The address came at 2:47 AM.
Brandon was sitting on a bench in Riverside Park, too wired to sleep, too broken to move, when his phone lit up with coordinates and a simple instruction.
UNKNOWN: Storage unit 47B. Riverside Self-Storage. 1847 Industrial Boulevard. Combination is 7-23-91. Retrieve the package inside. Do not open it.
Brandon stared at the message, his breath fogging in the cold night air. Industrial Boulevard was on the far side of town, at least a forty-minute walk from where he sat.
BRANDON: What's in the package?
UNKNOWN: Not your concern. Retrieve it. Bring it with you. You'll receive further instructions.
BRANDON: And if I refuse?
UNKNOWN: Then you go back to being the man who stood in the dark while his best friend touched his wife. Your choice.
Brandon's jaw tightened. He stood up from the bench and started walking.
Riverside Self-Storage was exactly the kind of place that existed on the margins of the city—a sprawling complex of corrugated metal units surrounded by chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The kind of place where people stored things they didn't want found.
The gate was locked when Brandon arrived, but the pedestrian entrance beside it had a keypad. He punched in the combination from the text—7-23-91—and heard a click. The gate swung open.
The complex was a maze of identical units stretching into darkness. Dim security lights cast pools of yellow at irregular intervals, leaving vast stretches of shadow between them. Brandon's footsteps echoed off the metal walls as he navigated the rows, checking numbers.
41B. 43B. 45B.
47B.
The unit looked no different from any other—a rolling metal door secured with a combination padlock. Brandon crouched down and spun the dial. 7. 23. 91.
The lock clicked open.
He rolled up the door slowly, the metal groaning in protest. Inside, the unit was mostly empty—just bare concrete floor and corrugated walls. But in the center, illuminated by the faint glow of distant security lights, sat a single cardboard box about the size of a shoebox.
Brandon stepped inside, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The box was plain brown, unmarked, sealed with clear packing tape. It weighed almost nothing when he picked it up.
He was turning to leave when a flashlight beam hit him square in the face.
"Hold it right there."
Brandon froze, his heart slamming against his ribs. The light was blinding, but behind it he could make out the silhouette of a man—heavyset, wearing what looked like a security uniform.
"This unit's been flagged," the guard said, moving closer. His hand rested on something at his belt. A radio, maybe. Or something worse. "Nobody's supposed to be in here. You want to tell me what you're doing?"
Brandon's mind raced. The combination had worked. The gate code had worked. Whoever had sent him here had access to this place. But apparently, they hadn't accounted for a security patrol.
"I'm just picking something up," Brandon said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I have the combination. The owner asked me to—"
"The owner of this unit died three months ago." The guard's voice hardened. "Estate's been tied up in probate. Nobody should have access. So I'm going to ask you one more time: what are you doing here?"
Brandon's grip tightened on the box. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn't dare reach for it.
Think. Think. Think
"Look," Brandon said slowly, "I understand how this looks. But I'm just a courier. Someone hired me to pick up a package from this unit. They gave me the combination, the gate code, everything. I don't know anything about the owner or probate or any of that. I'm just doing a job."
The guard studied him, the flashlight beam unwavering. "A courier. At three in the morning. From a dead man's storage unit."
"I know it sounds bad. But you can call the police if you want. Search me. Search the box. I don't have anything to hide." Brandon forced himself to meet the guard's eyes, or at least the direction where his eyes should be behind that blinding light. "I'm just a guy trying to make some money. That's all."
A long silence stretched between them.
"What's in the box?" the guard asked finally.
"I don't know. I was told not to open it."
"Open it."
Brandon hesitated. The texter had been explicit: Do not open it. But the texter wasn't here, and this guard was.
"Okay," Brandon said. "Okay, I'll open it."
He set the box on the ground, pulled at the packing tape, and lifted the flaps.
Inside, nestled in a bed of foam packing peanuts, was a small ceramic figurine. A cat, sitting upright, one paw raised in a beckoning gesture. A lucky cat. The kind you'd see in the window of a Chinese restaurant.
Brandon stared at it.
This is what I came for? A ceramic cat?
The guard leaned in, shining his flashlight into the box. His posture relaxed slightly.
"That's it? A stupid cat statue?"
