Brandon couldn't sit still.
He paced the length of the motel room—twelve steps from the door to the window, twelve steps back—his phone clutched in his hand like a lifeline. The television was muted now, but the image of the ruined warehouse still burned behind his eyes every time he blinked.
Twenty people. Dead.
He typed another message.
BRANDON: I need to know what was in that box.
No response.
BRANDON: You used me. You made me deliver a bomb or something and now twenty people are dead.
Nothing.
BRANDON: ANSWER ME.
The screen remained silent.
Brandon threw the phone onto the bed and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the roots until it hurt. He needed information. He needed to understand what he'd been part of.
He retrieved the phone and opened the browser, typing with trembling fingers.
Warehouse explosion Warehouse Row
The search results loaded slowly on the motel's weak wifi. Brandon scrolled through them, clicking on the first news article he found.
DEADLY BLAST ROCKS WAREHOUSE DISTRICT - 20 CONFIRMED DEAD
Authorities are investigating a massive explosion at an abandoned warehouse on the city's east side that claimed the lives of at least twenty people late Tuesday night. The blast, which occurred at approximately 11:15 PM, partially collapsed the structure at 4417 Warehouse Row and sparked a fire that took emergency crews several hours to contain.
Brandon kept reading, his stomach tightening with every sentence.
Sources close to the investigation have identified the warehouse as a known gathering point for the Reapers, a street gang with ties to drug trafficking throughout the metropolitan area. According to these sources, all twenty victims are believed to be members or associates of the gang.
"This was clearly a targeted attack," said one law enforcement official who spoke on condition of anonymity. "Someone knew exactly where to hit them and when. We're looking at this as a potential act of gang warfare."
Gang members. All of them. Every single person who died in that explosion was a criminal, a drug dealer, someone who had chosen a life of violence and exploitation.
Brandon waited for the relief to come.
It didn't.
He clicked on another article, then another, piecing together the story from fragments of reporting. The Reapers had been using the warehouse as a distribution hub for months, storing product before it was shipped out to street-level dealers across the city. The explosion had destroyed not just the building but an estimated two million dollars worth of narcotics.
Someone had known. Someone had planned this. And that someone had used Brandon Parker—failed husband, gambling addict, delivery boy—to make it happen.
What was in that box?
The question circled his mind like a shark. The box had been light, almost empty-feeling. He'd assumed it contained documents, maybe. Or cash. Something valuable but not dangerous.
But what if it had been something else? A detonator. A trigger. Something that turned an abandoned warehouse into a crematorium.
Brandon sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
I killed twenty people.
No. He didn't plant the bomb. He didn't set it off. He didn't even know what he was carrying. He was just a delivery man, following instructions from a stranger who paid him to ask no questions.
That's not a defense. That's an excuse.
His phone buzzed. Brandon lunged for it.
UNKNOWN: Stop searching. Go to sleep.
BRANDON: Not until you tell me what I delivered. What was in that box?
UNKNOWN: Sleep. Tomorrow will be long.
BRANDON: I'm not doing anything else until you explain what happened at that warehouse.
UNKNOWN: You're not in a position to make demands.
BRANDON: Twenty people are dead!
UNKNOWN: Twenty criminals. Twenty men who sold poison to children and murdered anyone who got in their way. The world is better without them.
BRANDON: That doesn't make it right.
UNKNOWN: Go to sleep, Brandon.
The messages stopped. Brandon typed response after response, demanding answers, threatening to go to the police, pleading for some explanation that would make sense of what he'd done. None of them received a reply.
Eventually, exhaustion won. Brandon lay back on the bed, still fully clothed, the gun on the nightstand and his phone on his chest. He stared at the water-stained ceiling until the stains blurred into shapes, and the shapes blurred into darkness, and the darkness pulled him under.
---
Morning came with pale light through thin curtains and the sound of traffic from the street below.
Brandon sat up slowly, his body stiff and his mind foggy. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. Then it all came rushing back—the warehouse, the explosion, the twenty dead gang members whose faces he would never see but whose deaths would follow him forever.
He reached for the remote and turned on the television, flipping to the local news.
A blonde anchor in a blue blazer was speaking into the camera, her expression professionally grave.
"—continuing our coverage of Tuesday night's deadly warehouse explosion. Police have released new information about the ongoing investigation, including a description of a person of interest they're seeking to identify."
Brandon's blood turned to ice.
