Ghost.exe
The next morning, Barney packed a bag with trembling hands.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been awake. The sun was up, but his mind was still somewhere between night and nightmare. His pupils were still blown wide, nerves twitching from the aftershock of last night's coke-fueled spiral. Jill's words had echoed in his skull all night—"0.0003%."
It kept looping. Over and over. Like a countdown he couldn't stop.
His gut screamed run, but his brain couldn't find a direction. Every identity Jill built him—shell companies, burner passports, ghost wallets—felt like paper walls now. Someone had seen through it all. Someone had reached inside the fortress.
He tossed clothes, cash, pills, and his .38 into the bag, barely thinking. His fingers fumbled on the zipper. Focus, he told himself. But the high hadn't worn off. If anything, it was mutating—paranoia sharpening into a new kind of clarity. The kind where your heart knows something before your brain admits it.
He jabbed the elevator button with shaky fingers. Every flicker of movement outside the glass walls of the penthouse felt targeted. Someone was watching. Not metaphorically. Literally.
The ride down was silent, but in his mind—screams.
They know. They know. They know.
The lobby was dead quiet.
Barney stepped out, glancing sideways. Then he froze.
A black SUV idled across the street. A man in a matte gray suit leaned against it, arms folded, expression unreadable. His eyes, hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, never left Barney.
He didn't check his phone. Didn't light a cigarette. Didn't move.
He was waiting.
Barney's chest caved in with a slow, hollow breath. He turned casually—too casually—and walked back into the building. But his legs were made of wire. The walls felt closer. He didn't wait for the elevator this time. He bolted for the stairs.
"Jill," he muttered under his breath, climbing two steps at a time. "Eyes on the building. Who the fuck is the guy by the SUV?"
"Already scanning," Jill responded, calm as ice. "No digital footprint. No registered face ID. No infrared tag. He is invisible."
Barney stopped mid-step, chest heaving.
"What the fuck does that mean?"
"It means," Jill said, voice lower now, "that someone who should not exist… is standing outside your building."
His sweat turned cold. "So he's not random. He's here for me."
"Probability: 97.6%."
Barney wiped his face with his sleeve. His skin was hot, damp, and buzzing. He needed to breathe. He needed to think. But the coke made everything louder—the lights too bright, his heart too fast, his thoughts racing like animals trapped in a burning cage.
"Jesus Christ…" he whispered.
There was a pause. Then Jill said something she'd never said before.
"Barney... I believe this is real."
His stomach dropped. The floor tilted. Reality sharpened around the edges.
No more second-guessing. No more hiding behind numbers or logic or the digital smokescreen Jill had built around him.
They knew.
And they were coming.