The city hadn't slept, but Ethan wished he could.
The rain had thinned to a cold drizzle, washing the streets in grey light. He'd left the bar hours ago, but the alcohol hadn't dulled the message echoing in his skull:
It's good to laugh once in a while. Dawson did, too.
He'd seen the text vanish right before his eyes — and still, it burned behind his eyelids. By 2:00 a.m., he'd given up trying to rest. His mind was wired, restless, crawling with thoughts he couldn't name.
Half an hour later, he was standing in front of Graywood Tower.
The building loomed against the wet skyline, windows reflecting the city's neon glow like a hundred cold eyes. Ethan's access card beeped, the doors whispered open, and he stepped inside. The air smelled of disinfectant and ozone. The lobby was empty — except for the security cameras, blinking red in the corners.
He told himself he just needed to check something. Maybe he'd imagined the deleted ledger. Maybe it was a glitch.
The elevator carried him up with a mechanical sigh. When the doors opened onto the 27th floor, motion sensors clicked on one by one — sterile light revealing the empty sprawl of cubicles. His desk waited for him like an accomplice.
He sat, logged in.
The system greeted him with its usual calm blue interface. He opened the internal archives again, fingers trembling slightly over the keys.
> Search: "Ledger Entry 0"
Nothing.
He hesitated, then dug deeper — administrative access, payroll modules, backdated data caches.
That's when he saw it.
Department 9-B — Discontinued (2013).
Staff count: 12.
Status: Deceased.
Except…
They were still being paid.
Each month. On time. Salary credits processed through an old subsidiary account.
And among the names — Reeve, D.
Ethan leaned closer. His reflection wavered in the screen — pale, eyes hollow. He opened one of the transaction logs.
The payments were routed through a dead channel — one that shouldn't even exist in Graywood's current system. No manager authorization. No timestamps.
Someone was keeping these ghosts alive.
Someone was still paying Dawson Reeve.
Ethan's mouth went dry. He opened the attached audit trail — but before he could read it, the cursor froze. The system lagged, then flickered.
A line of text appeared across the bottom of the screen:
> You're not supposed to see this.
Ethan jerked back, heart pounding. He scanned the room — only the hum of the air conditioner, the flicker of lights on standby monitors. He reached for the power button.
That's when he heard it — footsteps.
Soft, deliberate. Coming closer.
He turned.
Clara stood in the hallway, her expression unreadable, her hair tied loosely as if she'd just woken up.
"You really shouldn't be here," she said quietly. "It's past two."
Ethan swallowed hard. "Could say the same about you."
Her eyes flicked to his monitor, to the half-frozen screen with Department 9-B's data. "You found it."
He hesitated. "You knew?"
Clara stepped forward, her voice calm but low. "Everyone who stays here long enough eventually finds something. Most pretend they didn't."
"Ghost employees? People still being paid after death?" Ethan's voice rose. "Who the hell keeps that running?"
Clara looked away, then back at him. "Someone who doesn't want the past to disappear."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She hesitated — then moved behind him, typing fast. A series of folders blinked open, then another hidden layer beneath them. Ethan's breath caught.
Images. Reports. Internal memos.
Most were labeled Phoenix Protocol.
At the top of the directory — a name.
D. Reeve – Active / Internal Access Restored
Ethan's pulse hammered. "Restored? He's dead."
Clara's eyes met his. "Are you sure?"
Before Ethan could respond, the power flickered. All the lights cut off at once — plunging the floor into silence and darkness.
Then, from somewhere across the office, a faint glow blinked on — a single monitor that hadn't shut down.
Clara whispered, "We're not alone."
The silence was deafening.
Only the faint hiss of the air vents filled the dark. Ethan's pulse thudded in his ears.
"Backup generator?" he whispered.
Clara shook her head. "No… that wasn't a grid outage. Someone cut it manually."
The only light came from across the floor — one computer still on, its glow flickering faintly like a dying candle.
Ethan glanced at her. "That your station?"
She shook her head.
He took a cautious step forward, then another. The soles of his shoes squeaked against the polished tiles. The closer he got, the clearer the glow became — a white screen pulsing with lines of static, like an old television struggling for signal.
When they reached the desk, Ethan's stomach turned cold.
The monitor was logged in under an Admin ID. No name, no profile photo. Just a message flashing across the center:
> DEPARTMENT 9-B — STATUS: ACTIVE.
NEXT EVALUATION: 02:00 HOURS.
He looked at the clock on the wall.
1:59 a.m.
The second hand ticked once… twice… then froze.
The screen flickered — and switched to a camera feed.
A grainy, black-and-white view of the 27th floor appeared.
Their floor.
The angle was high, like from one of the corner security cams. Ethan saw himself — standing in the dark — and Clara beside him.
She exhaled sharply. "They're watching us."
The camera feed glitched. Then another window opened beside it — Photo Archive.
Images loaded one by one.
