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© Sat Oshi, 2024
ISBN 978-5-0064-9532-6
Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero
Chapter 1. Tomorrow Begins Yesterday
Time dragged on relentlessly, like the rain that had started during the night and now tapped softly against the windowpanes. The morning was as cold as the evening before, when Mark Davis, a private detective, awoke with the unsettling sense that his life had slipped back into its monotonous rhythm – yet again, for what felt like the hundredth time that year.
He lay in bed, unhurried, tugging at the sleeves of his worn flannel shirt. His gaze rested on the gray clouds crowding the skyline outside his window, a view that only deepened the invisible void within him. That familiar, gnawing emptiness had been his constant companion – unyielding, inescapable. Each morning was the same: the weight of everything around him pressing down, the staring faces of old photographs hung on the walls, their subjects long gone.
Mark’s apartment on the twenty-fifth floor of a suburban New York complex was exactly as he had envisioned it when he first moved in – a far cry from cozy. The chairs were stained, their upholstery marked by years of neglect. The frayed rugs held onto the scents of a bygone era, as if they too resisted change. Cracks crept along the walls, peeling paint flaking away like pages from a forgotten book. The urge to scrape it all clean, to claim a fresh start, gnawed at him. In the corner stood an unpacked suitcase, waiting for a departure he had postponed indefinitely.
He lay still for a long while, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the time, the day, and most importantly, the reason to carry on. His mornings had become a mirror of his life – a bleak, unchanging landscape. The faint aroma of coffee wafted in from the kitchen, where the pot had been left on overnight. The bitter smell turned his stomach, yet he brewed it daily, unable to break the habit. In a nearby pot, milk had boiled over and slightly scorched. It bothered him, but he didn’t care enough to fix it.
He shuffled to the window, pulling aside a dusty curtain. The world outside was blurred by rain and mist, the city appearing lifeless, abandoned. Puddles pooled on the asphalt below, untouched by passing cars. Even in the damp, chilling air, there was something vaguely menacing, as though the city itself was as lost as he was.
When his phone vibrated on the table, he sighed. He knew this day would be like any other, but habit compelled him to pick up the call. The number was unfamiliar, and something about it prickled at his senses. This wasn’t going to be just another routine case.
«Hello?» he answered, his voice flat, almost disinterested.
«Is this Mark Davis?» A woman’s voice came through, tense and distant, as though her words existed in some parallel space untouched by emotion.
«Yes.»
A pause hung heavy between them. Mark felt the familiar pull of the emptiness, the weight of silent, lonely nights creeping into the moment.
«My name is Elizabeth Smith,» she said finally, her voice carrying a faint tremor of desperation. «I need to hire you to find my brother.»
Something shifted. Her tone, the urgency barely masked in her voice – it was more than the plea of a client. It was personal, and Mark’s intuition told him as much. Life had taught him to trust that instinct.
«Missing?» he asked, his words slow and deliberate, though his mind was already racing to fill in the gaps.
«Yes. My brother, Dylan, disappeared a week ago. He’s a trader at one of the cryptocurrency exchanges. I’m afraid his disappearance wasn’t an accident. He… he left, and I don’t know where. I need to find him, and I think you’re the one who can help.»
Mark sank into a chair, his eyes drifting back to the rain-streaked window. The tension in her voice, the almost inaudible cracks in her composure – it was as if she’d been waiting for him, for this moment. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he couldn’t turn her away.
«I’ll take the case,» he said at last, his tone sharp yet weary, masking the faint flicker of unease stirring inside him. Something about this case felt different, heavier. He knew, deep down, it wouldn’t end well.
«Thank you. I’ll send you all the details,» she replied, a thread of relief weaving through her words. But Mark knew better. This wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.
Chapter 2: Lost in Numbers
Morning light seeped through the old blinds, cutting the room into soft bands of warmth. Mark Davis sat at his cluttered desk, staring at his phone. He reread the message from Elizabeth Smith, terse and formal, confirming the time and place of their meeting. Something about its simplicity unsettled him, as if every word carried a weight that couldn’t be ignored.
The apartment around him mirrored his mood – faded, weary. A battered wooden desk sagged under a heap of crumpled papers, a chipped ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a mug bearing the dried remnants of coffee. On the wall, a crooked calendar marked no significant dates, as though time had stopped bothering with this place. Mark threw on a scuffed leather jacket and his usual jeans, clothes that announced he wanted to blend in. A glance in the streaked mirror told him he looked as exhausted as he felt, but he lit a cigarette anyway, the curling smoke mingling with the damp air left by last night’s rain.
