Ethan didn't sleep.
The city outside was still draped in mist when the first light crawled over the skyline. But inside his apartment, time had stopped — trapped between one breath and the next.
He sat by the window, a half-drained mug of coffee shaking in his hands. The reflection of the mask still haunted the glass, even though the figure itself was gone. He'd checked every corner, every lock, even the ceiling vents — nothing. No sign of entry, no broken latch, no trace of footsteps on the wet balcony.
Yet the faint smell of ozone still lingered in the air.
He glanced at the laptop on his table. It was still there — closed, silent — but he could swear he heard something faint beneath the hum of the city: the whisper of a cooling fan spinning on its own.
4:38 a.m.
He'd been sitting there for over half an hour, waiting for the courage to open it again. The message burned in his mind — "Subject: E. Cole. Status: Pending Integration."
Integration.
What did that even mean?
He looked down at his hands — pale, trembling — and noticed the faintest smear of red ink on his fingertips. Not blood. Ink. Like the kind used on old Graywood documents.
He hadn't touched any.
The clock ticked once, loud in the silence. Then — a sound.
A faint tap-tap-tap from the hallway.
Ethan froze. The rhythm was too deliberate to be the pipes or the wind. Three knocks. A pause. Then one more.
He rose slowly, pulse hammering in his throat. The peephole showed nothing but the dim glow of the corridor light. He hesitated — every instinct screaming not to move — but something about the silence felt worse than the knocking.
He cracked the door open an inch.
No one.
Just a single envelope lying on the floor, half-soaked by the rain seeping under the doorframe. No stamp, no name. Just one word on the front — handwritten in black marker:
RECORD.
Ethan picked it up, fingers trembling. Inside was a small USB drive. No label. No clue.
He turned it over — and that's when he saw it.
On the back of the envelope, scrawled in the same marker:
"Play it before they do."
---
He locked the door, slid the chain into place, and stared at the drive under the weak light of the desk lamp. The casing was scratched, the metal warm to the touch — as if it had been used recently.
His laptop sat there like a trap.
He hesitated. Then, with a shaky breath, plugged the drive in.
The system came to life instantly, skipping the boot process entirely. A single folder opened on the screen by itself — /recordings/.
One file.
Timestamped for tomorrow.
Ethan frowned. "What the hell…?"
He clicked it.
Static filled the screen first — flickering grey and white lines, the faint hum of interference. Then, slowly, the image resolved.
It was his apartment.
This room.
But from a high angle — the corner of the ceiling, just above the bookshelf.
His stomach turned cold.
The video was live.
He could see himself — sitting in front of the laptop, staring at the feed in horror.
Then a line of text appeared across the bottom of the video feed:
> "You're late, Ethan."
He shot up from the chair, scanning the ceiling. Nothing. No red light, no camera. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator, the whine of the city beyond the rain.
The message blinked again, the words rewriting themselves:
> "They're already inside your system. Don't trust what you see."
He stepped back, hand tightening on the edge of the table. "Who are you?" he whispered.
No reply.
Instead, the video feed glitched — and suddenly, the view shifted.
Now it showed him sleeping on the couch from hours ago. The footage was perfectly clear. Every twitch, every breath. And behind him, in the faint light of dawn — a dark silhouette stood in the corner of the frame, motionless.
It wasn't there now.
Ethan's breath hitched. "No… no…"
The screen flickered one last time, and new text appeared:
> "Check your reflection."
He turned toward the window — and froze.
The mist had thickened outside, turning the city into a blur of grey. In the glass, his reflection stared back — pale, hollow-eyed.
Then, behind his reflection, a second face appeared.
The mask.
Closer than it had ever been.
Ethan spun around — nothing. The room was empty.
The laptop chimed softly. A new folder had appeared beside the recording — /Integration_Logs/
And inside it — a single file named:
Cole_Ethan_LiveSync.mp4
He stared at it, trembling.
Outside, the neon glow of Graywood Tower flickered once, and the city's power grid dipped for half a second — enough to make every light in his flat blink at once.
When the power stabilized, the video file had changed its name.
Now it read:
/Cole_Ethan/Status: Active.
Ethan stared at the USB drive, its metallic body cold against his skin. The phrase before they do looped endlessly in his mind like a siren he couldn't shut off.
He glanced again at the laptop — that silent, waiting machine — and for a long moment, he couldn't bring himself to move. His breath fogged the air, though the room wasn't cold. Somewhere beneath his ribs, fear tightened like a rope.
He finally rose, crossed to the table, and slid the drive into the port.
The screen came alive instantly. No booting sound. No command prompt. Just a flicker — like someone on the other end had been waiting for him.
Then the video started.
Static first. Then a dimly lit room. A camera facing a chair. The chair was empty. Behind it, a wall of glass — or perhaps, a window reflecting someone watching.
Ethan leaned forward, frowning. The timestamp in the corner read 04:02 a.m. The same time he'd heard the knocking.
Then, movement.
Someone stepped into the frame.
The mask.
The same reflective, chrome-white mask from the night before. The figure sat down in the chair, hands resting calmly on its knees. It tilted its head slightly, as though studying him through the screen.
"Ethan Cole," the voice distorted through the speakers. Male, but processed. Calm. Too calm.
"You've opened the file. That means you've seen it."
Ethan's throat went dry. He tried pausing the video — nothing. The cursor wouldn't move. The keyboard was dead.
"You work for Graywood Innovations," the voice continued. "You've seen the projects. The codes. The names. You think you understand what you've been part of."
A pause. The masked figure leaned closer.
"But you don't."
The lights in Ethan's apartment flickered. Once. Twice.
The figure raised its hand — gloved, motionless. Then the screen split.
Two windows now — one showing the masked man, and the other… Ethan himself. Live feed.
He staggered back, chair clattering to the floor. The video feed showed him moving, breathing — the same exact angle as his window.
Ethan turned.
Across the street, a red light blinked from a building opposite his apartment. A lens, pointed directly at him.
The voice on the video spoke again, lower now.
"They've been watching you since the night you left the bar. You weren't supposed to see the file, Ethan. But now you have."
The sound of the laptop fan rose, whining into a sharp metallic pitch.
"Before they reach you," the voice said, "find the one who signed the Graywood Memo. The one who wrote Project Helix."
The masked figure leaned so close the screen glowed silver across the lenses.
"Because if you don't… they'll find you first."
The video froze.
Ethan's breath came in shallow bursts. He reached for the laptop — but the screen went black. Then a single line of text appeared, pulsing faintly at the center:
"Integration begins now."
The lights cut out completely.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And somewhere beyond the walls, something started moving — slow, deliberate footsteps echoing up the stairwell toward his door.