the hum of streetlamps and the far-off wail of a siren.
What was in the box? A timer? A bluff? Was it even ticking at all?
He needed answers. And there was only one person who might give them.
Ethan turned east and made his way to a place he hadn't been in years: the old Metropolitan Building. Twelve stories of condemned concrete, its windows boarded up and its entrance padlocked. It had been abandoned for years, ever since a construction accident killed two engineers and sparked rumors of the place being "cursed."
Ethan knew better.
When he was a rookie, he'd made a delivery there—a mistake. The address was erased from the system the next day, and he was told to never mention it. But something about that place had stayed with him. Like unfinished business.
He hopped the chain-link fence and slipped through the rusted service door in the alley—still unlocked, just like back then.
The air inside was thick with mold and silence.
Each step echoed, and his flashlight beam revealed torn wallpaper and crumbling drywall.
He climbed to the fourth floor—where the accident had happened. But he wasn't looking for that floor.
He was looking for the one that wasn't there.
According to city records, the Metropolitan Building had twelve stories. But the elevator shaft had a worn button labeled "13"—scratched out, but still visible under the grime.
When he reached the elevator, it sat open, rusted and sagging. But the control panel was intact.
And the button was there.
He hesitated, then pressed it.
Nothing.
Of course.
But just as he turned to leave, a deep groan echoed through the shaft, and the elevator doors slammed shut behind him. The lights inside flickered on.
The numbers began to climb.
9... 10... 11... 12...
Then a pause.
The 13 flickered into life.
When the doors opened, Ethan wasn't sure he'd gone up at all.
The hallway beyond was dim, lined with old patient files scattered across the floor. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. It looked like a hospital wing—long-abandoned, untouched by time.
At the far end, a single light glowed from behind frosted glass. A nameplate beside it read "Records – Restricted Access."
Ethan approached slowly, every instinct telling him to leave. But the ticking from the package had stopped. Completely.
He knocked once.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside was a cluttered office. Filing cabinets overflowing, binders stacked on chairs, papers pinned to corkboards like a spiderweb of names and dates.
And at the center of it all, a woman sat behind a desk. Mid-fifties, glasses perched on her nose, her eyes scanning a file like Ethan wasn't even there.
Without looking up, she said, "You're early."
Ethan frowned. "You were expecting me?"
She closed the file and finally looked up. Her eyes were pale blue, sharp as scalpels.
"No one gets this far without being chosen. That package didn't come to you by chance."
He held it up. "What is this? A bomb? A test?"
She stood and walked around the desk, circling him like a lecturer sizing up a stubborn student.
"You're part of something now, Ethan. Something that runs under the surface of this city. We monitor. We transfer. We deliver. Not just things—but consequences. Choices."
Ethan gritted his teeth. "That's not an answer."
She stopped in front of him, reached into the folds of her cardigan, and pulled out a key—old, brass, attached to a leather tag that read: R.P.03
"Reaver's Point. Third level. This opens the access panel."
He took it reluctantly.
She leaned in. "You're not delivering the package. You're delivering judgment."
And just like that, she returned to her desk, opened a new file, and waved him off like class was dismissed.
Ethan stepped back into the hall, the key heavy in his hand, the box tucked under his arm.
When he reached the elevator, the doors opened instantly—without him pressing anything.
No buttons lit up this time.
The ride down was silent.
When he exited the building, the rain had stopped, but the city smelled like metal and secrets.
Brinlake never slept. But tonight, it was holding its breath.
Ethan headed for Reaver's Point.
The third level of the garage was empty except for a single black van, parked dead center.
He approached slowly. No sound. No movement.
He found the panel by the support beam. The key slid in with a satisfying click.
Inside was a small console with a red switch.
A note taped above it read: "Only flip if you accept."
Ethan looked at the van. Then at the package.
He flipped the switch.
The van's interior lights snapped on.
Inside, a man sat tied to the front seat. Gagged. Bruised. Awake.
His eyes locked with Ethan's—wide, terrified.
Ethan froze.
The console beeped. A message flashed across a small screen:
"This man murdered a mother and her son last year. Charges were dropped. Evidence was buried. Do you complete the delivery?"
Ethan's heart pounded.
A second button appeared, rising from the console.
Green: ACCEPT
Red: REJECT
The box began ticking again.
The choice was his.
And the city of Brinlake watched in silence.