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Chapter 3 – The Names in the Notebook
Part 1: A Stranger's Phone and a City Full of Ghosts
The bus shelter offered no comfort—just a steel bench with a cracked ad for a local injury attorney and the distant smell of piss wafting from the sidewalk. The city hadn't woken up yet, but the quiet had a pulse to it, like the concrete was holding its breath, waiting for something to snap.
Ethan Cole sat curled under the frame, soaked from creek water and sweat. His backpack sat pressed to his chest like a bulletproof vest. Inside it: two glass vials of a compound that could kill without a trace, one handwritten formula, a worn photograph of his father with a man called Halrick, and a funeral that had turned into a manhunt.
He had no phone. No money. And no one he could trust.
Not anymore.
Mike could be dead for all he knew.
His uncle's warning echoed in his head, sharp as gunfire:
> "They don't want me. They want what you have."
And now he had it. The formula. The leverage. The target on his back.
A flicker of headlights made him flinch. A bus hissed to a stop, the doors groaning open. Ethan froze, waiting to see who stepped off. Just an old man and a student half-asleep with AirPods in.
Safe, for now.
He stood, shivering.
Time to move.
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He walked the back streets of Midtown for nearly an hour, keeping his head down and moving like someone with a destination. It wasn't until he passed a 24-hour diner that he realized how long it had been since he ate.
His stomach twisted. He'd need food. Cash. A plan.
And a phone.
He circled the diner once, then ducked into the alley behind it. Dumpsters. Rats. A broken-down freezer unit. But more importantly: a delivery door propped open with a mop handle.
He crept closer.
Voices inside. Two workers, both smoking near the back prep table, talking about the Knicks and some drunk who threw up on the counter. Ethan kept low and scanned the hooks where coats and bags hung. One phone. Charging on a shelf. Slim, probably unlocked.
He hesitated.
Then moved.
In ten seconds, he was back in the alley with the stolen phone in hand and no one the wiser. He kept walking until he was two blocks away before powering it on.
Passcode screen.
"Damn it."
He tried the year—2024. Then 1234.
No luck.
Then he noticed the sticker on the back: a photo of a kid and the name "Jayden."
He tried 0523.
The screen unlocked.
"Thanks, Jayden," Ethan muttered.
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First, he turned off location services and wiped the call history. Then he opened the browser and began searching.
Alan Halrick.
The results were disappointing. A few academic citations from the 70s, mostly psychology journals. A New York Times obit for an Alan J. Halrick, age 71, who died mysteriously in 2003. "Cardiac episode while traveling," the obituary read.
Sounded familiar.
He dug deeper.
Eventually, he found a forum buried in the dark corners of the web—an old conspiracy board last updated years ago. Most of the posts were nonsense: reptilian overlords, weather control satellites, underground lizard people.
But one thread stood out.
"PURITY: The Government's Silent Weapon?"
Posted in 2014. Last comment: "Deleted."
Ethan clicked.
It opened a long, messy post full of wild claims—one of which caught his eye:
> "Project PURITY didn't just die. It changed. Rebranded. Went private. Rumor is that key players disappeared around 1983. Others turned up dead. Only one name kept showing up in leaked DARPA files: Halrick. The Ghost Doctor. If he's still alive… he's not free."
Beneath that was a username: CIPHERX-93.
And an old email.
Ethan screenshotted it and backed out of the site.
If this person knew anything, they might be his only chance.
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He ducked into a rundown public library at 6:47 a.m. It opened at seven. He waited until the janitor opened the side door for a smoke, then slipped inside and headed to the computer lab. The terminal was ancient, but it worked. He logged into the burner Gmail he just created and sent a message.
Subject: Halrick
Message:
We need to talk. It's about PURITY. I have something they want back. I need answers. Contact me ASAP. No games. No bullshit.
—E.V.
He clicked send and sat back.
Now all he could do was wait.
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