The file blinked.
At first, she thought her eyes were tired. Three hours in the café, cold coffee abandoned, laptop screen burning into her retinas—fatigue did strange things. So she blinked back, rubbed her eyes, and leaned closer.
The file blinked again.
Not the screen.
Not the cursor.
The file.
Her breath hitched.
The case folder titled SUBJECT: E. HART (DECEASED) refreshed itself, the progress bar flashing briefly before disappearing. No mouse movement. No keyboard input. Just a silent update, like the system had decided something on its own.
Her pulse spiked.
"That's not possible," she whispered.
She scrolled.
The cause-of-death section was gone. The autopsy reference erased. In its place sat a single, newly inserted line, bold and clean as a verdict:
STATUS: ACTIVE.
Her chest tightened painfully.
She knew this file. Knew it better than her own reflection. Three months of digging. Of favors called in. Of sleepless nights chasing a man officially declared dead five years ago.
Dead men didn't become active.
Her phone vibrated violently against the table, rattling her cup.
UNKNOWN: Close the file.
A chill slid down her spine.
She glanced around the café. Students typing. A couple arguing in low voices. A barista wiping the counter, bored and unaware that her world had just shifted off its axis.
"How did you get this number?" she muttered.
She didn't close the file.
Instead, she refreshed the page.
The photograph vanished.
In its place appeared a live camera feed.
Her camera feed.
She stared at her own startled face on the screen, framed by the café's dim lights, eyes wide with dawning fear. A second later, text typed itself beneath the image, letter by letter, like someone enjoying the moment:
YOU'RE LOOKING AT HIM.
Her heart slammed hard enough to make her dizzy.
Slowly—carefully—she lifted her gaze to the café window.
The street outside reflected back at her. Cars passed. Neon flickered. Rain threatened. And standing beneath a dying streetlight across the road was a man who did not belong to the living.
He stood completely still, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly tilted as if listening to something only he could hear. When her eyes met his reflection, he raised his gaze—not to the glass, but directly to her.
Alive.
The resemblance was undeniable. Same face from the file. Same scar along the jawline. Same eyes that had haunted her research for months.
Her chair scraped loudly as she stood.
The man didn't move.
Her phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN: Last chance.
She didn't think. She grabbed her bag, shut the laptop, and pushed out of the café.
Cold night air hit her like a slap. The man crossed the street with unhurried confidence, as if he'd known exactly what she would do. Up close, he was worse—realer. Breathing. Warm. Human.
"You're dead," she said, the words tearing out of her.
"I was," he replied calmly. "It didn't last."
Her mouth went dry. "Why did the file change?"
"Because someone noticed you," he said. "And they don't like attention."
Before she could ask who, a sharp click sounded behind her.
Metal kissed her spine.
"Don't scream," a voice murmured. Male. Close. Steady. "You've already complicated this."
Her heart pounded so loudly she was sure they could hear it.
The man in front of her didn't raise his hands.
Instead, he smiled faintly.
"She's not supposed to die tonight," he said.
The gun pressed harder. "That wasn't the instruction."
The man's eyes locked onto hers, intense and unwavering. "Someone updated the file," he continued softly. "That means the timeline shifted."
"What file?" the gunman snapped.
"The one that decides who breathes," the man said. "And who doesn't."
Silence stretched.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, once—long and insistent.
UNKNOWN: Run.
The man moved.
He grabbed her wrist and spun them sideways as glass exploded behind them—shouts, chaos, bodies diving for cover. They ran, shoes slapping wet pavement, adrenaline roaring through her veins.
"Who are you?" she gasped as they ducked into an alley.
He didn't slow. "The mistake they couldn't erase."
"And me?" she demanded.
He glanced back once, eyes dark with something like regret.
"You," he said, "are the reason the shadows woke up."
They disappeared into the night as sirens began to wail, and one truth burned into her mind, terrifying and undeniable:
The dead man wasn't hiding from the past.
He was hiding her.