"According to investigators, a witness reported seeing an individual near the warehouse earlier in the day. The person is described as a white male, approximately five-foot-ten to six feet tall, medium build, with brown hair. He was last seen wearing dark clothing and may have been riding a bicycle."
The anchor paused, shuffling papers.
"Police emphasize that this individual is not currently considered a suspect, but they believe he may have information relevant to the investigation. Anyone who recognizes this description or has information about the explosion is urged to contact the anonymous tip line."
Brandon stared at the screen, his heart hammering against his ribs.
That's me. They're describing me.
Medium build. Brown hair. Dark clothing. A bicycle.
Someone had seen him. Not clearly enough to provide a detailed description, but enough to put the police on his trail. Enough to make him a person of interest in a mass murder.
The anchor continued, her tone shifting slightly.
"In related news, authorities are reporting a significant increase in violence between rival gang factions in the wake of the warehouse explosion. At least three shootings have been reported in the past twenty-four hours, with two fatalities confirmed. Sources tell us that the Reapers are blaming a rival organization known as the Eastside Kings for the attack, while the Kings deny any involvement."
The screen showed footage of police tape cordoning off a street corner, shell casings visible on the pavement.
"City officials are urging residents in affected neighborhoods to stay indoors and report any suspicious activity. A press conference is scheduled for later this afternoon."
Brandon turned off the television.
He sat in silence, processing what he'd just heard. The explosion hadn't just killed twenty people—it had started a war. Gang members were shooting each other in the streets, and it was only going to get worse.
And somewhere out there, the Reapers were looking for whoever had destroyed their operation. Looking for the person who had delivered the box.
Looking for him.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: Good morning.
Brandon grabbed the phone.
BRANDON: They have a description of me. The police are looking for me.
UNKNOWN: I'm aware.
BRANDON: What am I supposed to do? I can't just walk around the city. Someone might recognize me.
UNKNOWN: Then don't walk around the city. Go to work.
BRANDON: What?
UNKNOWN: There's a restaurant called Burger Barn on Madison Avenue. They're hiring. Go apply for a job.
Brandon read the message three times, certain he was misunderstanding something.
BRANDON: You want me to apply for a job at a fast food restaurant?
UNKNOWN: Yes.
BRANDON: The police are looking for me. Gang members want to kill me. And you want me to flip burgers?
UNKNOWN: I want you to have legitimate income. Employment. A reason to be somewhere at specific times. Go to Burger Barn. Apply for a position. Tell them you can start immediately.
BRANDON: No.
A long pause.
UNKNOWN: Excuse me?
BRANDON: I said no. I'm done following your instructions blindly. You've had me stealing from diners and delivering bombs and finding guns in motel rooms. Twenty people are dead because of something I carried across the city. I'm not doing anything else until you tell me who you are and what you want from me.
UNKNOWN: You're refusing?
BRANDON: Yes. I'm refusing.
Another pause. Brandon waited, his jaw set, his hands steady for the first time in days. He was done being a puppet. Done dancing on strings he couldn't see.
UNKNOWN: Let me make sure I understand your situation, Brandon. You have $247 in your bank account. You owe $50,000 to a man who will have you killed if you don't pay. You're a person of interest in a mass murder investigation. Two gangs are currently shooting at each other, and one of them would very much like to find the man who destroyed their warehouse. You can't go home because your wife kicked you out. You have no car because it was seized by the casino. Your only friend is sleeping with your wife. And you're telling me you're done following instructions?
Brandon stared at the screen.
UNKNOWN: Where exactly do you think you're going to go, Brandon? What do you think you're going to do? The world outside this conversation is full of people who want to hurt you, arrest you, or ignore you completely. I'm the only one offering you a way forward.
BRANDON: A way forward to what?
UNKNOWN: That depends entirely on you. But if you want to find out, you'll go to Burger Barn on Madison Avenue and apply for a job. If you don't, I'll stop texting. The money will stop. And you'll be alone with your problems and no resources to solve them.
Brandon's grip tightened on the phone.
UNKNOWN: The choice is yours. It always has been.
He wanted to argue. Wanted to throw the phone against the wall and watch it shatter into a thousand pieces. Wanted to walk into a police station and confess everything, consequences be damned.
But the texter was right. He had nothing. No money, no allies, no options. Just a gun on the nightstand and a stranger's instructions to follow.
BRANDON: Fine. I'll go.
UNKNOWN: Good. Let me know when it's done.