"I guess so." Brandon was as confused as the guard sounded. "Like I said, I'm just a courier. I pick up what I'm told to pick up."
The guard straightened, letting out a long breath. "Alright. Get out of here. And tell whoever hired you that this unit is off-limits until the estate is settled. Next time someone shows up here in the middle of the night, I'm calling the cops first and asking questions later."
"Understood. Thank you."
Brandon closed the box, tucked it under his arm, and walked past the guard as calmly as he could manage. He didn't look back. He didn't breathe properly until he was through the gate and back on the street.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: Well handled.
DEPOSIT: $300.00
FROM: UNKNOWN SENDER
REFERENCE: RETRIEVAL COMPLETE
Brandon stared at the notification. Three hundred dollars for a ceramic cat and a conversation with a security guard. Nothing about this made sense.
BRANDON: What is this thing? Why is it important?
**UNKNOWN:** Questions later. Rest now. Take the package to the Bluebird Motel on Fifth Street. Room will be arranged. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is a long day.
The Bluebird Motel was exactly the kind of establishment its name suggested—cheap, anonymous, and asking no questions. The sign out front flickered erratically, the "B" in "Bluebird" completely dark. The parking lot held a handful of cars that looked like they hadn't moved in weeks.
Brandon approached the front office, the box tucked under his arm. Behind the bulletproof glass, a thin man with hollow cheeks and suspicious eyes looked up from a portable television.
"Need a room," Brandon said.
The manager studied him for a long moment, taking in his rumpled clothes and exhausted face. "Sixty a night. Cash only."
Brandon reached for his phone to check his balance. Between the fifty from earlier, the two-fifty from the diner, and the three hundred from the storage unit, he had six hundred dollars. More than enough.
"I'll take one night."
The manager's eyes narrowed. "Room's two hundred."
"You just said sixty."
"Did I?" The man's thin lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Must have misspoke. Two hundred. Take it or leave it."
Brandon felt anger flare in his chest. The man had seen him coming—desperate, alone, carrying a mysterious box in the middle of the night. Easy prey.
"That's robbery."
"That's business." The manager shrugged. "There's a shelter on Ninth Street if you'd prefer. They might have a cot available. Might not."
Brandon wanted to argue. Wanted to slam his fist against the bulletproof glass and demand fair treatment. But he was so tired his vision was blurring, and the box under his arm felt heavier with every passing minute.
He pulled out his phone and transferred the money.
The manager slid a key through the slot in the glass. "Room 12. Checkout's at eleven. No visitors. No noise. No refunds."
Room 12 was small and smelled faintly of mildew, but it had a bed and a lock on the door, and right now that was enough. Brandon set the box on the nightstand, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the mattress without bothering to pull back the covers.
He was asleep within seconds.
Morning came too quickly, gray light filtering through thin curtains that did nothing to block the outside world. Brandon woke to the sound of traffic and the distant wail of a siren, his body aching from more than just the uncomfortable mattress.
He checked his phone. 9:47 AM. A few notifications—spam, mostly—but nothing from the unknown number.
His balance showed four hundred dollars.
Brandon sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the box on the nightstand. The ceramic cat inside was worth three hundred dollars to someone. Maybe more. He didn't understand why, and the texter clearly wasn't going to explain.
But that wasn't what occupied his thoughts.
Julia. Lily. The house on Maple Street.
He'd been gone for almost a week now. His daughter probably thought he'd abandoned her. His wife definitely did. And somewhere in that house, Derek was probably still circling, still playing the role of concerned friend while he dismantled everything Brandon had left.
Brandon made a decision.
He showered in the cramped bathroom, changed into the same clothes he'd been wearing for days, and tucked the box under the bed. Then he left the motel and went looking for a store.
The corner shop three blocks from the Bluebird had everything he needed: a bag of Lily's favorite candy—sour watermelon gummies—a small stuffed rabbit with floppy ears, and a bouquet of flowers wrapped in cellophane. Roses. Julia had always loved roses.
The total came to forty-seven dollars.
Brandon paid and started the long walk home.
The house looked different in daylight. Smaller, somehow. More fragile. The yellow notice from the bank was still taped to the front door, fluttering slightly in the morning breeze.
