The Mercedes' engine purred softly as Ethan guided it through the city streets, the glow of neon signs flashing across his windshield. Downtown looked different at night. It wasn't the polished heart of the upper districts with their glittering towers and mirrored glass, nor was it the rundown sprawl of his own neighborhood. It was something in-between: streets lined with shuttered shops, flickering lamps, and the lingering smell of oil and smoke from the food vendors that stayed open past midnight.
The system's glowing prompt hovered faintly at the corner of his vision, urging him forward:
[Mission Objective: Check in at the Old Restaurant Downtown.]
It didn't say how. It didn't say why. Just be there.
Ethan's hands tightened on the wheel as he turned onto the narrow road the system had marked for him. The GPS-like line shimmered across his vision, pulling him deeper into the quieter part of downtown where fewer cars passed and more shadows lingered.
Finally, he spotted it.
The "restaurant" looked more like an abandoned relic than a business. Its faded sign hung crookedly over the door, half the letters missing, the remaining ones bleached white by years of sun and rain. The windows were boarded up, the paint peeling from the brick. A single rusted chain kept the door locked.
Ethan parked the Mercedes across the street, the car's sleek frame almost laughably out of place against the backdrop of decay. He stepped out, his polished shoes crunching against gravel.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, glancing around. "I'm here. So now what?"
He approached the door, half-expecting the system to chime, to glow, to say Mission complete. Nothing.
He walked around the side, peering into the boarded windows. Still nothing.
He checked the mission screen again. The glowing line just pointed to the restaurant, stubborn and unchanging.
"Great," Ethan sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "System wants me here, but won't tell me how to check in. Fantastic. Love that."
He circled the building again. No lights. No open doors. No system chime. Just silence, broken only by the faint sound of cars in the distance.
His stomach growled.
Ethan frowned, hand pressing lightly against his abdomen. He hadn't eaten since morning. Between exams, his family, and now this mission, food hadn't crossed his mind. Now, in the silence of the empty street, hunger hit him hard.
"Fine," he muttered, glancing around. "I'll grab a bite. Maybe by the time I'm back, the system will figure itself out."
A short walk down the block revealed a row of food stalls still clinging to life. Grease popped in pans, neon bulbs flickered overhead, and the air was thick with the scent of grilled meat and fried dough. Ethan's stomach tightened in response.
He approached one stall, the old vendor barely glancing at him as he flipped skewers over a smoky grill.
"One order," Ethan said, dropping a few bills onto the counter.
Minutes later, he sat on a worn plastic stool, chewing on skewers of seasoned meat. The taste was greasy, salty, and heavenly. For a moment, he forgot about the boarded restaurant and the glowing mission prompt. He was just another man eating late-night street food, the warmth filling the emptiness in his stomach.
When he was done, Ethan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, thanked the vendor, and headed back.
The restaurant was as lifeless as before, its crooked sign swaying faintly in the breeze. Ethan exhaled, stepping closer, circling around the back this time.
That was when a voice cut through the silence.
"You lost, boy?"
Ethan froze.
A man stood behind the building, half-hidden in shadow. His shoulders were broad beneath a worn jacket, his hair streaked with gray, his face lined but alert. He held himself with the calm weight of someone who belonged there. His eyes, sharp and assessing, were fixed squarely on Ethan.
Ethan's mind raced. The system. The mission. But he couldn't say that. He couldn't explain that a glowing card had told him to come to an abandoned restaurant in the middle of the night.
So he lied.
"I, uh—" He cleared his throat, forcing his voice steady. "I was looking for the owner of this place. Heard he might be around."
The man's expression didn't shift. He just crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze boring deeper. "You found him."
Ethan blinked. "You're the owner?"
"That's right." The man's tone was flat, suspicious. "And I've never seen you before in my life."
A bead of sweat slid down Ethan's neck. His lie crumbled faster than paper in the rain.
Think, think, think.