---
Burger Barn was exactly what the name suggested—a fast food restaurant with a cartoon cow on the sign and the smell of grease wafting through the parking lot. Brandon stood outside for a full minute, watching customers come and go through the glass doors, before finally forcing himself to enter.
The interior was bright and loud, filled with the clatter of trays and the beeping of fryers and the chatter of a lunch crowd. A teenager with acne and a paper hat stood behind the register, looking bored.
"Welcome to Burger Barn, can I take your order?"
"I'm not here to order," Brandon said. "I'm here to apply for a job."
The teenager blinked. "Oh. Uh, hold on." He turned and shouted toward the back. "Hey, Maria! Someone's here about the job!"
A moment later, a woman emerged from the kitchen—mid-forties, heavyset, with tired eyes and a name tag that read MARIA - MANAGER. She looked Brandon up and down with the expression of someone who had seen too many desperate applicants.
"You're here for the position?"
"Yes ma'am."
"You have any experience in food service?"
"No. But I'm a hard worker. I learn fast."
Maria studied him for another long moment. Brandon tried to stand up straighter, tried to look like someone who had his life together instead of someone who was wanted for questioning in a bombing.
"We're short-staffed," she said finally. "Come back Thursday at nine AM. We'll do a trial shift. If you don't screw up too badly, we'll talk about making it permanent."
"Thursday. Nine AM. I'll be here."
"Don't be late." Maria turned and disappeared back into the kitchen without another word.
Brandon walked out into the afternoon sun, feeling oddly deflated. He'd expected—what? Immediate employment? A paycheck handed to him on the spot? Instead, he had a maybe and a date two days from now.
He checked his phone.
BRANDON: Done. They told me to come back Thursday for a trial shift.
UNKNOWN: Good.
BRANDON: Do I get paid for this?
UNKNOWN: You get paid when you earn it.
BRANDON: I just did what you asked.
UNKNOWN: You applied for a job. You didn't get one. Come back when you're employed.
Brandon wanted to argue, but another message appeared before he could type a response.
UNKNOWN: New task. Walk two blocks south. There's a coffee shop called The Daily Grind. Go inside and wait.
Brandon's stomach tightened. The last "task" had ended with twenty people dead. What was this one going to cost?
BRANDON: Wait for what?
UNKNOWN: You'll know when you see it.
---
The Daily Grind was a small establishment tucked between a dry cleaner and a nail salon, the kind of independent coffee shop that survived on neighborhood loyalty and free wifi. Brandon ordered the cheapest thing on the menu—a small black coffee for two dollars—and found a seat near the window.
He waited.
Customers came and went. A young woman with a laptop. An elderly man reading a newspaper. A mother with two small children who ordered hot chocolates and left chocolate mustaches on their faces.
Brandon watched them all, wondering what he was supposed to be looking for.
Twenty minutes passed. Thirty.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: The man who just walked in. White shirt. Jeans. Standing next to the woman in the red dress.
Brandon looked up.
A couple had entered the coffee shop—a man in his thirties, fit and well-groomed, wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and designer jeans. He was holding his phone to his ear, speaking in low tones, occasionally laughing at something the person on the other end said. Next to him stood a woman who could only be described as stunning: tall, dark-haired, wearing a red dress that hugged her curves in all the right places.
UNKNOWN: You're going to walk over to that man and punch him.
Brandon stared at the message.
BRANDON: What?
UNKNOWN: Punch him. Hard. Make sure he goes down. Don't stop until he's unconscious.
BRANDON: Are you insane? I'm not going to assault a random stranger.
UNKNOWN: He's not random. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you.
BRANDON: No. Absolutely not. I'm not hitting anyone.
UNKNOWN: You don't have a choice.
BRANDON: The hell I don't. You can threaten to cut off the money all you want. I'm not beating someone unconscious for you.
A pause. Then a new message appeared—not text this time, but a video file.
Brandon opened it.
His blood went cold.
The video showed the warehouse on Warehouse Row. The same warehouse that was now rubble and ash and the graves of twenty men. But in the video, it was intact, its walls solid, its doors closed.
And approaching those doors, a bicycle leaning against the wall, was a figure Brandon recognized immediately.
Himself.
He watched as the video-Brandon walked to the side entrance. Watched as he opened the door. Watched as he carried a box inside. The footage was grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but there was no mistaking who it was. No mistaking what he was doing.
