The Ledger’s Rules

Ethan sat in his car outside a twenty-four-hour diner, the ledger resting on the passenger seat like an unwanted passenger. A cup of untouched coffee cooled in his grip as he stared through the windshield, mind tangled in calculations and half-formed theories.

The ledger had been wrong. Or rather, he had changed it. Theresa Whitmore was supposed to be dead, but she wasn't. That meant the deaths in the ledger weren't absolute. They could be rewritten.

But at what cost?

His phone buzzed, jarring him from his thoughts. Theresa. He let it ring. She'd been calling since last night, desperate for answers. And despite his warnings, she wasn't backing down.

Eventually, the buzzing stopped. He let out a slow breath, glancing at the time. 4:47 AM.

Carefully, he flipped open the ledger.

Theresa's name was still there, but instead of a red line striking through it, the ink had faded, like a memory on the verge of being forgotten. A smudge, rather than a solid truth. Beneath it, fresh ink bled onto the page.

Samuel Hart – 6:02 AM.

Ethan clenched his jaw. Another name. Another clock ticking down.

He needed to know if this was just another stranger on borrowed time—or if it was all connected.

Theresa wasn't surprised when Ethan finally called.

"I thought you were going to ignore me forever," she said, voice sharp but edged with relief.

"Meet me in fifteen minutes," he said. "And pack a bag."

A pause. "Excuse me?"

"If you want to live, you need to disappear. For good."

"Like hell," she shot back. "You saved my life. You don't get to just erase me now."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Theresa—"

"No. You want to scare me off? Give me the truth."

Ethan exhaled, resisting the urge to hang up. He should have. But something about the way she spoke, the way she refused to accept what had happened to her, reminded him of himself. Of the man he used to be.

"Fine," he said. "But you're not going to like it."

Theresa sat across from him in the dingy diner, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. Her eyes, sharp and too observant, flicked from his face to the ledger resting between them.

"So," she said, voice quiet but steady. "You're telling me this book predicts deaths?"

He nodded. "Down to the minute."

"And you just... happened to have it?"

"It appeared in my apartment."

She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Right. Because that's normal."

Ethan didn't smile. "No, it's not."

She studied him, then the book, before shaking her head. "Alright. Let's say I believe you. What happens if you save someone?"

"I don't know yet."

"Great," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "And let me guess—someone wants you dead because of this?"

His grip tightened around his coffee cup. "That part's still unclear."

"Unclear," she repeated, giving him a look that said she wasn't buying it. "You know what's really unclear, Daniel—or whatever your name actually is? Why I shouldn't just take this thing and burn it."

"Because it won't burn," he said simply.

Her expression faltered.

He flipped through the pages, letting her see the ink shifting in real time, bleeding new names onto the paper.

She paled. "Jesus."

Ethan turned the book back toward himself. "I need to test something."

Theresa hesitated before nodding. "Okay."

"New names only appear after a death," he said. "That means if I can stop one, maybe I can control what happens next."

She frowned. "But you already did that. I should be dead."

"You were already listed when I stopped it. I need to know if I can prevent the book from adding names in the first place."

A beat of silence passed. Then, reluctantly, she nodded. "How?"

He tapped the fresh name at the bottom of the page. Samuel Hart – 6:02 AM.

"We find him before time runs out."

5:46 AM

Samuel Hart was a schoolteacher. At least, according to the online records Ethan had pulled in the last thirty minutes. Divorced. One child. No criminal history, no debts, no connections to anything shady.

So why the hell was he next?

Ethan parked across the street from Hart's apartment building, scanning the sidewalk for movement. The street was quiet, empty except for the occasional flicker of headlights in the distance.

Beside him, Theresa shifted in the passenger seat, still visibly rattled but too stubborn to walk away.

"So what's the plan?" she asked.

Ethan checked his watch. 5:54 AM. Eight minutes.

"I go in. You stay here."

She scoffed. "Yeah, that's not happening."

"Theresa."

"No." She turned to face him fully. "If I leave now, I'll never know. I have to see this through."

Ethan stared at her for a long moment before cursing under his breath. "Fine. But stay behind me."

They moved quickly, slipping through the building's entrance just as a resident exited. The elevator was too risky, so they took the stairs, reaching the third floor in under a minute.

5:59 AM.

Ethan scanned the hallway, tension coiling in his gut. Apartment 3B. A sliver of light shone beneath the door. He knocked once.

No answer.

He tried again. "Samuel Hart?"

A shuffling sound. Then—

The distinct click of a gun being cocked.

Ethan reacted instantly, grabbing Theresa and pulling her flat against the wall just as the door burst open. A man stood in the doorway, wild-eyed and shaking, a revolver clutched in his hands.

Samuel Hart.

His gaze darted between them. "Who sent you?"

"We're not here to hurt you," Ethan said, voice calm but firm. "We're here to help."

Hart let out a hollow laugh. "Help? That's rich." He gestured toward the hallway with the gun. "Turn around. Walk away."

"Samuel," Ethan said carefully, noting the man's pale face, the sweat gathering at his temple. "Do you know what the ledger is?"

Something in Hart's expression shattered at those words. His grip tightened on the gun. "You need to leave. Now."

Ethan took a slow step forward. "If you leave with us, you might have a chance. But if you stay here—"

"Don't you get it?" Hart's voice cracked. "It's already done."

Ethan's stomach dropped.

6:02 AM.

A single shot rang out.

For a second, Ethan thought Hart had turned the gun on them. But as the man staggered back, eyes wide, Ethan saw the red stain blooming across his chest.

A sniper.

"Get down!" Ethan tackled Theresa just as another shot shattered the window.

Hart collapsed, the ledger in Ethan's pocket warming like a living thing.

Samuel Hart – 6:02 AM. Crossed out.

The book hadn't just predicted his death.

It had ensured it.

Ethan gritted his teeth. This wasn't just about stopping names from appearing.

Someone was making sure the ledger stayed accurate.