The Delivery Driver

Brinlake was a city of early risers.Even before the sun manage to climb above the factory roofs,the streets hummed with tired footsteps,old bus engines, coughing and corner cafes unlocking their doors.Ethan usually found a weird comfort in that rhythm.But this morning, everything felt... off.

The usual crowd at the bakery wasn't there. A newspaper stand he passed every day sat empty, half of its shutters drawn like a closing eye. He kept his head low, hoodie up, hands buried in his pockets. Not because of the cold—but because of the way people were starting to look at him.

Like they knew.

He had three more. That was the only thing echoing in his mind. Three more what? Drops? Tests? Chances? He wasn't sure. But the notebook had vanished after he slid it through the slot at 112 Granger. And now someone was leaving notes under his door without a sound. Someone had eyes on him. Constantly.

His phone buzzed just before noon. No name. Just a number he didn't recognize.

Message received: Delivery location and route. Keep your phone visible.

He stared at the text. No greeting. No signature. And the worst part,it didn't feel random. It felt... watched. Like whoever sent it had been waiting for the exact second he'd have his phone in hand.

Seconds later, a second message dropped in:

Location: Edge of Belcroft park.Small tunnel under the train bridge.Wait there.

He hadn't been to Belcroft Park in years. Not since he was a teenager. The place had a reputation even back then—used needles, abandoned bikes, rumors of bodies in the water. Not somewhere you went without a reason.

But now he had one.

By the time he arrived, the sky had thickened into dull charcoal. The wind was picking up, brushing dead leaves across the concrete in slow spirals. Belcroft looked worse than he remembered. Fences rusted. Graffiti covering every surface like old scars. And that tunnel under the train bridge? It was exactly how people had described it.

Dark. Cracked. Always a little too quiet.

Ethan stood at the edge, peering in. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling onto a pile of bricks in the center. Just before he stepped forward, he heard it:

Click-click-click.

Bicycle spokes.

He turned.

From the far end of the park, a man was pedaling toward him on a rusted courier bike. Not a modern electric one,this thing looked ancient. Bent frame. One gear. Handlebar tape unraveling like bandages.

But it wasn't the bike that made Ethan's heart stutter.

It was the man.

Or what was left of him.

He wore the standard blue-and-black courier jacket, but it hung off him like it didn't belong—baggy, stained, threadbare. His face was shadowed under a dirty cap, eyes hidden behind cracked lenses. But his mouth... it was smiling.

Too wide. Too still.

Like it had been frozen that way.

Ethan took a step back.

The man stopped ten feet away and slowly dismounted the bike. He reached into the delivery pouch, pulled out a tightly wrapped package, and extended it forward,without saying a word.

Ethan didn't move.

"Who sent you?" he asked.

The man didn't respond.

Ethan glanced around. No other pedestrians. No cameras. No traffic. It was like the entire city had pressed pause.

The man took a step closer. Then another. Arm still outstretched, smile still plastered on like a puppet's.

Ethan forced himself to step forward and snatch the package from his hand. As soon as it left the man's grasp, he turned around without blinking, without speaking and pedaled off down the path, vanishing into the tunnel like smoke.

Ethan stood there, stunned.

The package was small, light. He felt something metallic shifting inside as he turned it over.

No label. No address. No instructions.

This time, he was supposed to figure out where it went.

Back in his apartment, he placed it gently on the table. He didn't want to open it,he knew from the last time that curiosity was a mistake. But what else could he do?

It took five minutes of circling the kitchen before he grabbed a knife and slit the tape.

Inside: a metal key. Old-fashioned. The kind used for padlocks or basement doors. Attached to it with a red zip tie was a folded note.

Come alone. 9PM. Corner of Millner and Faye. Brick building with green door.

Ethan stared at the key.

He recognized that intersection. Just on the outskirts of Brinlake's shipping district,an area riddled with old warehouses, barely policed and mostly abandoned. He knew the exact building, too. It used to be a record shop. Now it sat empty behind a busted fence and a row of dead trees.

Another drop.

Another test.

He pocketed the key.

The rest of the day, he didn't leave the apartment. Every car outside made him flinch. Every knock from a neighbor's door sent his pulse racing.

He kept replaying the man on the bike in his head.

The smile.

The silence.

The eyes that never looked at him, even though they were right there.

He even tried calling the number that had texted him. No dial tone. Just static. Then a single beep... and a disconnect. No redial. No trace.

At 8:45PM, he left for the drop. No bag. Just the key.

As he walked through the industrial district, the wind grew stronger, pushing trash across the empty streets like restless spirits. Brinlake felt more like a maze than a city. A place built to trap people rather than guide them.

He found the green door easily.

It looked untouched. No footprints. No fresh scratches. Just the faint smell of rust and dampness.

Ethan reached for the key.

Before he inserted it, he whispered aloud,more to himself than anything:

"If I go through this door, I'm not just a courier anymore."

Then he turned the lock,and stepped inside.