UNKNOWN: There are cameras everywhere, Brandon. You just never thought to look for them. This video shows you delivering a package to a warehouse where twenty people died less than eight hours later. What do you think the police would do with this? What do you think the Reapers would do?
Brandon's hands were shaking.
BRANDON: You set me up.
UNKNOWN: I gave you a job. You did it. Now I'm giving you another job. Whether you do this one is up to you, but understand the consequences of refusal. This video goes to the police. This video goes to the Reapers. And you spend the rest of your very short life running from people who want to put you in prison or put you in the ground.
BRANDON: Why? What did this guy do?
UNKNOWN: That's not your concern.
BRANDON: I'm not doing this blind. You want me to beat someone unconscious, you tell me why.
UNKNOWN: The man in the white shirt is named Thomas Reeves. What he did and why he deserves what's coming are not things you need to know. What you need to know is that you have sixty seconds to walk over there and start swinging, or I send the video. Clock starts now.
Brandon looked at the phone. Looked at the man in the white shirt, still chatting on his phone, still smiling at something someone said. Looked at the woman in the red dress, who was examining the menu board with casual disinterest.
Fifty seconds.
He thought about the video. About the police, who already had a description of him. About the Reapers, who were shooting people in the streets and looking for someone to blame.
Forty seconds.
He thought about Julia. About Lily. About the life he'd already destroyed and the one he was desperately trying to rebuild.
Thirty seconds.
He stood up.
Twenty seconds.
He crossed the coffee shop, his legs moving like they belonged to someone else.
Ten seconds.
Thomas Reeves turned slightly, perhaps sensing someone approaching. Their eyes met.
Brandon's fist connected with his jaw.
The impact was brutal—bone against bone, flesh against flesh. Reeves dropped his phone as his head snapped to the side, his body crumpling against the counter. The woman in the red dress screamed, a high-pitched sound that cut through the ambient noise of the coffee shop like a knife.
Brandon didn't stop.
He grabbed Reeves by the collar and hit him again. And again. The man's hands came up in a feeble attempt to defend himself, but Brandon batted them away, his fists landing blow after blow. Blood sprayed from Reeves's nose. His lip split open. His eyes rolled back.
Somewhere in the distance, Brandon heard more screaming. Heard chairs scraping. Heard the woman in the red dress yelling something, her voice receding as she ran toward the door.
He didn't stop.
Reeves was on the ground now, his white shirt stained crimson, his face a mask of blood and swelling. Brandon straddled him, his knuckles raw and throbbing, and kept hitting.
One more. Just one more.
Reeves went limp.
Brandon froze, his fist raised for another blow. He looked down at the unconscious man beneath him—at the blood pooling on the tile floor, at the bruises already forming around his eyes, at the chest that still rose and fell with shallow breaths.
What have I done?
He stumbled to his feet, backing away from the body. The coffee shop was chaos around him—overturned chairs, spilled drinks, customers pressed against the walls with their phones raised like weapons. Recording everything. Recording him.
The door burst open.
The woman in the red dress stood in the entrance, pointing at Brandon with a shaking hand. Behind her, two police officers were already moving, their hands on their holsters, their eyes locked on the bloody man standing over an unconscious body.
The woman's mouth was moving. She was saying something, pointing, gesturing frantically at Brandon and then at Reeves. But Brandon was too far away to hear the words, his ears filled with a high-pitched ringing that drowned out everything else.
He saw the officers start toward him.
He ran.
Through the back of the coffee shop, past the startled baristas, through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY that led to a cluttered stockroom. He found another door, this one opening onto an alley behind the building, and burst through it into the afternoon light.
Behind him, he heard shouting. Commands to stop. The crackle of radios.
He kept running.
Through the alley. Across a parking lot. Down a side street. Around a corner. Through a gap in a fence. Into the shadow of an overpass where the homeless made their camps and the city's forgotten gathered to be ignored.
Brandon ran until his lungs gave out, until his legs buckled, until he collapsed against a concrete pillar and slid to the ground, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
His hands were covered in blood. Thomas Reeves's blood.
His phone buzzed.
DEPOSIT: $800.00
FROM: UNKNOWN SENDER
REFERENCE: TASK COMPLETE
Brandon stared at the notification, at the money appearing in his account like payment for services rendered.
Eight hundred dollars for beating a stranger unconscious.
He looked at his bloody knuckles. At the torn skin and the bruises already forming.
And somewhere in the distance, he heard sirens.