The motel sign outside had one dead letter, so it read MO EL in pale blue. Rain misted through the parking lot lights and turned everything into a smear—cars, puddles, people's faces. Perfect.
Ethan paid cash. Didn't use his real name. Didn't look at the clerk long enough to be remembered.
Room 214.
Not near the stairwell. Not facing the lot. A place where you could hear someone coming before you saw them.
Inside, Ethan kept the lights off. The TV stayed on mute, just a cold rectangle of glow. Lena sat on the bed with her hoodie still up, shoes still on, like taking them off would mean admitting this was real.
Ethan stood by the window, curtain pinched between two fingers, watching the lot through a narrow slit.
One car pulled in and parked under the only working light. The driver stayed inside. The engine idled. Too neat. Too patient.
Lena noticed his stillness. "Someone's out there."
"Maybe," Ethan said.
She gave him a look. "That's your favorite word."
"It keeps people alive."
Lena dragged a hand over her face. "If they find us, I'm not going back."
Ethan let the curtain fall. "They don't get to decide that."
His phone buzzed on the dresser—hard, short, not like a call. Like a tap on a table.
He picked it up.
A black screen. White digits.
23:29:18
Under it:
COLLECTION WINDOW
No logo. No explanation. Just a timer that acted like it owned him.
Lena watched his face. "That's the thing again."
Ethan locked the screen and shoved it down like that could make it stop existing. "Yeah."
"What does it want?"
Ethan looked at the motel door—cheap lock, thin wood, chain that would snap with one good kick. "Payment."
"For what?"
He didn't answer. Not because he wanted to keep secrets. Because he didn't have any answers worth saying out loud.
The muted TV flickered, switching to a local news broadcast. Lena leaned forward, squinting, then grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.
"…police are seeking a suspect in a violent incident at Grayson Tower," the anchor said with a smooth smile. "A young data analyst, Lena Hart, is believed to have been taken against her will."
Lena went still. "They're calling me kidnapped."
The screen cut to footage from the lobby—cropped, angled, selected. Ethan slamming a man into the elevator mirror. Evan pointing like a victim. Lena half-hidden behind Ethan's shoulder.
Then a still image of Ethan appeared, sharpened and color-corrected to make him look harsher than he was.
WANTED FOR QUESTIONING scrolled beneath.
Lena's voice cracked. "My dad is going to see this."
Ethan turned the TV off.
Silence hit harder than the broadcast.
"They're not trying to find you," Ethan said. "They're trying to control you."
Lena stared at her phone on the bed like it might start buzzing with screaming. "So what do we do? Go to the police?"
Ethan's eyes didn't soften. "If you walk in there as 'the victim,' you won't walk out with your own story."
She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. She'd seen enough in one night to understand how quickly the truth could be edited into something else.
Ethan's phone buzzed again.
He opened it.
A message appeared with no number, no app, no sender—just plain text on black.
Tell Ethan Cole to bring you back. He has until the clock reaches zero.
Lena leaned in and read it. Her face drained. "They know about the timer."
"Or they're guessing," Ethan said, though his stomach tightened. Guessing was one thing. This felt like coordination.
His phone changed again.
OFFER AVAILABLE
Then:
JOB: INTERCEPT THE TRANSFERLOCATION: PIER 17 — SERVICE CORRIDOR BDEBT REDUCTION: -12:00:00TIME TO COMPLETE: 06:05:00
Two buttons.
ACCEPTDECLINE
Lena stared. "It's giving you a job."
Ethan didn't look away. "It's collecting its cut."
"If you decline—"
"The clock keeps running."
Lena's jaw tightened. "So you're going."
Ethan's thumb hovered. He hated how easy it looked. A button. A choice. Like tapping a screen could buy him out of consequences.
He tapped ACCEPT.
The phone buzzed hard, almost satisfied.
JOB CONFIRMEDFAILURE WILL BE CHARGED
Lena laughed once, sharp and humorless. "That's not a system. That's a loan shark with Wi-Fi."
Ethan pocketed the phone. "Yeah."
He checked the window again.
The idling car's brake lights glowed once, then went dark. Awake.
Lena followed his gaze. "They're watching us."
Ethan grabbed his jacket, checked his pockets—cash, a cheap knife, nothing fancy. "We're leaving."
"Together?"
"No," Ethan said.
Lena's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"
"Pier 17 is either a trap or close to one," Ethan said. "If you're with me, you become the point of the trap."
"I'm not helpless."
"I know," Ethan replied. "That's why they want you."
The words landed heavier than he intended. Lena's lips pressed together; she looked away, then back.
"Where do I go?" she asked, quieter.
Ethan pulled out his phone and dialed a number he hadn't used in years.
Two rings.
A rough voice answered. "Yeah?"
"Miles," Ethan said.
Silence on the line. Then a low, disbelieving exhale. "You're dead."
"Not today."
Miles didn't waste time pretending he wasn't relieved. "Where are you?"
Ethan looked at Lena. "On the wrong side of someone else's money."
Miles snorted. "That's every side."
"I need a place for a few hours," Ethan said. "Somewhere nobody thinks to look."
Another beat.
"You bring trouble here," Miles said, "I'm going to hate you."
Ethan's voice stayed flat. "You already do."
Miles sighed like a man who'd just lost an argument with his own instincts. "Texting you an address. Gate code too. Knock like you belong there. And don't bring cops."
Ethan ended the call.
Lena watched him. "Friend?"
"Old friend," Ethan said. "Practical. Not sentimental."
"Good."
