Chapter 2: Code and Corpse
515 Words
Rain fell in thin, steady needles as Ethan drove through the sleeping city.
His windshield wipers moved in rhythm with his heartbeat — fast, erratic, impatient.
He hadn’t even grabbed a jacket. Just his laptop bag, a gun he hadn’t touched in years, and the feeling that every red light lasted too long.
Simon lived fifteen minutes away. Ethan made it in seven.
The apartment complex was dark, a few lights glowing in distant windows.
He parked two blocks down and walked the rest, every step echoing against the wet pavement.
He knew this place — they’d spent years here building things together.
Code. Systems. Secrets.
Now it felt like walking into a tomb.
The front door was unlocked.
Ethan froze. Simon never left it open.
He stepped inside slowly, one hand on the gun, the other flicking the light switch.
Nothing. Power was out — just like at his place.
He used his phone’s flashlight instead.
The beam caught the edge of a coffee mug on the floor, shattered.
Then a chair. Knocked over.
And finally — Simon.
He was slumped over his desk, just like in the feed.
The same blood. The same stillness.
But now Ethan could smell it — the metallic tang mixed with burned plastic.
“Simon…” His voice cracked. He stepped closer, trying not to look at the hole in his friend’s chest.
The computer beside him was still on, humming quietly.
Ethan wiped the screen with his sleeve.
A window was open — lines of code, incomplete, flickering.
A message at the top corner read:
[UPLOAD INTERRUPTED]
[SENDER TRACE FAILED]
Ethan’s pulse quickened.
Simon had been sending something.
He connected his portable drive, copying the entire system. The data transfer crawled — too slow.
Every few seconds, the progress bar froze, like the computer was resisting.
Then a voice behind him:
“Step away from the desk, Mr. Vale.”
Ethan turned sharply.
Two men stood at the doorway — black suits, no badges, no expressions.
Federal, or pretending to be.
One raised a small device that looked like a phone, pressed a button.
Every screen in the apartment went black.
“Who are you?” Ethan demanded.
No answer.
The taller one spoke into his earpiece.
“Target confirmed. He has the data.”
Ethan didn’t wait for what came next.
He slammed his laptop shut, grabbed the drive, and bolted through the side door into the rain.
Bullets cracked behind him. One hit a trash can, another sparked against the wall.
He jumped over a railing, hitting the pavement hard, pain flaring through his shoulder.
By the time he reached his car, his heart was pounding like a drum.
He tossed the drive into the glove compartment and started the engine.
In the rearview mirror, a pair of headlights appeared — too close, too fast.
They were following.
He floored it.
Through the static of his radio, a faint voice whispered again — not from any channel, but from his phone.
A distorted voice, calm and cold.
“You shouldn’t have opened it, Ethan.”
- Writer
