Death was supposed to mean silence.
Ethan learned that early. In files. In records. In the way adults lowered their voices when they thought children couldn't hear. Dead people became past tense. Closed cases. Finished stories.
But the Reeves had never felt finished.
That truth settled into him the moment the message arrived.
Not from Dawson.
From a number that shouldn't exist.
Unknown:
You've grown taller than we expected.
Ethan stared at the screen.
No greeting.
No name.
No proof.
Just familiarity.
His pulse didn't spike. It stilled.
He typed slowly.
Ethan:
You have the wrong number.
The response came instantly.
Unknown:
You still lie the same way.
The room felt colder.
Ethan stood, walking to the window, scanning the street below. Nothing unusual. Cars passed. A woman argued into her phone. Life moved on, blissfully unaware that something long-buried had just shifted.
Ethan:
If you're trying to scare me, you're late.
A pause.
Then—
Unknown:
Good. Fear clouds judgment.
That did it.
Ethan's jaw tightened.
Ethan:
The Reeves are dead.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then—
Unknown:
So are ideas.
Until they aren't.
Ethan exhaled through his nose.
"So this is how," he muttered. Not a return. Not a reveal. Just… a reach.
A reminder.
His phone vibrated again.
Unknown:
We didn't fake our deaths to escape consequences.
We did it to remove influence.
Ethan's fingers hovered over the screen.
Ethan:
Influence over who?
This time, the reply took longer.
Too long.
Unknown:
Over you.
A knock hit the door.
Sharp. Deliberate.
Ethan didn't jump. He already knew who it was.
Dawson stepped in without waiting for permission, mask off, eyes dark.
"You got it too," Dawson said.
It wasn't a question.
Ethan turned the phone so Dawson could see the message thread.
Dawson laughed — once. No humor in it.
"They're bored," he said. "That's never good."
"So they're alive," Ethan said quietly.
Dawson shrugged. "They always were."
"That doesn't bother you?"
Dawson's smile thinned. "It bothers me that they waited this long."
Ethan looked back at the screen.
Unknown:
You were never stolen, Ethan.
You were placed.
His throat tightened — not with emotion, but calculation.
Ethan:
Why now?
The reply came slower this time.
Measured.
Unknown:
Because containment has expired.
And observation is no longer sufficient.
Dawson leaned against the wall. "They're coming back into play."
"No," Ethan said softly. "They already have."
Outside, a car engine idled too long before driving off.
Ethan locked the door.
The dead didn't watch like this.
Only the patient did.
And somewhere, two ghosts who had never died were leaning forward, finally interested in the outcome of what they had made.
The first rule Ethan learned that night was simple:
If they were watching, they wanted him to know.
He turned off the lights in his apartment, leaving only the city glow bleeding through the windows. Reflections disappeared. Shadows sharpened. He liked it better this way.
Dawson sat at the small table, phone dismantled in front of him, battery removed. Old habits. The kind that never fully die.
"They don't usually break silence themselves," Dawson said. "Not unless something changed."
Ethan leaned against the counter. "Something did."
Dawson looked up.
"You," he said.
Not a compliment. Not an insult. A diagnosis.
Ethan's phone vibrated again. He didn't rush to answer it. He let it sit there, buzzing once, twice, then still.
Control was always about timing.
When he finally picked it up, there was no new message.
Just a photo.
Low resolution. Grainy.
The Cole house.
Lights on. Curtains open.
Mrs. Cole stood in the kitchen, back turned, rinsing a cup. Mr. Cole sat at the table, reading.
Alive. Unaware.
Dawson went still.
"They're reminding you," he said. "Collateral."
Ethan's voice was calm. "No. Context."
He typed.
Ethan:
You're late to threaten me.
Three dots appeared. Stayed longer this time.
Unknown:
This isn't a threat.
It's a courtesy.
Ethan felt something click into place — a clean, precise alignment.
"You were right," he said to Dawson. "They never stopped parenting."
Dawson stood. "This is where people usually panic."
"I know," Ethan replied. "That's why I'm not going to."
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown:
We watched you restrain yourself for years.
That discipline came from somewhere.
Ethan smiled faintly.
Ethan:
It came from cages that smiled back.
Silence.
Then —
Unknown:
You're angry.
Ethan:
No. I'm finished being managed.
Dawson crossed the room, lowering his voice. "You shouldn't antagonize them yet."
"I'm not," Ethan said. "I'm redefining the relationship."
Another message arrived.
Unknown:
You think knowing changes the structure.
It doesn't.
Ethan stared at the screen, then slowly typed.
Ethan:
Structures collapse when observers step inside them.
The response took time.
Too much time.
Outside, footsteps echoed down the hall — slow, unhurried. Not trying to be quiet.
Dawson's hand moved instinctively to his side.
Ethan held up a finger.
Wait.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
A card slid across the floor.
No knock.
No voice.
Just paper.
Ethan bent, picked it up.
No name.
No logo.
Just an address.
And a time.
Tomorrow night.
Dawson exhaled. "They want to see you."
Ethan nodded. "They want to measure me."
"And if you don't go?"
Ethan looked at the photo of the Cole house again.
"They'll stop being polite."
Dawson met his eyes. "You ready for that?"
Ethan folded the card carefully, like it mattered.
"I've been observed my whole life," he said. "I'm curious what happens when the subject finally looks back."
Outside, the footsteps resumed — moving away.
Not fleeing.
Not hiding.
Just… confident.
The dead didn't behave like this.
Only architects did.
And tomorrow, Ethan was going to walk into the room where the blueprint had been drawn.