The café on the corner was a stark contrast to Mark’s grimy apartment. , proclaimed the faded gold letters above the door, promised a refuge of warm lighting and the aroma of fresh coffee. Inside, a comfortable hum of chatter filled the air, softened by the scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Caffè Esperanza
Elizabeth was easy to spot. She sat by the window, her sharp black suit contrasting with the café’s pastel decor. Light filtered through the glass, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the tight grip she kept on her untouched cappuccino. Mark approached quietly, his presence drawing her gaze. Her composed exterior cracked ever so slightly – just enough to betray the desperation simmering beneath.
«Elizabeth,» Mark said as he reached her table.
She gestured for him to sit. Her hands, still clutching a spoon, trembled faintly as if she were holding on to the last threads of control.
«Thank you for coming,» she said.
Mark settled in, his eyes scanning her face, her posture, her every micro-expression. This was second nature to him now.
«Start from the beginning,» he said simply.
Elizabeth took a breath, her gaze darting out the window before returning to him.
«Dylan, my brother, was a trader. He worked for a cryptocurrency exchange called . It was everything to him – his work, his passion. He’d spend hours explaining to me how crypto was going to change the world. I’d tease him that he probably slept with his laptop.» Epsilon
She paused, her fingers tightening around the spoon.
«A month ago, he quit. He said it was for „personal reasons,“ but I didn’t believe him. He sounded… scared.» Her voice wavered as she reached into her bag and pulled out a photograph. «And then, a week ago, he vanished.»
Mark took the photo – a young man with kind eyes and a faint, nervous smile. There was a tiredness there, though, barely concealed beneath his expression.
«I’ve tried calling, texting. Nothing. I went to his apartment – it was like he stepped out for a moment and never came back.» She placed a small black notebook on the table. «I found this at his place. It’s all I have.»
Mark flipped through the pages, skimming charts, handwritten notes, and cryptic phrases. One page caught his eye: «Trust no one. Not even yourself.»
He closed the notebook and slipped it into his jacket. «I’ll start at his apartment,» he said. «If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.»
Elizabeth looked at him with restrained hope. «Thank you. I just… I need to know what happened to him.»
Mark nodded, his expression giving away nothing. «We’ll figure it out.»
That evening, Mark stood outside Dylan’s apartment building. It was a worn-out high-rise, its walls streaked with grime and its stairwells smelling of damp and decay. Inside, the elevator creaked with every floor it passed, but the real unease hit when he reached Dylan’s door. It swung open too easily, as if waiting for him.
The apartment was eerily ordinary. Everything was in its place, yet the absence of its occupant was palpable. Empty coffee cups cluttered the counter, a jacket draped over a chair, and unopened mail piled on a side table. The faint hum of a refrigerator was the only sound.
On the desk sat a laptop, its lid slightly ajar. Beside it was another photograph of Dylan, identical to the one Elizabeth had shown. But this one had something scrawled on the back: «You know where to find me.»
Mark flipped it over again, his brow furrowing. A challenge? A clue? Either way, it was meant for someone – maybe him now.
He opened the laptop, but the screen immediately prompted for a password. He leaned back, exhaling in frustration. The answers wouldn’t come that easily.
Taking out his phone, Mark snapped pictures of everything – the room, the desk, the photo, even the stacks of unopened mail. There were clues here; they just hadn’t revealed themselves yet.
Locking the door behind him, Mark stepped back into the silent hallway, a gnawing sense of urgency beginning to take root. Somewhere out there, in the labyrinth of the digital world Dylan had immersed himself in, was the key to his disappearance. Mark just had to find it.
Chapter 3: The Client’s Shadow
Night had draped itself over the city, leaving it awash in the faint glow of scattered streetlights and neon reflections shimmering on rain-soaked asphalt. The air was thick and acrid, heavy with the perpetual haze of exhaust fumes. The metropolis, sprawling and impersonal, resembled a sterile beast holding back an encroaching silence.
Mark lingered at a bus stop – not to catch a ride, but to watch the few late-night pedestrians shuffle past. They moved like shadows, cloaked in hoods or shielded under umbrellas, avoiding eye contact. Each was a fragment of the city’s faceless crowd. But his thoughts were far from the scene around him. The photograph he had found in Dylan’s apartment pressed against his chest like a live coal, hidden in his jacket pocket. Who was the woman in the photo? Her words reverberated in his mind: But he didn’t. Not yet. «You know where to find me.»
Looking up, Mark’s eyes caught the sign of the café where he and Elizabeth had met earlier. Over coffee, she had mentioned Dylan’s coworkers – people who might know more than they let on.
By midnight, Mark found himself in a dimly lit bar that straddled the line between a rundown pub and an underground club. The air was stale, a cocktail of cheap beer, stale bread, and grease wafting from the kitchen. The place bore the ambitious name «Greyhound’s Den,» though it hardly deserved such grandeur. Inside, flickering neon signs cast an eerie glow through soot-smeared windows.
