The rain hit hard as Zain stepped into the empty street. Midnight. No cars. Just the echo of his footsteps and the weight of the manuscript pressing against his back.
He didn't take the usual route home. His instincts screamed at him to avoid open roads. He ducked through alleyways and dim corridors, constantly checking over his shoulder.
There was no one.
And yet... he felt watched.
He reached his apartment — a small, tenth-floor space wired with his personal security network. Two biometric locks. No windows. One entrance.
Safe.
He shut the door, triple-locked it, and collapsed onto the floor. Only then did he allow himself to breathe.
He pulled the manuscript from the bag and stared at it, now resting silently on the table like it hadn't just spoken into his mind.
Was it the code?
Was it the book?
Or was it him?
He booted up a separate laptop — one not connected to the lab. An old offline device with no network access. A digital ghost.
He opened a blank text file and began typing everything that had happened in the last two hours.
But midway through his sentence, the cursor froze.
The text began to type on its own.
> You cannot run.
Zain jumped to his feet. He slammed the laptop shut, heart racing.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One word message:
> "Keyholder."
He dropped the phone.
How?
He disabled GPS. No apps. No sync.
Before he could react, a knock came at the door. Just once.
Then silence.
He waited. Five seconds. Ten. No movement. No shadows under the door.
He walked slowly to the peephole.
Nobody there.
But etched into the wood of his door — as if carved by fire — were three circles overlapping into a triangle. The symbol from the manuscript.
And beneath it:
> "You opened the seal. Now we watch."