Watcher in Blue Cap

Ethan didn't sleep that night.

He sat by the window until dawn, watching streetlights fade has Brinlake stretched awake.His mind kept replaying what has happened at Bainrow—the envelope,the breath behind him,the overwhelming sense that something has followed him home.

By morning, his hands were still shaking.

At 7:14 AM, his phone buzzed.

Pick-up. Box 18. Locker Room B, North Terminal. Code: 2227.

No greeting. No name. Just the instruction.

Ethan stared at the message for a long time before moving. Something had shifted since the hospital. This wasn't just a strange job anymore. This was something else—something darker.

Still, he dressed.

Still, he went.

The North Terminal was one of Brinlake's older courier stations, barely functional, with half the lights flickering and the rest burnt out. Graffiti bled down its outer walls. Inside, the floor tiles were cracked, and a faint smell of oil and rust lingered in the air.

Locker Room B was in the sub-basement. He hadn't even known it existed.

The stairs down were unlit.

He used his phone's flashlight and tried not to think about how many footsteps were echoing back at him—because it was more than his own.

Locker 18 was on the far wall, metal rusted, paint peeling around the edges. He keyed in the code.

2227.

The lock clicked.

Inside was a plain brown package, about the size of a shoebox. No markings. No labels.

But it was warm to the touch.

Not room temperature. Warm, like it had been held. Or like something inside it was... alive.

Ethan didn't wait. He closed the locker, slid the package into his bag, and took the stairs two at a time back into the light.

Outside, the streets were wet from a brief morning rain. The city buzzed like it always did, but he could feel it again—that same watching presence he'd felt in the psychiatric hospital.

He kept walking.

At the corner of Vance and Holloway, he felt it stronger.

That's when he saw him.

A man across the street, just standing there. Tan coat. Jeans. A navy-blue cap pulled low over his face. At first glance, he looked like any other pedestrian waiting for the light to change.

But he wasn't crossing.

He wasn't even blinking.

Just standing.

Watching.

Ethan picked up the pace.

He didn't look back again until he turned onto Halberd Street—and the man was there again, across the intersection. Same blue cap. Same tan coat.

No way he could've gotten ahead of him that fast.

He wasn't walking anymore.

He was following.

Ethan ducked into an alley between a bakery and an old laundromat, heart pounding. He crouched low behind a dumpster, package tight in his arms, trying to slow his breathing.

Bootsteps echoed into the alley.

Deliberate. Slow. Crunching gravel.

Ethan held his breath.

The steps stopped. Just a few feet from where he crouched.

Then—silence.

No movement. No breath. Just stillness.

He waited.

Five seconds. Ten. Twenty.

Then—

"Delivery boy," a voice whispered.

It was right next to him.

Ethan jumped up, swinging his bag wildly. But there was no one there.

The alley was empty.

Completely empty.

He didn't wait to question it. He ran.

The drop-off location was near the waterfront—an old warehouse Ethan didn't even know was still standing. The rusted sign out front read PORT AUTHORITY - D1, but most of the letters had fallen off.

The instructions had been specific: "Back entrance. Loading Dock C. Do not knock. Place the box inside the yellow bin. Walk away."

He followed them exactly.

The loading dock smelled like salt, mold, and something worse—something decayed. The yellow bin was half-filled with shredded paper and stained bubble wrap.

He placed the box gently inside and turned to leave.

Behind him, the warehouse door creaked open a few inches—just enough to let something peer out.

He didn't look.

He didn't need to.

Some instincts were buried deep for a reason.

He made it three blocks away before stopping to catch his breath. His phone buzzed again.

Good work. Keep moving. They saw you.

He froze.

They saw you.

Who was they?

He hadn't told anyone where he was going. He hadn't spoken a word since leaving his apartment. He was beginning to feel like his own thoughts weren't even safe anymore.

He turned to check the street.

Empty.

No footsteps.

No watchers.

And yet—he still felt seen.

At a nearby diner, he ordered coffee just to sit somewhere with people. Somewhere with light and noise. The waitress poured his cup, and as she leaned in, she said without meeting his eyes:

"You dropped this."

She slipped something into his hand without anyone noticing.

It was a napkin. Folded neatly.

He opened it.

Inside, written in smudged pencil:

The man in the blue cap isn't alone.

Trust no one at the checkpoints.

Burn this.

He looked up.

The waitress was already walking away. Laughing with another table like nothing happened.

Ethan stared at the note.

His hand didn't stop shaking.