Downstairs, Ethan's computer beeped.
The sound was sharp in the stillness, echoing against the hum of servers and the faint patter of rain beyond the glass walls.
A new email.
No sender.
No subject.
Just one line, glowing faintly on the dark screen:
> Search for Dawson Reeve in archived payrolls.
Ethan frowned, his pulse quickening as he glanced over his shoulder.
No one was watching — at least, no one seemed to be. The office was nearly empty, washed in the dim orange of desk lamps and the blue reflection of the city skyline.
Clara was still at her desk, earbuds in, her expression relaxed and distant. The shifting neon colors from her phone screen painted her face in restless light.
Ethan turned back to his monitor.
He hesitated — then typed the name.
No results. No record.
It was as if Dawson Reeve had never existed.
Ethan's brow furrowed. He dove deeper — into the backup servers, the encrypted archives, the dusty corners of the system that hadn't been accessed in years. He followed the digital breadcrumbs until something flickered across the screen — faint, like a ghost caught in static.
Ledger Entry 0: Initiated by D.Reeve.
His breath hitched.
Before he could click, the line blinked once… then disappeared.
The screen went still.
Deleted. In real time.
Ethan stared at the empty space where the file had been.
He could almost feel someone on the other side — watching him through the glass of the monitor, breathing down the wires.
He slowly looked around again.
The office was as ordinary as ever: quiet, structured, alive with the sterile buzz of modernity.
But there was something off.
Clara was still laughing softly at something on her phone. But when she turned her head and caught his gaze, her smile faltered — just slightly, just enough to show that she had noticed his unease.
Then she looked away, her laughter returning, softer now… more controlled.
Outside, the rain thickened — hard drops against the glass, like fingers tapping insistently.
For the first time, Ethan realized Graywood Tower wasn't just a place where he worked.
It was a cage.
And tonight, something unseen was rattling the bars.
---
He left late.
Long after midnight, the city was slick and alive — streets reflecting pink and blue from the neon signage, puddles rippling under the drizzle.
Ethan shoved his hands into his coat pockets and walked aimlessly, the echo of the deleted file still crawling through his thoughts. He didn't want to go home. Home meant silence. And silence was where the whispers lived.
He turned a corner — and a familiar voice cut through the rain.
"Ethan Cole? Bloody hell, it is you!"
Ethan blinked, disoriented for a moment. A man stood under a glowing pub awning, grinning wide, holding two pints like he'd been waiting for him all night.
"Mark?" Ethan said, squinting. "Mark Davison?"
"The one and only!" Mark's grin widened. "Get in here before you melt. I'm buying!"
Ethan hesitated. Then, despite the fog in his chest, he smiled faintly.
"You haven't changed a bit."
"And you have," Mark said, looking him over. "You've got the face of a man who does taxes for ghosts. Come on — let's get drunk like it's 2010."
---
Inside, the pub was a cocoon of warmth and noise. Old wood floors groaned beneath their steps, and the smell of beer and rain mixed with the hum of conversation. A worn jazz record crackled from an unseen speaker.
They found a table by the window. Mark talked endlessly — the kind of chatter Ethan used to find exhausting, but now… it felt human. Safe.
They laughed about everything — bad dates, near-expulsions, the ridiculous projects they used to fake just to pass time.
"Remember Professor Hendricks?" Mark said, laughing. "You made that fake financial report accusing the cafeteria of cookie laundering."
Ethan grinned, shaking his head. "And I was right. They changed suppliers after that."
"Yeah — and we lost free coffee for an entire year!"
Their laughter spilled out like the foam of their beer glasses. For a few precious minutes, the shadows fell away.
But as the laughter faded, Ethan's thoughts began to drift again — back to Graywood's servers, to Clara's cold smile, to the ghost of a man who'd never existed.
Mark's voice broke through. "You okay, mate? You've been staring into your pint like it's got secrets."
Ethan blinked. "Just tired."
"Tired doesn't look like that," Mark said, studying him. "You look like someone who's being hunted by a spreadsheet."
Ethan smirked, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. "You always had a flair for the dramatic."
Mark shrugged. "Drama's just honesty in costume. Anyway, cheers — to surviving whatever the hell adulthood turned into."
Their glasses clinked softly.
Ethan smiled, but his reflection in the amber liquid looked distant — fragmented by the ripples of his trembling hand.
Project Phoenix.
Ledger Entry 0.
Dawson Reeve.
The names burned like static in his brain.
---
Hours passed.
The rain turned heavier, the world outside a blur of silver streaks.
Mark was midway through a story about a disastrous wedding when Ethan's phone buzzed on the table.
He glanced down.
Unknown Number.
One new message.
> It's good to laugh once in a while. Dawson did, too.
Ethan's stomach dropped. His hand went cold around the glass.
"What's up?" Mark asked, leaning closer.
But before Ethan could speak, the message disappeared — erased completely. Not even a notification remained.
He forced a weak grin. "Nothing. Just work."
Mark groaned. "Mate, you really need to quit. You're letting that place own you. Where's the Ethan who turned balance sheets into urban legends?"
Ethan chuckled softly. "He probably died in a cubicle somewhere."
They finished their drinks in silence after that — two men caught between the past and something darker waiting ahead.
---
When they finally stepped outside, it was past midnight. The rain had softened into mist. Mark threw an arm around Ethan's shoulder, swaying slightly.
"You've changed, man," he said warmly. "Don't let that job eat you alive, yeah?"
Ethan nodded, eyes unfocused. "Yeah. I'll try."
They parted ways at the corner. Mark disappeared into a cab, and Ethan wandered toward the river. The city glowed behind him — cold, metallic, alive.
He took a deep breath, trying to shake the feeling that the night itself was listening.
Then his phone buzzed again.
No number.
No message app.
Just a faint, crackling whisper bleeding through the speaker:
> "You shouldn't have searched the name."
Ethan froze.
Rain trickled down his face, his collar, his spine. He turned toward the glass towers in the distance — and saw it.
One window lit on the 27th floor of Graywood Tower.
His floor.
The light flickered once. Twice. Then stayed on.
Ethan stood there for a long time, the rain washing down around him.
Somewhere above, someone was watching.
And in that silent war between light and storm, he realized —
the ghosts weren't gone.
They had just found him again.