"Right, I—uh—I just… heard about the place," Ethan stammered, scratching the back of his neck. "Thought maybe it was reopening. Wanted to check."
The man tilted his head, studying him. For a long moment, the silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of wind through the alley. Ethan's chest tightened, his mind scrambling for an escape.
Then the man spoke again.
"Your name," he said slowly. "It's Ethan Ivers, isn't it?"
Ethan's breath caught.
His heart slammed against his ribs as he stared at the stranger. "How… how do you know my name?"
The man's lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes never softened.
"Because I was told you'd come."
The silence between them stretched, thick enough to choke on. The man's eyes—sharp, unblinking—held Ethan in place like nails through wood.
"You are Ethan Ivers," the man repeated, slower this time, as though testing the sound of the name on his tongue.
Ethan swallowed, his throat dry. Every instinct told him to run, to turn back toward the safety of the Mercedes, toward the familiar noise of downtown. But something heavier kept him rooted. The system had sent him here. The mission wasn't complete yet.
Finally, he nodded once. "Yes. That's me."
The man studied him for another long moment before exhaling through his nose, a faint sound of satisfaction. "Then follow me."
Ethan blinked. "Follow you? To where?"
"You'll see."
The answer did nothing to settle the knot twisting in Ethan's stomach. He was seventeen. A student. A scholarship boy with no business walking into the night after strange men who somehow knew his name.
He should say no. He wanted to say no. But the system's mission prompt still glowed faintly in his vision, stubborn and unyielding. The restaurant hadn't been the true destination. This man was.
Reluctantly, Ethan fell into step behind him.
The man led him away from the boarded-up restaurant, his stride steady, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. They walked down a quiet side street, the glow of neon fading behind them until the road narrowed into a residential stretch.
Ethan kept a cautious distance, his eyes darting between the man's back and the shadows around them. Great. This is how horror movies start. Dumb kid follows a stranger, disappears into the dark, never seen again.
But the man didn't lead him into an alley. Didn't vanish into the night. Instead, he stopped before a neat brick house, its walls clean, its small garden trimmed with care. A porch light glowed faintly, welcoming and warm.
Ethan blinked. Of all the things he'd expected—a creepy warehouse, a basement dungeon, some gangster hideout—a cozy suburban home hadn't even been on the list.
The man unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. "Come in."
Ethan hesitated at the threshold, his grip tightening on the strap of his bag.
"Relax," the man said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "If I wanted you hurt, you wouldn't still be standing."
Comforting. Sort of.
With a deep breath, Ethan stepped inside.
The house was… normal. That was the strangest part. A tidy living room with a well-worn couch. Shelves lined with books and framed photographs. A faint scent of coffee and wood polish lingered in the air. It was the kind of place Ethan had always imagined for other families—stable, quiet, safe.
"Sit," the man said, gesturing toward the couch.
Ethan perched on the edge, his shoulders tense, his eyes darting around the room as though expecting the walls to peel back and reveal the trap.
Instead, the man moved into the kitchen and returned with two glasses. He handed one to Ethan.
Ethan stared at it, suspicion prickling. "What is it?"
"Juice," the man said simply, sitting in the armchair opposite him.
Ethan narrowed his eyes. Right. Juice. From a stranger who dragged me into his house in the middle of the night. Totally safe.
Still, his throat was dry, and the man's steady gaze made refusal feel childish. Ethan sniffed it first—cautiously—before taking a careful sip. It was, to his surprise, just juice. Sweet. Cold.
The man leaned forward then, placing a folder on the coffee table between them. Its cover was plain, its edges worn. He slid a pen across the surface toward Ethan.
"Here."
Ethan's brows furrowed as he reached for the folder. Slowly, he flipped it open, his eyes scanning the first page.
His heart stuttered.
The words blurred, then sharpened again as he read them once more, disbelief hammering at his skull.
It was a contract.
And his name—Ethan Ivers—was printed in bold across the top.