At the bar stood a man Mark recognized immediately: Thomas Hale, one of Dylan’s former colleagues. Hale looked like a man with nothing left to lose – his frayed overcoat and distant gaze told the story of a man outpaced by life. Mark walked up and slid onto the stool next to him, rapping his fingers lightly on the scarred countertop.
«Thomas Hale?» he asked without ceremony.
Hale flinched but didn’t turn.
«Who’s asking?»
«Mark Davis. Detective. I’m investigating Dylan Smith.»
At the name, Hale’s head snapped toward him, a flash of fear and anger lighting his eyes.
«I don’t know anything.»
Mark lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the bar’s stained mirror. «Come on, Hale. I wouldn’t be here if I thought you didn’t. You’ve got nothing to lose, and I just need a little information.»
Hale gripped his beer glass tightly, staring at the amber liquid. Finally, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
«Dylan… he was too smart for this business. Too curious for his own good.»
«What did he find?»
Hale glanced around, his paranoia palpable, before leaning closer. « isn’t just a trading platform. It’s a front. A storefront for something much bigger.» Epsilon
«A game?»
«No, a machine. The people behind it – they aren’t traders. They manipulate the market, moving millions through «ghost’ trades. Dylan found something. Data that exposed how they did it. He said it could be sold – or destroyed.»
Mark took another drag, feeling a chill creep down his spine. «And?»
«And now he’s gone. You think that’s a coincidence?»
Hale downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp, his face pale. «Listen,» he continued, his voice barely audible. «You need to let this go. These people don’t just make people disappear – they erase them, along with every trace they ever existed.»
«Who are these people? Did you see them?» Mark pressed, leaning forward.
Hale shook his head. «No one sees them. They’re ghosts. But Dylan… he mentioned someone. A woman. He called her „The Fox.“»
Mark’s brow furrowed. «The Fox?»
«Yeah. He said she was one of them. The link between their world and ours.»
Mark finished his drink and stood, tossing some bills onto the counter. «If you remember anything else, find me.»
Hale nodded weakly, his face a mask of resignation. It was clear he had said all he was willing to.
The city grew quieter as Mark walked home, the cold air cutting through his coat. The name «The Fox» echoed in his mind like a stubborn riddle. He knew it was a key, but how to use it was still a mystery.
When he reached his apartment, he brewed a cup of coffee – strong and bitter – and fired up his aging laptop. The hum of the machine filled the silence as he scoured the web for any trace of «The Fox» or a woman connected to . The search turned up nothing. A dead end. Epsilon
Then his phone rang. The screen displayed an untraceable number.
«Hello?» he answered, wiping his hands on his jeans.
A gravelly, distorted voice greeted him. «You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.»
«Nice opener,» Mark said, lighting another cigarette. «Go on.»
«Walk away. While you still can.»
«And if I don’t?»
The line went quiet for a beat before the voice replied, heavy with menace. «Then you’ll disappear. Like the others.»
The call ended abruptly, leaving Mark staring at the phone as if it held answers. Taking a long drag, he looked out the window. The city continued its faceless existence, but somewhere in its shadows, a hunt had begun. He just wasn’t sure if he was the hunter – or the prey.
Chapter 4: Cryptocurrency and Blood
The morning light barely grazed the surface of gray concrete, casting the streets of New York in a cold, muted glow. The city was only just waking up, but Mark was already on the move. He sat behind the wheel of his aging Honda Civic, which rattled with every bump in the road. The jazz station on the radio played softly, though he wasn’t really listening. His mind was consumed by the name «Fox» and the mystery of who – or what – lay behind it.
The drive took him into Brooklyn, to one of those places that seemed unremarkable yet oddly magnetic. A café called had become a haven for crypto traders, freelancers, and other denizens of the digital age. The air inside was thick with the aroma of coffee laced with chocolate syrup, fresh-baked bread, and occasionally, the faint hum of electricity when someone lugged in mining equipment. The Rusty Cup
Mark stepped inside. The atmosphere was a mix of quiet chatter and the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. The space felt chaotic yet inviting: mismatched chairs, worn rugs, and bookshelves crammed with obscure titles no one seemed to have read. It was the perfect spot for anyone wanting to blend in while still staying visible.
At the counter, holding a large cappuccino, stood a young man. His tired, slightly bloodshot eyes betrayed sleepless nights and, most likely, endless hours staring at charts. Mark recognized him – Rick Lawson, one of Dylan’s former colleagues who was still active in the market.
«Rick?» Mark approached cautiously, careful not to startle him.
Rick turned, his gaze briefly wary before shifting into a look of recognition.
«Davis? Detective?» he asked, as if unsure he was really being addressed.
«That’s right,» Mark said, gesturing toward an empty table. «Let’s sit.»
Rick nodded, casting a quick glance around the room as though searching for someone in the crowd, then followed Mark to the nearest free spot. They sat, and Mark clasped his hands together, looking Rick straight in the eye.
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