A Name He Can’t Escape

The city never truly slept, but at this hour, it exhaled in shallow, uneasy breaths. The streets were mostly empty, shadows stretching under flickering streetlights as Ethan drove through the outskirts of downtown. His hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw clenched as he replayed Samuel Hart's final moments in his mind.

Hart had known about the ledger. And he had known he was going to die.

The way the man had spoken, the defeat in his voice—Hart hadn't tried to run. He had accepted his fate, as if it was something inevitable, something written in stone. And he was right. Even with Ethan's interference, the ledger had found a way.

But someone else had made sure of it.

The sniper. The precision of the shot. It wasn't just bad luck or coincidence. Someone was ensuring the ledger remained accurate.

And now, that someone might be coming for him.

Ethan pulled into a parking garage a few blocks from his apartment. He wasn't about to lead anyone straight home. Years of experience had ingrained paranoia into his bones, and tonight, every nerve in his body screamed that he was being watched.

He killed the engine, sat still, and listened. Silence.

But silence could be deceptive.

In the rearview mirror, something flickered. A figure standing at the garage entrance, just at the edge of the shadows. Ethan kept his expression neutral as he reached for the knife strapped under his dashboard. He counted the seconds, heartbeat steady, as he watched the figure remain motionless.

Then, without warning, the person turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Ethan exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the hilt of the knife. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or more on edge. Whoever it was, they wanted him to know they were there.

That meant one thing—they were coming back.

Ethan locked the door behind him and tossed the ledger onto the table, pacing the length of his apartment. His mind felt like an engine running too hot, overheating with too many questions and not enough answers.

He yanked open the fridge, grabbed a beer, then hesitated before slamming the door shut. He needed a clear head.

Instead, he turned to the ledger.

Slowly, deliberately, he flipped through the pages, searching for patterns, any sign that might explain what the hell was happening. But the names, the times, the way they were crossed out—it was all the same.

Until he reached the last page.

His breath caught in his throat.

There, in fresh black ink, stood a name he had abandoned years ago.

ETHAN CROSS.

The ink was still drying, letters bold and final.

The ledger hadn't just named him.

It had named the man he used to be.

Ethan shoved back from the table, heart hammering against his ribs. His mind scrambled for explanations, rationality, but there was none. Whoever controlled the ledger didn't just know who he was now. They knew who he had been.

Which meant they knew everything.

His past. His secrets. His sins.

His fingers dug into his scalp as he took slow, measured breaths. Think.

What had Samuel Hart said? "It's already done."

Had Hart seen his own name appear, just like Ethan had? Had he known there was no escape?

No. Ethan refused to accept that.

If names could be rewritten, they could be erased. Destroyed.

His eyes snapped to the fireplace.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the ledger and stalked toward the hearth. He didn't hesitate. No second-guessing. No fear. He tossed it into the flames and watched as the fire licked at the edges of the paper, curling the leather cover.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the fire burned higher, brighter—

And then, just as quickly, it snuffed itself out.

Ethan stared in disbelief.

The ledger lay in the ashes, untouched. Not even a scorch mark on the pages.

His pulse pounded in his ears. He reached in, snatched the book from the embers, and flipped it open.

His name was still there.

ETHAN CROSS.

Mocking him. Unchanged.

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

Ethan moved fast, sweeping the ledger off the table and drawing his gun in one fluid motion. He pressed himself against the wall, breathing slow and controlled. Another knock. Steady. Deliberate.

Not Sophia. She had a key.

Not Theresa. She wouldn't be stupid enough to show up unannounced after everything.

Another knock.

Then silence.

Ethan counted to ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

Then, carefully, he stepped forward, gun raised, and opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

But at his feet sat a small, unmarked envelope.

He glanced both ways down the corridor, scanning for movement. Nothing. He bent down, picked up the envelope, and stepped back inside, bolting the door behind him.

With a flick of his knife, he slit the top open and pulled out a single slip of paper.

Two words.

"Run. Now."

Ethan's stomach twisted.

His phone vibrated. Unknown Number.

He hesitated, then answered.

A voice, distorted, hollow: "You should have walked away."

The line went dead.

Ethan stood there, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles went white. He looked down at the ledger still clutched in his other hand, its presence heavier than ever.

Then, for the first time in years, he felt something dangerously close to fear.