Brandon stood on the sidewalk for a full minute before he found the courage to approach.
He knocked.
Footsteps inside. The door opened.
Julia stood in the doorway, her expression shifting from surprise to something harder when she recognized him. But before she could speak, a small voice cut through the tension.
"Daddy!"
Lily appeared behind her mother, squeezing past Julia's legs and launching herself at Brandon with the full force of her seven-year-old body. Brandon dropped to his knees and caught her, wrapping his arms around her so tightly he worried he might break her.
"Hey, baby girl." His voice cracked. "Hey. I missed you."
"Where were you?" Lily pulled back to look at his face, her brown eyes wide and serious. "Mommy said you were working, but you were gone for so long."
"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Brandon kissed the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. "But look—I brought you something."
He produced the bag of candy and the stuffed rabbit. Lily's face lit up like Christmas morning.
"For me?"
"All for you."
She grabbed both gifts and hugged them to her chest, bouncing on her heels. "Thank you, Daddy! Thank you thank you thank you!"
"Go play with your rabbit," Julia said quietly. "Daddy and I need to talk."
Lily nodded and scampered back inside, already tearing open the bag of gummies. Brandon straightened, meeting Julia's gaze.
"These are for you." He held out the flowers.
Julia looked at them but didn't move to take them. "Where did you get money for flowers?"
"I've been working. Odd jobs. Nothing permanent yet, but—"
"Odd jobs." Her tone made it clear she didn't believe him.
"Julia, please." Brandon kept the flowers extended. "I know I've messed up. I know I've been gone too long and said too many things I didn't follow through on. But I'm trying. I'm really trying."
She still didn't take them.
Brandon lowered the bouquet and reached into his pocket instead, pulling out the remaining bills. Three hundred and fifty-three dollars, minus what he needed for the motel room and whatever came next.
"Here." He held out three hundred dollars. "For Lily. Her school trip, whatever she needs. It's not everything, but it's a start."
Julia stared at the money, her expression unreadable.
"Where did this come from, Brandon?"
"I told you. Work."
"What kind of work pays three hundred dollars in cash?"
"Does it matter?" Brandon felt frustration creeping into his voice. "I'm trying to help. I'm trying to contribute. Isn't that what you wanted?"
Julia took the money slowly, counting it with practiced efficiency. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You got this from Derek, didn't you?"
Brandon's stomach lurched at the name. Images flashed through his mind—shadows in the bedroom window, two figures moving together, his best friend's hands where they didn't belong.
"No," he said carefully. "I didn't."
"Because if you borrowed more money from him just to make yourself feel better—"
"I said I didn't get it from Derek." The words came out sharper than he intended. Julia's eyes widened slightly.
Brandon took a breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "I earned it. Honestly. You don't have to believe me, but it's the truth."
A long silence stretched between them. Julia folded the bills and slipped them into her pocket.
"Lily has a playdate at two," she said finally. "You can stay until then. But I meant what I said, Brandon. Nothing has changed. Not yet."
"I understand."
She stepped aside to let him in, and Brandon walked into his own home like a guest.
He spent three hours with his daughter.
They played with the stuffed rabbit, which Lily named Mr. Floppers. They watched cartoons on the couch, Lily tucked against his side with her head on his shoulder. They built a tower out of blocks and knocked it down together, laughing as the pieces scattered across the floor.
For three hours, Brandon almost felt like a father again.
At 1:45, his phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: Task. Post office on Henderson Avenue. Package waiting under your name. Deliver to 4417 Warehouse Row. Use a bicycle. No other transportation.
Brandon read the message twice.
BRANDON: Why a bicycle?
UNKNOWN: Because I said so. Complete the task, receive $400. The bicycle rental shop next to the post office opens at 2 PM.
"Daddy?" Lily was tugging at his sleeve. "Who's texting you?"
"Just work, sweetheart." Brandon pocketed his phone and kissed her forehead. "Daddy has to go soon, okay? But I'll come back. I promise."
"You always say that."
The words hit harder than they should have. Brandon knelt down to look his daughter in the eye.
"I know I haven't been around much. And I know that's confusing and scary. But I'm going to do better. Starting now. Okay?"
Lily studied his face with an intensity that seemed far too old for seven years.
