Service Corridor B looked like a place nobody was supposed to notice.
Tourists were ten yards away eating overpriced crab rolls under warm string lights. Here, the air was colder and smelled like wet rope, diesel, and old fish. The bulb above the corridor entrance buzzed with a tired, angry sound, throwing a sick yellow wash across puddles and rusted metal.
Ethan stopped just outside the mouth of it and let his breathing settle.
He didn't step in right away.
He watched.
Two men were posted near a steel service door at the far end. Not workers. Their clothes tried to imitate "casual," but everything about them said trained: the way they stood, the way their eyes moved, the way their hands stayed close to pockets that weren't empty. One smoked like he'd been told to look relaxed. The other checked his phone too often, like he was waiting on a cue.
A third man hung closer to the entrance, half turned toward the pier, pretending to scroll. He wasn't actually reading anything. He was listening.
And then there was her.
Vance stood in the center of the corridor, perfectly still, coat buttoned, hair pulled back clean. She held a slim black case at her side like it was a purse, like it wasn't the reason three men were positioned like chess pieces.
She didn't scan the area.
People who scan are afraid of surprises.
She looked like she was the surprise.
Ethan's pocket vibrated once—his phone, that harsh, deliberate buzz.
He didn't pull it out.
He didn't need the reminder.
He already felt the clock behind his ribs, chewing through seconds like it had teeth.
Ethan stepped into the corridor.
The entrance man turned his head just enough to confirm it was Ethan, then shifted his weight a half-step—subtle, almost polite—closing the line back out without looking like he was blocking anything.
The smoker's grin spread like he'd won a bet. "Hey," he called, voice loud and playful. "You lost?"
Ethan kept walking.
Vance's eyes met his. Flat. Calculating. Not curious.
"Ethan Cole," she said.
Hearing his full name in a place like this hit differently than hearing it on a news broadcast. On TV it was a label. Here it sounded like an inventory check.
Ethan stopped five steps away. Close enough to see the fine spray of rain on the case. Close enough to smell the cigarette.
"What's in it?" Ethan asked, eyes on the case.
The smoker laughed. "That's adorable."
Vance didn't react. "You know what you're here for."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I'm here to stop you."
The phone guy shook his head, amused. "Man, he's still doing the hero thing."
Ethan didn't look at him. "Hand it over."
Vance shifted the case slightly, angling it away. It wasn't defensive. It was… precise. Like she was measuring distance, timing, angles.
"You're running," Vance said. "And you're tired. It shows."
Ethan didn't take the bait. "You staged this."
The smoker lifted his hands in mock innocence. "Staged what?"
Ethan's eyes flicked once toward the entrance man. One toward the steel door behind the posted pair. The corridor had been designed. The exits had been chosen.
They didn't want a fight.
They wanted a capture.
Vance's mouth curved faintly. Not a smile. More like approval. "You're not stupid."
"Never claimed I was."
"And yet you came."
Ethan took a slow breath. "Because you brought the case."
The smoker's grin sharpened. "That's right. Come get it."
Ethan didn't move.
He waited one heartbeat longer than they expected.
That was the trick with people who liked control: they hated waiting.
The entrance man adjusted his stance. The phone guy's shoulders rose slightly. The smoker shifted his cigarette to his other hand, preparing.
Ethan moved.
Not for Vance.
For the light.
He stepped left, scooped a small fistful of gravel and grit from the puddle edge, and snapped his wrist upward.
The gravel cracked the buzzing bulb above them.
Glass burst. Sparks hissed. The light died.
For a split second, everyone's eyes did what eyes always did when light changed—blink, flinch, search.
Ethan used that second.
He surged forward at an angle—toward the wall of electrical boxes, not down the center. The smoker swung wide, confident, expecting Ethan to meet him.
Ethan slipped inside the arc and drove his elbow up into the smoker's throat.
Not a dramatic hit. Just clean.
The smoker's cigarette dropped. His hands flew to his neck. His knees buckled with a wet choking sound.
The phone guy lunged in, quick and angry, grabbing at Ethan's jacket.
Ethan hooked the wrist, twisted, and shoved him shoulder-first into the metal panel hard enough to rattle the whole row. The guy's phone skittered across concrete and vanished into a puddle.
Vance moved.
Fast.
She brought the case up like a baton and aimed for Ethan's face. The edge of it clipped his forearm as he raised it to block, pain blooming sharp. The case wasn't just a container—it was a tool.
Ethan grabbed the case with his free hand and yanked.
Vance resisted with timing, not strength. She stepped in close and drove her knee toward his ribs.
Ethan turned his hips, took the knee on the thickest part of his side, and shoved forward, forcing her back toward the dumpster line.
The entrance man charged.
