Chapter 2: Shadows in the Dark

Ethan’s breath came in ragged gasps as his eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and rusted metal, the kind of scent that clung to the walls of abandoned places, long forgotten by the world. His wrists burned from the rough rope that bound them behind his back, and every shift of his body sent fresh pain shooting through his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious, but his head throbbed as though he had been out for hours.

A faint sound—like footsteps shuffling over debris—echoed from somewhere in the vast darkness. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain calm. Panic wouldn’t help him now. He needed to think, to assess his surroundings, to find a way out.

The warehouse was massive, with towering metal shelves that stood like skeletons of an industrial past. Broken crates and scattered debris littered the floor, casting jagged shadows in the dim light of a single flickering bulb that swung from the ceiling. The only visible exit was a heavy, rusted door across the room—padlocked.

Then he saw them.

Two figures, both wearing masks identical to the one he had seen in the forest. Their silent presence sent a shiver through his spine. They stood just beyond the edge of the light, their faces obscured, watching him. Studying him.

Ethan’s mind raced. Who were they? What did they want? He had no enemies—none that he knew of, at least. Was this a case of mistaken identity, or was there something darker at play?

One of the masked figures stepped forward, their movements slow and deliberate. A gloved hand reached into a pocket and withdrew something small and metallic. A switchblade. With a flick of the wrist, the blade snapped open, gleaming in the dim light.

Ethan’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He yanked at his bindings, wincing as the rope bit into his skin. The figure crouched beside him, the knife gliding dangerously close to his face. He held his breath, bracing for pain.

Instead, the blade sliced through the ropes.

Ethan’s arms fell free, his muscles screaming in protest as he brought them forward. He barely had time to react before the second figure grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. He stumbled, his legs weak from being bound for so long.

“Run.”

The word was a whisper, barely audible, but it sent a jolt of confusion through Ethan. He stared at the masked figure who had spoken, trying to make sense of what was happening. Why would his captor tell him to run?

A loud crash shattered the silence.

The warehouse doors burst open, and blinding beams of light cut through the darkness. The sound of heavy boots stomping against the concrete filled the air. Ethan’s heart leaped into his throat as he turned to see several figures rushing inside—men armed with guns and dressed in tactical gear.

The two masked figures reacted instantly. The one who had cut Ethan’s bindings shoved him backward before bolting into the shadows. The other followed, disappearing into the labyrinth of shelves and crates.

“Freeze!” one of the armed men shouted, training a rifle on Ethan.

He raised his hands instinctively, his mind spinning. Who were these people? Police? Mercenaries? Another group entirely? Before he could speak, one of the men grabbed him and shoved him against a wall, his hands roughly restrained once more—this time with cold metal handcuffs.

“Wait! I don’t—”

A sharp pain exploded at the back of his head, and the world tilted violently. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him again was the glint of a badge on one of the men’s vests.

FBI.

When Ethan awoke, he was no longer in the warehouse. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the scent of coffee and old paper filled the air. He was in an interrogation room, his wrists still bound, but this time with steel cuffs locked to the chair. A large mirror stretched across one wall—one-way glass, no doubt.

The door creaked open. A woman in a sharp suit entered, a file tucked under her arm. She set it on the table and took a seat across from him, leveling him with a piercing gaze.

“Ethan Carter,” she said, flipping open the file. “Age twenty-nine. Freelance journalist. No criminal record. So tell me…”

She slid a photograph across the table. Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. It was a picture of the masked figure who had let him go.

“Why were you in the middle of a federal operation?”

Ethan’s mind reeled. A federal operation? What the hell had he just stumbled into?

And more importantly—was he in more danger now than he had been before?

Chapter 3 .........