Chapter one

Run.

I can’t do this.

I’ve failed my mission.

How is this possible?

How did I get here?

I can’t do it anymore.

I just can’t.

Stan was your typical boring dad, round-edged glasses, a few strands of white hair beginning to show, and a fondness for white polo shirts and worn-out flip-flops. His life was neat, predictable, and quietly ordinary. A tidy middle-class home. A red Porsche and a white Audi A4 lined neatly in the driveway. The lawn trimmed to exact precision, not an inch too long with smooth pebbles bordering the walkway.

If life were a simulation, maybe that was one flaw in his programming: Stan was obsessed with neatness.

In this neighborhood, lawns were expected to be cut to a certain length and oh boy, he made sure his never exceeded it.

That summer afternoon, Stan sat on the porch with a newspaper in one hand and a cold beer in the other. Kids rode their bikes along the clean, well-marked road, their laughter bouncing between freshly painted fences. The sun hung low, heat pressing down on everything.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

A faint voice came from inside the house.

“Yes, Grey! Coming!” Stan called, setting his glasses and folded newspaper on the small wooden table he’d built a few weeks earlier one of his winter boredom projects.

“What’s up, Grey?”

“Look what I found!”

Stan frowned. “Where did you get this? Didn’t we tell you not to climb into the attic? It’s dangerous! What would your mom say if she found out you went up there?”

Grey’s eyes fell, but curiosity still sparked behind them.

“Come on,” Stan sighed, softening. “Let me have that. Go ride your bike with your friends and don’t tell Mom about this, or you’ll be grounded for weeks.”

He took the small red bag from Grey’s hands. It was dusty, old like it had been forgotten for years.

“Off you go,” Stan said, forcing a smile.

Moments later, the soft ring of the doorbell cut through the quiet evening. It was quarter past six, daylight beginning to fade.

“Hey, honey!” Stan called, opening the door.

A familiar voice answered, warm but weary. “Hey. How was your day?”

Sarah stood there in her hospital scrubs, a loose name tag hanging from her coat: Dr. Sarah Wallig, Head Nurse, Bridge Hospital. She looked exhausted, but her eyes held that steady pride he’d always admired.

Stan smiled faintly. “Long day?”

She nodded, stepping inside. “You could say that.”

A warm glass of milk waited on the nightstand later that evening, faint wisps of steam rising in the dim light.

“I made this for you,” Stan said softly. “Take a sip before you shower.”

Sarah smiled, setting her bag aside. “You and your rituals,” she teased.

“Let me help you with that,” he said, reaching for her coat as they climbed the stairs together.

“Where’s Grey? I saw his bike at Paul’s place it’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, loosening his collar. “He’s probably playing FIFA. I was going to buy him one today, but… didn’t feel like leaving the house. He’ll be back soon.”

Sarah nodded. “So, tell me about your day. Anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Stan murmured.

She turned to him, undoing the top button of her blouse. The soft light brushed her skin, catching the edge of a tattoo that curled from beneath her ribs toward her hip a dragon, elegant and fierce. Stan had seen it a thousand times, yet somehow it still stopped him.

His glasses slipped slightly down his nose. “You somehow look more beautiful every day,” he said quietly.

Sarah’s lips curved into a knowing smile. She twisted her hair into a loose bun, her movements unhurried, deliberate. The sound of running water filled the silence between them.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes glinting through the thin veil of steam. “Are you coming?” she asked, voice low and playful.

Stan hesitated only a moment before setting down his glasses, the faint smile returning. “Always,” he whispered.

He jumped from the bed, fumbling with his trousers as he rushed toward the bathroom. “Wait for me, honey!” he called with a grin.

The doorbell rang again. Ding-dong.

“There he is,” Sarah said, glancing at the clock. “It’s late. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. His curfew’s nine, it’s almost eleven!”

“Is it?” Stan laughed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Guess we lost track of time. Don’t be too hard on the boy, okay?”

Sarah smirked. “You mean you lost track of time.”

As she stood before the mirror fixing her hair, Stan paused, watching her reflection. “Damn,” he murmured, “I really am the luckiest man alive.”

“Here,” he said, walking over with a towel. “You missed a spot.”

He brushed it gently across her back, his touch lingering just a little too long. For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“Stan…” she whispered, half-turning toward him.

He smiled, soft but mischievous. “The door can wait.”

“It’s past his curfew,” she said, though her tone had lost its edge. “You really should”

But before she could finish, he leaned closer. The air between them crackled with quiet warmth. Then Sarah exhaled, steadying herself, and pressed a hand against his chest.

“Enough,” she said gently, slipping into her nightdress. “Go check on our son before you forget what time it really is.”