Ethan saw him coming. He didn't have room to let this turn into a dogpile.
He needed an exit.
He needed the case.
He needed a break in the pattern.
Ethan slammed the heel of his palm into Vance's wrist—one quick strike. Her grip loosened a fraction.
He ripped the case free.
Vance's hand snapped back, empty. Her eyes didn't widen. She didn't curse. She simply recalculated.
The entrance man reached for Ethan's shoulder.
Ethan spun and threw the case hard into the entrance man's chest.
The man grunted, reflexively catching it.
That was all Ethan needed.
He closed the distance and drove a short, brutal punch into the man's solar plexus. The man folded, air leaving him in a harsh gasp, hands loosening.
Ethan snatched the case back and ran.
The smoker was still choking, trying to inhale. The phone guy stumbled away from the panel, blinking, furious. Vance stepped after Ethan with controlled speed, not chasing like a panicked person—closing like a hunter.
Ethan didn't sprint toward the entrance.
That was the obvious exit.
He sprinted deeper toward the far steel door—the one they'd posted two men beside. The posted pair reacted late because they'd expected Ethan to be pinned in the middle.
Ethan didn't slow. He aimed his shoulder at the latch and hit it hard.
Metal screamed. The door popped.
One of the posted men grabbed for Ethan's arm. Ethan twisted, let the hand catch fabric, then yanked free and slipped through, slamming the door behind him.
A fist hit the door. The handle rattled. Someone cursed.
Ethan didn't listen.
He ran down the service hallway—narrow, damp, echoing. His boots slapped water. The case thumped against his ribs. His forearm burned where the edge had clipped him.
His phone buzzed again.
He pulled it out while moving.
A simple line flashed:
JOB PROGRESS: 81%
No praise. No comfort. Just an update like he was delivering a package.
Ethan shoved the phone back into his pocket with a muttered, "Not now."
The hallway opened into a loading bay: stacked pallets, shrink-wrapped boxes, a parked forklift, a chain-link gate leading out toward the pier.
For half a second, he thought he'd broken the line.
Then the service door behind him slammed open.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Ethan ducked behind a pallet stack and held his breath. The case was slick in his grip from rain and sweat.
Two men came through first—phone guy and one of the posted men. They scanned the bay, heads turning like they'd been trained to hunt in tight spaces.
"You saw him come in here," one hissed.
"He's here," the other snapped back. "He's not a ghost."
Ethan shifted, slow as smoke, moving behind the pallets to keep metal between him and their eyes.
The forklift sat with its key still in. Someone had left it that way out of laziness or routine.
Routine was good.
Routine meant predictability.
Ethan slid toward the forklift, keeping low, keeping the case tight against his body. The men moved closer, splitting slightly to cover angles.
Ethan reached the forklift and climbed into the seat in one smooth motion.
He turned the key.
The forklift jerked to life with a loud, whining engine.
"Shit!" one man barked.
Ethan slammed the gear forward and drove the forklift straight into the pallet stack beside the chain-link gate.
Wood cracked. Plastic wrap snapped. Boxes toppled like a slow avalanche, spilling across the bay and into the men's path.
It wasn't a permanent wall.
It was a delay.
A messy, noisy delay.
Ethan jumped off the forklift before it even stopped moving and sprinted through the gap toward the gate. His shoulder hit chain-link. He shoved it open and burst onto the pier side.
Cold air hit him. The sound of water. The distant laughter of tourists who had no idea anything was happening behind the building.
Ethan didn't run into the open.
He stayed tight to the wall, moving along the shadow line, circling toward a row of storage containers where he could stop for one breath without being seen.
The chase sounds behind him faded, then surged again as the men climbed over the mess.
Ethan reached the containers and dropped into a crouch behind them.
He finally opened the case.
The latches popped like teeth.
Inside wasn't cash.
No bricks. No diamonds. No drugs.
Paperwork. Plastic badges. A small black drive seated in foam like it mattered more than the documents.
The top folder had a clean label in all caps:
SUBJECT FILE
Under it, a name.
LENA HART
Ethan's stomach tightened.
He flipped the first page.
A photo of Lena walking out of a building. Another of her at a café, head down, typing. Another of her stepping onto a subway platform.
Dates.
Times.
Locations.
Someone had tracked her like she was a project, not a person.
Ethan's jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
He turned another page.
A diagram—boxes, arrows, sections blacked out. Corporate language dressing up something ugly. A line stood out near the top:
SHADOW PROTOCOL — PHASE II
He turned again.
A paragraph describing "containment." Another describing "media management." Another describing "asset transfer."
He didn't read every word. He didn't have time. He scanned for shape. For the way the story had been built around her.
