Between two choices

Ethan's hand hovered over the console,his finger trembling.The green and red buttons glowed beneath his skin like they were burning through him, daring him to decide.

The man in the van's front seat thrashed in his restraints, muffled noises spilling past the gag. Panic radiated from his eyes, full of terror, but more than that—recognition.

Ethan narrowed his gaze. "You know me?"

The man stopped moving.

The box in Ethan's arms let out a sharp click, and he jolted back. The ticking stopped again. Silence.

It wasn't a bomb. Not yet.

A final test.

Ethan stepped closer to the van, lifting the flap of brown paper that had partially peeled from the box. On the inside, in tiny black type, were two sentences:

"You choose. No one else will. No one else can."

He turned back to the console.

This wasn't about justice. It wasn't about law. It was about control. Someone—something—was pushing him to act, using secrecy and fear as levers.

The man gagged in the front seat began crying. Not loudly—more like a leaking pipe. A grown man in silent collapse.

Ethan opened the van's driver-side door.

"No one's coming," he said. "You and me. Right here."

The man squinted through the tears and nodded.

Ethan pulled the gag down. "Talk. You've got one shot."

"I didn't kill anyone!" the man spat. "I was framed! I—I don't know what they told you, but I was a cab driver, not a killer!"

Ethan's heart pounded.

"They said you killed a woman and her son. Evidence was buried. Case dismissed."

The man shook his head violently. "I drove the car that night, yes. But I didn't know what was happening. The guy who paid me—it was a setup. I was supposed to pick someone up, that's all. I swear to God. The cops—someone bought them off. They erased everything."

Ethan stepped back. The words spun in his head like a storm.

That voice—why did it sound familiar?

He squinted at the man's face again. Then it hit him.

Two years ago, Ethan was delivering in East Brinlake when he saw a woman running down an alley, clutching her child. Behind her, a dark sedan peeled off. Ethan had called it in anonymously.

He remembered the cab parked at the corner, its driver motionless, staring straight ahead.

This was him.

Same eyes. Same jawline. He wasn't the attacker. He was the lookout. Or the pawn.

Ethan felt sick.

This wasn't judgment. It was manipulation.

He stared at the buttons again—green and red.

He could walk away. Or he could press green and be the sword someone else was too afraid to wield.

His fingers moved toward red.

Then the van's side door slammed shut—by itself.

Ethan spun around.

He wasn't alone.

A shadow moved across the far end of the garage.

He ducked low and backed against the van. His breath caught in his chest.

Then came the sound: soft, deliberate footsteps.

Out of the darkness, a man appeared. Well-dressed. Slim. A charcoal trench coat swayed around his legs like a curtain.

"You're not supposed to speak to the subject," the man said calmly. His voice was smooth, like glass on pavement. "That violates protocol."

Ethan clenched his fists. "Who the hell are you?"

The man smiled faintly. "A monitor. I'm here to ensure the transition proceeds."

"Transition to what?" Ethan snapped.

"Your full integration," he replied, stepping closer. "Every city needs deliverers. Brinlake chose you. The system needs hands and minds willing to do what courts and juries won't."

Ethan held up the key. "This doesn't feel like justice. This feels like entrapment."

"You call it what you want. But make no mistake —by stepping into that elevator, you said yes. You joined the chain."

The man reached into his coat and pulled out a tablet. On the screen was a list of names —hundreds of them. Beside each one: "Delivery Complete" or "Rejected."

Ethan scanned the list. His name was at the bottom. Status: "Pending."

The man tapped it. "This is your moment. You either rise or fade."

Ethan looked back at the van.

The man inside stared at him through the window, hands bound, mouth closed. Resigned.

Ethan clenched his jaw.

"Tell me," he said, voice low. "What happens if I press red?"

The man in the trench coat didn't blink. "Someone else finishes it. But you won't be allowed back. You'll be listed as failed. And that's... inconvenient."

"Inconvenient how?"

"We don't like loose ends."

Ethan stared at the screen. His finger hovered again over the red button.

He looked at the man in the van. Then the monitor.

Then, without another word—he pressed nothing.

He slammed the console shut, yanked the key from the panel, and turned to walk away.

"You'll regret this," the monitor said calmly.

Ethan didn't look back.

As he stepped into the stairwell and vanished down the concrete steps, the garage lights began to flicker behind him.

Inside the van, the screen on the console blinked once, then turned black.

And far away, somewhere under Brinlake's surface, a line of code updated Ethan's name to: "Contingency Active."