Stan laughed quietly, grabbing his shirt. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning as he headed for the stairs.

The house was silent again only the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the wall clock filling the air.

Stan stirred awake. The clock on the nightstand read 2:47 a.m.

Sarah was fast asleep beside him, moonlight brushing faint silver across her shoulder.

He slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to wake her, and padded down the hallway. The floorboards creaked softly beneath his feet. In the kitchen, he poured a glass of cold water and leaned against the counter, staring into the stillness outside.

Then it hit him, "the red bag".

It was still where he’d left it, on the table near the porch. He’d meant to look inside earlier, before Sarah got home. Maybe part of him hadn’t wanted to know.

Setting the glass down, he pulled the small, dust-streaked bag closer. The zipper stuck at first, the teeth clogged with years of neglect. With a firm tug, it gave way and a faint smell of old paper and something metallic drifted out.

Inside, wrapped in a faded cloth, were several old photographs black and white, edges curled and brittle. He held one under the dim light. A group of men stood beside a military vehicle. One of them looked exactly like him same eyes, same half-smile, same small scar above the eyebrow.

Stan froze. His pulse quickened.

He shuffled through the rest. Letters yellowed, stamped with dates from decades ago. A small silver tag with a name engraved: Lt. Hall, 1968.

“What the hell…” he whispered.

A faint creak came from behind him. He turned sharply but no one was there. Only his reflection in the kitchen window, pale and uneasy.

He glanced back down at the contents. Beneath the photographs lay something heavier a compact black device, small and smooth, with a faint blue light pulsing at its center. It didn’t look old.

Stan reached out and touched it. The light blinked faster once, twice then steadied.

The hum in the room shifted.

“Stan?” Sarah’s voice came faintly from upstairs, groggy, barely audible.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because in that moment, the device emitted a faint click and a distorted voice, mechanical but eerily familiar, echoed softly from within:

“Mission incomplete. Subject compromised.”

Stan stumbled back, heart racing. The photos slipped from his hands, scattering across the floor. The man in the pictures his face stared back up at him.

He stood frozen in the kitchen, the words echoing in his head. Mission incomplete. Subject compromised.

The blue light faded. Silence swallowed the room.

He picked up one photograph again, holding it close. The face his own stared back with unnerving familiarity.

No… that can’t be me.

The walls seemed to hum. The refrigerator light flickered. Something hollow stirred behind his thoughts like a gap he’d never noticed before.

“Stan?”

Sarah’s voice drifted down again soft, tired… but edged with something else. Not concern. Something closer to alertness.

She appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her robe, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

“You’re up,” she said gently. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Stan nodded slowly, the red bag open on the table. “Grey found this in the attic. I just wanted to see what was inside.”

Sarah’s eyes flicked to the bag just for a heartbeat then back to him. Her expression didn’t change, but the air did.

“Oh,” she said evenly, stepping closer. “That old thing? I told Grey not to mess around up there. Dangerous nails, loose boards… you know how it is.”

Stan looked from her to the photos, then back again. “Sarah… these pictures the man in them”

She interrupted softly, voice too steady. “Looks like you, doesn’t he?”

He froze. “So you’ve seen them?”

She smiled faintly. “Of course I have. They belonged to my father. I told you that once, didn’t I?”

He searched her face. “No. You didn’t.”

Silence. The refrigerator hummed again.

“Maybe you forgot,” she said finally. “You forget things sometimes when you’re tired.”

Stan looked down. His hands were trembling. “No, I”

She stepped closer, her robe brushing against his arm. Her voice softened. “Come back to bed, Stan. Please. You’re overthinking again.”

He looked at her really looked. The calm in her eyes. The steadiness of her touch. Comforting… but wrong. Too perfect.

His gaze drifted to the device. Its faint blue light blinked once, then went dark again.

“Sarah…” he whispered. “What is this?”

She followed his eyes. For just a heartbeat, something flickered across her face sharp, calculating then vanished.

“An old transmitter, I think,” she said quickly. “Probably from your dad’s army things. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. Come on, it’s late.”

She picked up the bag, zipped it shut, and held it close to her chest.

Stan wanted to protest, to grab it back but the words caught in his throat. The warmth in her voice, the faint scent of her shampoo, the soft weight of her hand on his shoulder it all pulled him back into place.

Like gravity.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

She smiled, relief flickering across her face. “Good. Let’s go back upstairs.”

As they climbed the stairs, Sarah behind him now, her expression shifted. The softness drained away. Her eyes, half in shadow, flicked once more toward the red bag in her hand.

Downstairs, the refrigerator light flickered again and this time, it didn’t come back on...

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