Beneath Brinlake
Ethan hadn't made it five blocks away from the garage when he realized someone was following him.
He was weaving through the old dock district, where warehouses leaned like exhausted giants and the streetlights flickered as if unsure whether to stay lit or give up. His boots echoed against cracked concrete, and every few seconds, he glanced back—but never saw anyone.
Still, the feeling wouldn't shake. Like a weight on his spine.
He ducked into an alley between two crumbling buildings. The air was thick with motor oil, rot, and brine from the nearby canal. He pressed his back to the wall, breathing slow. Waiting.
A shadow passed at the alley's mouth. Then another.
Ethan didn't move.
He reached for the delivery key still in his pocket—the one he'd pulled from the console. Cold. Heavy. Real. But useless now.
Or maybe not.
Two figures entered the alley, walking slow. One tall and broad-shouldered. The other smaller, wiry. Both wore black jackets, matching boots, and strange gloves with thin steel ridges running along the knuckles.
Ethan stepped out from behind a dumpster.
"Looking for me?" he asked.
The bigger one stopped. "You broke protocol," he said, voice like gravel. "You think you get to walk away?"
Ethan stayed still. "I never agreed to anything."
"You got in the elevator," the smaller man replied. "You took the keys. You pressed the buttons. That's agreement enough."
"I didn't kill anyone," Ethan snapped.
The big one stepped forward. "That was your test. You failed."
Ethan moved before they could react. He tossed the delivery key straight at the smaller man's face. It struck him square in the forehead. The man staggered, cursing.
The big one lunged.
Ethan ducked low, drove a fist into the guy's ribs. It was like hitting a wall. The man didn't even flinch.
Instead, he grabbed Ethan by the collar and hurled him backward into a stack of rusted crates.
Pain shot through Ethan's spine. He rolled just in time to avoid a boot slamming down where his head had been.
Scrambling to his feet, he reached for a broken pipe from the ground and swung it hard. It cracked across the attacker's face with a dull thud. The man reeled, and Ethan ran.
He sprinted down the alley, through a gate, across a yard of smashed pallets, and over a chain-link fence. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance—Brinlake's nightly chorus.
He didn't stop until he reached the canal.
Dark water lapped at the crumbling edge. Barges sat motionless in the shadows. There was a tunnel beneath the east span of the old railway bridge—an access route used during construction decades ago.
Ethan slipped inside.
The tunnel was narrow and slick, barely lit by grates overhead. Rats scurried past his boots. The air smelled like sewage and old secrets.
He kept moving, deeper into the city's belly.
After ten minutes, he found a rusted ladder and climbed up. It led to a hatch, which he shoved open.
He emerged into a maintenance substation beneath the Brinlake Power Grid—one of the city's oldest and least-used structures.
It was dead silent.
Rows of unused panels lined the walls. Dust lay thick across the floor. No cameras. No power.
Safe. For now.
Ethan sat down against a pipe, heart pounding.
He reached into his coat and pulled out the broken phone he'd shoved there earlier—the one that had buzzed after his first mysterious delivery.
The screen was cracked, but the last message was still visible: "YOU WERE CHOSEN."
He scrolled further back.
There was another, earlier message—one he hadn't noticed before.
"File 9: Listen. Then choose."
Attached was a short audio file. Ethan hesitated, then hit play.
A voice came through. Not the synthetic one from before. This voice was weary, human, desperate.
"This is Caleb Rowe," it said. "If you're hearing this, they've tagged you. You need to get out. The delivery system is older than you think. It started decades ago—Brinlake's hidden cleansing mechanism. It's not about justice. It's about control. And once you're inside, they never let go."
Static crackled, then the message continued.
"They call it The Chain. You're given packages. Tasks. Judgments. Fail, and they make you one of the targets. Succeed, and you lose who you are. Bit by bit. Do not trust the monitors. Do not trust the van. If you still have the key… hide it."
The file ended.
Ethan sat there in silence.
Caleb Rowe. The name rang a faint bell. Wasn't he a former district prosecutor who vanished ten years ago?
He was marked too.
The pieces were fitting together. Barely.
Ethan knew he couldn't go back to his apartment. His name was probably flagged. Maybe even his face.
He was off the map now.
And yet, he wasn't alone. Someone else had fought this before. Others must have tried to escape.
He needed to find them.
He pocketed the phone, got to his feet, and looked around the substation.
On the far wall was a panel with faint chalk writing above it: "F9."
His heart skipped.
He opened the panel.
Inside, hidden behind wires and old blueprints, was a small black notebook.
He opened it slowly.
On the first page, written in jagged ink:
"IF YOU'RE READING THIS, YOU'RE PART OF IT NOW."
Below, a map. Hand-drawn. It traced hidden tunnels, substations, and secure spots all around Brinlake.
A network.
A resistance?
Ethan closed the book, breathing hard. He wasn't just running anymore. He had a way forward.
But somewhere above him, in the city's shadowy veins, The Chain was tightening.