They left the motel through the side stairwell. Ethan kept them close to the wall, moving like they lived there. No rushing, no panic—panic made noise, noise made eyes.
Outside, the rain had thinned to mist. The idling car was still there. Ethan didn't look at it. He didn't need to.
They walked to the street, flagged a cab. Ethan paid in cash up front, enough to keep the driver from asking questions or checking the news feed.
The ride was short.
Miles's place sat behind a narrow metal gate between two tired houses. The neighborhood looked like it had learned long ago not to trust sirens.
Ethan keyed in the code. The gate buzzed open.
He knocked: two, one, two.
The door opened on a chain.
Miles looked worse than Ethan remembered—thinner, sharper, the kind of tired that lived in the eyes. Hoodie. Stubble. A baseball bat leaning by the couch like it had its own spot.
His gaze flicked to Lena, then back to Ethan. "You're trending."
Ethan stepped inside. "I noticed."
Miles unhooked the chain and locked three different locks like he'd been waiting for this moment. He pointed his chin at Lena. "Who is she?"
"Lena," she said before Ethan could.
Miles studied her for half a second, then nodded as if she passed a test he didn't explain. "Okay."
He looked at Ethan. "How long?"
"Four hours," Ethan said.
Miles's eyes narrowed. "You're being specific again."
Ethan didn't explain. He didn't have time to.
Miles went to a drawer, returned with a small pouch, and tossed it to Ethan.
Burner phone. Bandages. Tape. Pepper spray.
Ethan glanced up.
Miles shrugged. "City's been feeling… busy."
"Thanks," Ethan said.
"Don't thank me," Miles replied. "Just don't make me famous."
Ethan turned to Lena. "You stay inside. You don't open the door. If someone knocks, you don't answer. If they say 'police,' you still don't answer."
Lena's jaw set. "I get it."
Ethan held her gaze. "If things go wrong, you run to the back bathroom. Window's small but you can fit."
"Comforting."
"It's real."
Lena hesitated, then grabbed his sleeve. "Ethan."
He paused.
Her voice dropped. "Don't do something stupid at the pier just because a timer told you to."
Ethan looked at her hand, then at her face. "I'm not doing it for the timer," he said. "I'm doing it so I can keep choosing."
She let go, still angry, still scared, still here.
Miles watched from the hallway. "Pier 17?"
Ethan's head turned sharply. "How did you—"
Miles lifted his phone. "Everyone's talking. Grayson's people push stories like ads. It's everywhere."
Ethan's mouth went dry. "So you think the job is connected to them."
Miles shrugged. "I think you're walking into someone's plan. That doesn't mean you don't walk in. It means you walk in ready to cut your way out."
Ethan nodded once. "I will."
He left.
Ethan didn't take a straight route to the waterfront. He used crowds, side streets, a bus for two stops, then walked under an overpass where the cameras were old and the light didn't reach.
He used the burner phone to call a rideshare under a fake name, then didn't get picked up where he requested. He crossed the street and slid into the back seat like he'd been waiting there the whole time.
By the time the car dropped him near the piers, the timer felt like a second pulse behind his ribs.
He checked it once.
22:44:09
Still running.
Pier 17 wore two faces. Out front: neon signs, tourists, overpriced seafood. Out back: chain-link fences, loading bays, service corridors—places where deals happened without needing witnesses.
Ethan moved along the edge, blending with late-night foot traffic, then cut behind a maintenance building marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Service Corridor B was narrow, damp, and lit by a row of buzzing bulbs. Dumpsters lined one wall. Electrical boxes lined the other. The ground smelled like fish and fuel.
Ethan stopped at the mouth of it and watched.
Two men stood near a steel door at the far end. One smoked. The other checked his phone too often.
Across the alley, another man leaned against a railing, pretending to scroll. His posture was wrong—too ready, too squared.
Ethan stayed still.
Then a black SUV rolled up near the street entrance.
The rear door opened.
A woman stepped out.
Dark hair tied back. Coat that hid her hands. Face sharp, eyes flat. She moved like she'd already been here before.
She didn't look around. She didn't need to.
The smoker straightened. "Ms. Vance."
So she had a name—at least the one she used.
Vance reached into her coat and pulled out a slim hard case, black and unmarked. She held it like it weighed more than it should.
The smoker took it, but his eyes swept the corridor first, searching for something.
Searching for someone.
Ethan felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He didn't take it out. He already knew what it wanted.
The man near the entrance shifted, taking a step that closed the corridor like a door.
That's when Ethan understood: the transfer wasn't the trap.
He was.
Ethan stepped forward, boots splashing lightly in a shallow puddle. He didn't rush. Didn't crouch. Didn't play the part of prey.
The smoker's head snapped up.
A grin spread across his face like relief. "Hey," he called, loud enough for the others to hear. "You lost?"
Vance turned and looked at Ethan.
No surprise.
No confusion.
Just recognition—like his name was already printed on the paperwork.
Ethan walked into the corridor until he was close enough to see the case clearly, close enough to smell the cigarette smoke on the air.
"Hand it over," Ethan said.
The smoker laughed. "Come take it."
Vance's voice cut in, calm and precise.
"Ethan Cole."
Hearing his full name from her mouth didn't sound like conversation.
It sounded like a receipt.
Ethan stopped five steps away.
He looked at Vance, then at the case, then at the man blocking the entrance.
And the timer kept chewing through seconds in his pocket.
Ethan's voice stayed low. "This is staged."
Vance's mouth curved faintly—not a smile, more like a decision.
"You finally caught up," she said.