"Okay, Daddy."
Brandon hugged her one more time, then went to find Julia.
She was in the kitchen, washing dishes with aggressive efficiency.
"I have to go," he said.
"Of course you do."
"It's work. The same work that paid for what I just gave you."
Julia's hands paused over the sink. She didn't turn around.
"I'll be back tonight," Brandon continued. "Or tomorrow morning at the latest. I just wanted you to know."
"Fine."
He waited for more, but nothing came. After a moment, he turned and left.
The post office on Henderson Avenue was a squat brick building that had clearly seen better decades. A handful of people waited in line when Brandon entered, shuffling forward with the resigned patience of those accustomed to bureaucratic delays.
When he reached the counter, he gave his name. The clerk disappeared into the back and returned with a padded envelope about the size of a hardcover book.
"Sign here."
Brandon signed. The envelope felt light in his hands, just like the box from the storage unit. Whatever the texter was having him transport, it wasn't heavy.
He didn't bother asking what was inside. He already knew he wouldn't get an answer.
The bicycle rental shop was exactly where the texter said it would be—a small storefront with a faded awning and a row of battered bikes chained out front. Fifteen dollars got him a rusted mountain bike that squeaked with every pedal rotation.
Brandon secured the envelope in the bike's basket and pulled up the address on his phone. 4417 Warehouse Row.
The other side of the city. At least twelve miles.
He started pedaling.
The ride was brutal.
Brandon hadn't been on a bicycle in years, and his body made that abundantly clear within the first mile. His thighs burned. His lungs ached. Sweat soaked through his shirt despite the cool afternoon air.
But he kept going.
Through downtown, past the glittering office towers and crowded sidewalks. Through the industrial district, where smokestacks belched gray clouds into the sky. Through neighborhoods that grew progressively more rundown, the houses giving way to vacant lots and boarded-up businesses.
Warehouse Row was exactly what it sounded like—a stretch of abandoned industrial buildings that lined the riverfront like rotting teeth. Most had broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. None showed any signs of recent activity.
4417 was a massive structure of rusted metal and crumbling brick, three stories tall with loading docks that hadn't seen a truck in years. The main entrance was secured with a chain and padlock, but a side door hung open on broken hinges.
Brandon dismounted and approached cautiously, the envelope clutched in his hand.
"Hello?" His voice echoed through the cavernous interior. "Anyone here?"
No response.
He stepped inside.
The warehouse was empty except for debris—scattered pallets, broken glass, the remnants of old machinery. Pigeons cooed somewhere in the rafters, their droppings coating everything in white.
In the center of the floor, someone had placed a folding table. On the table sat a small metal lockbox.
Brandon approached it slowly, half-expecting someone to jump out of the shadows. But the warehouse remained silent.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN: Place the envelope in the lockbox. Close it. Leave.
Brandon did as instructed. The lockbox accepted the envelope easily, and the lid clicked shut with a sense of finality.
UNKNOWN: Good. Now go home.
DEPOSIT: $400.00
FROM: UNKNOWN SENDER
REFERENCE: DELIVERY COMPLETE
Brandon stared at the notification. Seven hundred dollars in two days, for tasks that made no sense. A ceramic cat. A mysterious envelope. Deliveries to nowhere.
What am I part of?
The question lingered as he walked back to the bicycle and began the long ride home.
It was after eight when Brandon finally reached Maple Street. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, and his back was screaming from hours hunched over handlebars.
But all of that faded when he saw the silver BMW parked in the driveway.
Derek's car.
Again.
Brandon stood at the end of the walkway, staring at the house. Through the front window, he could see the dining room table. Julia was seated on one side, her head thrown back in laughter at something someone had just said.
And on the other side, relaxed and smiling like he belonged there, sat Derek.
They were having dinner together. In Brandon's house. At Brandon's table.
Brandon's hands curled into fists at his sides. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, could taste something metallic at the back of his throat.
Four months, the texter had said. He's been sleeping with her for four months.
Derek looked up.
Their eyes met through the window.
For a moment, neither man moved. Then Derek's face split into a wide, friendly grin. He raised a hand in greeting and gestured for Brandon to come inside.
Brandon unclenched his fists.
Then clenched them again.
He walked toward the door.