Employee headshots, surveillance stills.
Each tagged with a name, department, and date.
And then Ethan saw Clara.
Her photo had a red marker across it. One word beneath it:
> NEXT.
Ethan's breath caught. "Clara—"
"I see it," she whispered. Her jaw tightened. "We need to go. Now."
But as she reached for the keyboard, the speakers crackled.
A voice, low and distorted, slipped through the static.
> "Audit cycle resumed. Subjects located."
The words chilled Ethan to the bone. "What the hell—"
Clara grabbed his wrist. "Move!"
They bolted from the workstation just as every monitor on the floor flared to life — row after row of screens lighting up in eerie synchronization, displaying the same message:
> PROJECT PHOENIX – CONTINUATION APPROVED.
The emergency lights kicked in, painting everything in red. Clara yanked him toward the emergency stairwell.
"Clara—who's doing this?" Ethan demanded. "What is Phoenix? Who the hell is Dawson Reeve?"
She didn't answer — just kept moving, her breath quick and ragged. They burst into the stairwell, the metal door slamming behind them. The echo rang down the empty shaft.
Halfway down, Clara stopped, clutching the railing.
"Ethan… you're not supposed to know this."
He turned to her, chest heaving. "Too late."
Her expression hardened, fear flickering behind her eyes.
"If they know you saw those files — you're already part of it."
"Part of what?"
Before she could answer, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out — and froze.
Unknown Number.
1 New Message.
> You shouldn't run. Ghosts always follow home.
The message deleted itself instantly.
Ethan's throat went dry.
He looked up at Clara — but she was staring past him, her face pale.
"Ethan…" she whispered, voice trembling. "Look."
He turned slowly.
Through the narrow glass pane of the stairwell door — back into the office —
a figure stood.
Mask. Black coat. Watching.
Unmoving.
The masked figure didn't move.
He just stood there behind the glass — motionless, faceless, illuminated by the blood-red glow of emergency lights.
Clara's breath hitched. "That's not security."
Ethan's hand tightened around the phone. His heart was hammering so loudly he could barely hear himself think.
"Downstairs," she whispered. "Now."
They sprinted down the stairwell, the sound of their footsteps echoing in metallic waves. Somewhere above them, the heavy door creaked open.
A single step followed.
Then another.
He risked a glance up the flight — and froze. The masked figure had entered the stairwell, descending slowly, deliberately, his shadow stretching down toward them.
"Clara—!"
"Keep moving!"
They burst through the ground floor exit, alarms wailing as the door slammed open. The night air hit them like a slap — cold, wet, and full of sirens somewhere in the distance. The street outside was empty except for the rain.
They ran until the tower was just a reflection in the puddles behind them.
Finally, they ducked beneath a bus shelter, both of them soaked and shaking. The city glowed around them — neon, traffic, the hum of midnight — but everything felt unnervingly still.
Clara leaned against the glass, her chest rising and falling. "He wasn't supposed to find out this soon."
Ethan turned to her. "What do you mean 'this soon'? Who's he?"
Her eyes flicked toward the tower's direction, then back to him. "You think Graywood just handles audits and ledgers? There's a department buried so deep no one's supposed to know it exists. Department 9-B. They keep the system alive… by erasing anyone who gets too close."
Ethan's stomach turned cold. "And Dawson Reeve?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "He was the first one who tried to expose it."
"And you knew?" His voice was sharp now. "You've been helping them?"
"I've been trying to survive them!" she snapped, then caught herself, lowering her voice. "Listen, Ethan — whatever you found tonight wasn't a glitch. That file wasn't deleted. It was moved."
He blinked. "Moved where?"
"To the observer logs."
He frowned. "Observer?"
Before she could answer, a bus roared past — and when the headlights swept across the shelter glass, Clara was gone.
"Clara?" Ethan spun, scanning the street — nothing but rain and noise. No trace of her.
He stood there, drenched, trying to steady his breathing. Then his phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
> She's off the list. You're not.
The message deleted itself, leaving the screen empty.
---
He didn't remember walking home.
By the time he reached his flat, the rain had thinned to a whisper. He tossed his soaked jacket onto the couch, collapsed by the window, and stared across the city.
Graywood Tower rose in the distance — tall, sleek, silent.
Then he saw it.
Across the street, in the dark building opposite his flat, a faint light flickered behind a cracked window. A silhouette stood there — still, straight, watching.
Ethan stepped closer to the glass, every instinct screaming.
The figure didn't move.
Didn't hide.
Didn't blink.
Just lifted one gloved hand… and pointed directly at him.
Ethan's breath fogged the glass.
His phone buzzed one last time.
No number. No message.
Just a photo.
It was of him.
Taken seconds ago.
Through his own window.
---
The light across the street went out.
Ethan stood in the darkness, staring at his reflection — until he realized something else:
In the window's faint reflection behind him…
the masked figure was no longer outside.
He was inside.