The Warning

The phone rang at 7:03 a.m., piercing through the comforting hum of Henry Brinks’ morning routine. He had just poured his first cup of coffee, the steam curling lazily toward the dim kitchen light. The unfamiliar number on the screen gave him pause, but curiosity won out. He answered.

“Professor Brinks?” The voice on the other end was low, taut with urgency.

“This is he. Who’s calling?”

There was a brief silence, punctuated by static, before the voice continued. “Listen to me carefully. You need to stop. Stop looking into that manuscript. It’s not what you think it is.”

Henry blinked, his mind racing. “Who is this? What are you talking about?”

“You’ve already made a mistake by taking it. They’ll come for you now. Return it—burn it if you can. But do not read further. Do you understand?”

“Who will come for me?” Henry demanded, the tightness in his chest growing. “What mistake? I don’t even know what—”

The line went dead.

Henry stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear, the coffee forgotten. His first instinct was to dismiss the call as some elaborate prank. But the fear in the caller’s voice was palpable, and it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He turned toward the manuscript, sitting innocuously on the corner of his kitchen table. The leather cover seemed darker in the morning light, its surface almost glistening as if it had absorbed something overnight.

Before he could dwell further, a knock at his door startled him. It was sharp, insistent, and far too early for visitors. Henry hesitated, then crossed the room to peer through the peephole.

A man in a dark suit stood on the other side, his posture rigid, his face unreadable. Something about him screamed authority—too much authority.

Henry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he stepped back, his mind racing. He hadn’t told anyone about the manuscript, hadn’t even mentioned it to his colleagues. So how did someone know he had it?

The knocking grew louder. “Professor Brinks? This is Agent Pierce with the Historical Preservation Bureau. We need to speak with you regarding an item in your possession.”

Henry’s breath caught. He had never heard of such a bureau. The title sounded official, but the situation felt anything but. He took another step back, glancing toward the manuscript as if it could offer guidance.

When he didn’t respond, the man’s voice grew sharper. “We know you’re inside. This is a matter of national security. Open the door now, or we’ll be forced to take action.”

National security? Henry’s fingers clenched into fists. This was no prank. He needed to act—fast. Without a sound, he grabbed the manuscript, shoved it into his satchel, and retreated to the back of the apartment.

As the door shook under a sudden barrage of force, Henry slipped out the fire escape, the manuscript clutched tightly to his chest.

The hunt had begun.

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