The room was dark when Ethan's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, the world didn't make sense — shadows shifting where walls should be, a hum beneath his skin that didn't feel like his heartbeat. He was sitting upright on the floor, back against the couch, breathing in shallow bursts. His fingers were cold, damp with sweat. He didn't remember falling asleep.
He looked toward the window.
The blinds were half-open. Beyond them, the city glowed faintly under the drizzle. Streetlights shimmered in the puddles below, and the neon pulse of a sign across the street stuttered through the fog: GRAYWOOD TOWER — ALWAYS AHEAD.
He swallowed. The last thing he remembered was that same building — and the masked figure inside his flat.
But now… nothing. No footprints. No broken lock. Just the empty stillness of a room pretending everything was fine.
Then he saw it — the faint smudge of a handprint on the glass, too high to be his.
A chill went down his spine.
Rain ticked against the window, soft and patient. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed and faded into the distance. Ethan rubbed his face with trembling hands. His head felt heavy, his thoughts fogged, like something had been taken from him in the night.
Then his phone rang.
4:00 A.M.
The screen glowed faintly on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood. Caller ID: Dawson Reeve.
Ethan's blood ran cold.
He hesitated — one ring, two — then answered.
Nothing.
Just static. Then faint breathing, slow and uneven, as if the caller was trying not to be heard.
"Who is this?" Ethan whispered, voice rough.
The silence stretched — then a voice came through, cracked and urgent, like it was fighting against interference.
«"Don't look for me… they'll erase you next."»
Ethan's chest tightened. "Dawson?"
The line went dead.
He stared at the phone. The call screen blinked once — then blacked out completely. The device was still warm in his hand, but it wouldn't turn back on. He pressed the power button again, and again.
Nothing.
Then, on its own, the phone rebooted. The Graywood logo flickered, then disappeared.
No call record. No trace. No data.
Like the call had never happened.
But in the faint reflection on the black screen, Ethan caught movement — his reflection… except it moved a heartbeat after he did.
He dropped the phone.
The air in the flat felt wrong — thick, humming, alive. Every electric hum sounded louder, every shadow heavier. He didn't wait to think. He grabbed his coat, the spare key, and left.
---
CLARA'S APARTMENT
The city was still drenched when Ethan reached Camden. Dawn was hours away. The streets glistened under the amber glow of lamps, rain falling in thin silver lines. Clara's address had come from Graywood's personnel archive — a file he'd copied weeks ago out of curiosity.
The building was one of those forgotten blocks from the 1970s — brick and mildew, narrow hallways, mailboxes stuffed with yellowing papers. The stairwell smelled of rust and candle wax.
Her door was open.
He froze, hand hovering above the frame.
"Clara?" he called softly.
No answer.
He stepped inside.
The air was dense with the scent of burnt wax and old paper. Candles had melted to puddles on the floor, the wicks drowned in their own wax. Curtains drawn. Every corner heavy with silence.
And the walls—
They were covered.
Newspaper clippings, photographs, screenshots of internal memos. Red threads connected faces, departments, and numbers that spiraled into one center photo: EVELYN CROWE.
Ethan moved closer, scanning. Every string converged on her — the elusive founder of Graywood. Dates stretched back decades. Beneath her portrait, words scrawled in black marker: PHOENIX DOESN'T DIE. IT REBOOTS.
He swallowed hard.
Then he saw it — his own photo, pinned beside Dawson Reeve's. Between them, a note written in hurried black ink:
«"One dead. One marked."»
His throat tightened. He looked around the apartment — no sign of struggle, but nothing felt untouched. A coffee cup on the desk still steamed faintly.
Her laptop sat open, casting a pale blue glow.
He approached slowly, eyes darting around.
On the screen — a document mid-sentence, half-typed, abandoned:
«"…he found 9-B…"
"…they'll use him next…"
"…if he calls again, don't answer…"»
The cursor blinked at the end of the next line:
«"If you're reading this, it's already started."»
Ethan stepped back. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Then — creak.
A floorboard behind him.
He spun.
Nothing. Just darkness and the faint drip of water from a leaking pipe.
He exhaled shakily, forcing himself to move. He scanned the room again — that's when he noticed the sound. A faint hum from the closet, mechanical, rhythmic.
He opened the door.
A small camera lens stared back at him, red light blinking once before it went dark.
He ripped it out, threw it across the room — glass shattered. The hum died.
Somewhere below, a door slammed.
Ethan froze. Someone else was in the building.
He shut the laptop, slipped it under his arm, and backed out of the flat as quietly as possible. Every step down the stairwell echoed too loud. By the time he reached the ground floor, he could hear footsteps descending above him.
He didn't look back.
---
THE ECHO FILE
Dawn was creeping through the blinds when Ethan reached his flat again. The city outside looked washed-out, silent, barely awake. He set Clara's laptop on the table, dropped into his chair, and stared at it.
He shouldn't open it. Every instinct screamed no.
But he couldn't stop himself.
The moment he touched the trackpad, the screen came to life. No password. No delay.
And there it was — a single file on the desktop.
Ledger Entry 0.
He blinked. He'd watched this file get deleted days ago. Now it sat here again, perfectly intact, only renamed:
Ledger_1_EthanCole.
His chest went tight.
He double-clicked.
The document opened — not a ledger this time, but an audit log. Every file he'd accessed in Graywood's system. Every timestamp, every entry, every keystroke. Line after line scrolling endlessly down the page, tracking his entire investigation.
At the bottom, a new line appeared — typing itself.
«"Initiated by: E. Cole — Termination Sequence."»
Ethan's mouth went dry. He looked at the clock on his desk.
4:06 A.M.
The timestamp on the screen read 04:07.
He had sixty seconds.
"No…" he whispered, slamming the lid shut. He yanked the power cord, but the faint glow still bled through the casing — pulsing, like a heartbeat.
He backed away, pulse racing.
Then his phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
One message.
«"You can't delete yourself."»
Ethan stared at the text, hands trembling. The message deleted itself instantly.
The laptop clicked open on its own.
The cursor blinked once. Then letters began to form, one after another, deliberate and cold.
«"Subject: E. Cole. Status: Pending Integration."»
The screen stayed lit, humming faintly in the dark.
And outside, somewhere beyond the rain-washed window, the reflection of a mask hovered in the glass — waiting.