The industrial district was a dead vein of the city—once full of movement, now forgotten.
Streetlights flickered like they were tired of trying. My headlights cut through the fog as I drove past rusted warehouses and broken signs that no one bothered to fix anymore.
The number led me here.
A place the city had erased, but memory hadn't.
I parked beside a chain-link fence bent like an old man's spine. Beyond it stood the station—an abandoned signal control building from the days when trains still mattered. Concrete walls. Tall windows. A single light glowing inside.
That light shouldn't have been there.
I killed the engine and listened.
No footsteps.
No voices.
Just the soft hum of electricity, still alive after all these years.
I stepped out, the cold air biting through my coat. The gate was open.
Of course it was.
My hand hovered near my gun, but I didn't draw it. This place wasn't screaming danger yet. It was whispering it.
The door creaked as I pushed it open.
Inside, the smell hit me first—dust, oil, and something faintly warm. Like someone had just left. The room was full of old control panels, their lights blinking out of sync, like a heartbeat with a bad memory.
A chair was pulled back from the desk.
A paper cup sat near the edge. Still damp inside.
Not fresh.
But not old enough to ignore.
I walked closer, careful not to disturb anything. The cup had a stain on it—coffee. Black. No sugar. Someone who didn't care about taste, only staying awake.
I knew the type.
On the wall, behind the main panel, I saw it.
A mark drawn in white chalk.
A broken circle.
The same symbol from the bodies.
My jaw tightened.
This wasn't a coincidence.
This was a signature.
I checked the desk drawers. Empty. Too clean. Someone had taken what they wanted. But they'd left something behind on purpose.
A voice recorder.
Small. Cheap. Old model.
I picked it up, thumb pressing the button before I could stop myself.
Static.
Then breathing.
Slow. Calm. Controlled.
A man's voice followed—low, distorted, deliberate.
"Ryan Cross… you're late."
The recorder clicked off.
I stood still, the silence heavy now. The station felt smaller. Closer. Like the walls had leaned in to listen.
I turned toward the window.
The light outside was gone.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
No call.
No message.
No number.
Just one thing on the screen.
Location shared.
And it wasn't mine.
I looked around the empty room, my reflection staring back from the dark glass of the control panels.
I had come here chasing a lead.
But leads don't leave lights on.
They wait.
And as I stepped back into the night, one thing became clear:
Whoever I was following had been here first.
And they knew exactly where I would go next.