Then he saw a line that made his throat go dry:
GUARDIAN INTERFACE: ACTIVE
Ethan stared at it.
His hand tightened on the paper until it creased.
So the system wasn't just something that happened to him.
It was part of the file.
Part of the plan.
He looked at the drive in the foam cutout.
For a second, he didn't want to touch it. Like touching it would make the whole thing irreversible.
A sound snapped him out of it—footsteps again, closer now, on the other side of the container row.
They were spreading.
Hunting.
Ethan closed the folder, shoved it back into the case, and snapped the latches shut.
His phone buzzed.
This time, the screen updated before he could ignore it:
TIME CREDIT APPLIED: +12:00:00
The countdown shifted.
He'd bought time.
And the system acted like it had simply processed a payment.
Ethan swallowed.
He held the case tighter and moved.
He slipped along the container row, cutting behind a maintenance shed, aiming for the main walkway where tourists could act as cover. A crowd was better than an empty lane.
He stepped out onto the edge of the open pier—
—and froze.
A man stood near the corner of the shed, half-hidden by a post, like he'd been waiting exactly there.
Not one of the corridor guys.
Different build. Different calm. No hurry.
He didn't raise a gun. He didn't shout. He simply looked at Ethan like Ethan was late.
The man spoke softly, almost friendly. "You took the wrong thing."
Ethan didn't answer.
He shifted his stance, angling his body so the case wasn't fully exposed. His eyes flicked around for exits, for cameras, for anything.
The man took one slow step forward. "They don't like losing property."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "She's not property."
The man shrugged slightly, as if that was cute. "Not your call."
Ethan heard footsteps behind him again—faint, distant. The hunting line was closing.
The man near the post didn't move faster. He didn't need to. He knew Ethan's space was shrinking.
"You're good," the man said. "But you're not invisible."
Ethan's phone rang.
A real ring this time. Not the system buzz.
For a split second, he thought it might be Lena.
Then the screen showed:
MILES
Ethan answered without thinking. "Talk."
Miles's voice came through low and tight, like he was speaking through his teeth. "Don't come here."
Ethan's blood went cold. "What happened?"
Miles didn't answer the question directly. He didn't have time.
"They found me," Miles said. "Someone's at my door. Two of them. Maybe three."
Ethan's grip on the case tightened until his knuckles hurt. "Where's Lena?"
Miles's breathing was loud in the receiver. "In the bathroom like you said. Quiet. But—"
A knock echoed faintly through the phone.
Not loud.
Not frantic.
Just… confident.
Miles whispered, "They're not yelling. They're not rushing. That's the part I don't like."
Ethan's eyes stayed on the calm man near the post. The watcher didn't look surprised at the call. He didn't look curious.
He just watched.
Miles's voice dropped even lower. "Ethan… what did you drag to my house?"
Ethan swallowed hard.
On the other end of the line, the knock came again—slow, patient, certain.
The watcher leaned slightly, as if he could hear the conversation through the air. "Tick-tock," he said quietly, almost bored.
Ethan's mind ran fast: Vance, the case, the file, Lena as "Subject," the system in the paperwork, and now Miles's door.
This wasn't one problem.
It was one machine with multiple hands.
Ethan forced his voice steady. "Don't open it."
Miles gave a low, humorless sound. "Yeah. No kidding."
The knocking stopped.
That was worse.
Silence meant listening. Silence meant they were deciding their next move.
Miles whispered, "I can hear them breathing."
Ethan's throat tightened. "Stay off the door. Keep Lena behind the bathroom wall."
Miles inhaled sharply like he was about to say something else—
—and a new sound cut through the phone: metal scraping.
Not a knock.
Not a voice.
Something being worked.
Miles's whisper turned sharp. "They're doing something to the lock."
Ethan's eyes snapped back to the watcher in front of him.
The man finally smiled, just a little. "You think you can be in two places at once?"
Ethan didn't answer.
He shifted the case under his arm, then stepped backward toward the crowd line, keeping the watcher in view. If the watcher rushed him here, in public, it would be messy. Maybe that was the point. Maybe it wasn't.
The watcher tilted his head. "Make your choice, Ethan."
Miles's voice in the phone went tight with panic he was trying to choke down. "Ethan—"
Ethan cut in, fast and controlled. "If the door goes, you run. Back window. Now."
Miles breathed once, hard. "And Lena?"
Ethan's voice dropped. "You run with her."
A heavy click sounded through the phone—like a lock giving up.
Miles cursed under his breath.
Ethan's heart punched once in his chest.
He looked at the watcher.
Then at the crowd.
Then at the case.
Then at the phone.
And the worst part was how clear the situation was:
He'd gotten the proof.
And in return, they were taking his leverage.