The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets as Jack Thompson pushed through the revolving doors of Apex Dynamics headquarters. It was past midnight, the city outside a blur of rain-slicked streets and neon haze. His head pounded from the fall earlier that evening—slipped on the wet pavement, they said at the ER. No concussion, just a nasty bump. But memories felt slippery, like wet soap. He rode the elevator to the 42nd floor, his executive keycard beeping softly against the panel.

His office was dark, papers scattered from whatever he’d been working on before the accident. He flicked on the desk lamp, rubbing his temples. That’s when he heard them—voices from the conference room next door, low and urgent. The door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling out.

‘…the device is ready. Plant it in their server room at dawn. The blast will take out the competition and our stock will skyrocket.’

Jack froze. VP Harlan’s gravelly tone, unmistakable. And Sarah, his trusted operations manager: ‘Boss will be pleased. We’ve followed his instructions to the letter.’

His instructions? Jack’s heart slammed against his ribs. A bomb? Sabotage? This was treason, corporate terrorism. He backed away silently, pulse roaring in his ears. They were plotting behind his back—or worse, he’d been involved and forgotten. No time to think. He grabbed his coat, phone, and bolted for the stairs.

The stairwell echoed with his footsteps, a concrete tomb spiraling down 42 floors. Every shadow loomed, every creak a footfall behind him. Paranoia clawed in: were cameras watching? Had they seen him eavesdrop? He burst into the lobby, rain lashing the glass. Outside, the storm swallowed him.

New York never slept, but tonight it hunted. Jack hunched against the downpour, collar up, darting through crowds on Broadway. A man in a trench coat lingered too long at a crosswalk. A cab slowed beside him. He ducked into a deli, breath ragged, scanning faces. Everyone looked suspicious—the cashier’s glance, the couple whispering in the corner. He bought a burner phone with cash, hands shaking.

First call: his wife, Emily. ‘Jack? Where are you? I was worried sick after the hospital.’

‘Em, listen—they’re trying to kill me. Apex… they’re planning a bombing. I overheard. Harlan and Sarah. I need you to pick me up. Now.’

Silence, then: ‘Jack, slow down. Bombing? That bump on your head—’

‘No! It’s real. Meet me at the old warehouse on 10th and Pike. Hurry.’ He hung up, smashed the phone, and melted into the night.

The warehouse district was a maze of rusting hulks and flickering sodium lights. Claustrophobia gripped him; walls seemed to press closer with every step. He slipped behind a dumpster, waiting. Headlights pierced the gloom—Emily’s SUV. She pulled up, face pale as he climbed in.

‘Tell me everything,’ she said, tires screeching as they peeled away.

He did, words tumbling out. The voices, the plan, his escape. ‘They’re after me because I know. I have to get to the FBI, expose it all.’

Emily nodded, jaw tight. ‘We’ll go to my sister’s in Jersey. Lay low till morning.’ But her eyes flicked to the rearview too often. Jack twisted, peering back. Headlights trailed at a distance.

‘Is that—?’

‘Just traffic,’ she snapped. But doubt festered.

They ditched the SUV in an alley, took a subway. The car rattled underground, bodies packed tight. Jack pressed against a pole, sweat beading despite the chill. A businessman bumped him—deliberate? A woman stared from across the car. The air thickened, breaths collective, suffocating. Every stop, he expected hands to grab him.

Jersey side, Emily’s sister’s brownstone. Rachel buzzed them in, hugs and questions. ‘Jack, you look awful. Sit.’

No time. He paced the cramped living room, windows rattling in wind. ‘We need a plan. Laptop? I can email the story anonymously.’

Rachel fetched one. As he typed, Emily hovered. ‘Jack, maybe you’re not thinking straight. The fall—doctors said amnesia, confusion.’

‘Amnesia?’ Flashes hit him—meeting, arguments, a glass shattering. He shook it off. ‘No, this is real.’

Sirens wailed outside. Too close. Jack peeked: black SUVs circling the block. ‘They’re here!’

Panic exploded. They fled out back, through alleys slick with garbage. Gunshots? No, just trash cans toppling. Paranoia blurred reality. Emily grabbed his arm. ‘This way!’

They holed up in a derelict motel, neon ‘VACANCY’ buzzing like a death knell. Room 7: peeling wallpaper, bed sagging. Jack barricaded the door with a dresser. ‘We wait till dawn, then bus to DC. FBI field office.’

Emily paced, phone in hand. ‘I called a friend—old contact from your early days. He’ll meet us.’

Jack eyed her. ‘Who?’

‘Trust me.’

Sleep evaded. Walls whispered—bugs in the vents? Footsteps above? He clutched a lamp as weapon, staring at cracks like eyes.

Dawn broke gray. Emily’s phone buzzed. ‘He’s here.’

Outside, a nondescript sedan. Driver: Harlan. Jack’s blood iced. ‘No—’

‘Wait!’ Emily urged. ‘Hear him out.’

They drove, silent agony. To a private airstrip? Harlan spoke: ‘Mr. Thompson, we’ve been searching everywhere. You vanished after the board meeting.’

‘Board meeting? Lies!’ Jack lunged, but Emily held him.

At a hangar, more faces: Sarah, execs. Surrounded. Jack’s mind fractured. ‘You monsters—’

Harlan sighed, holding up a tablet. ‘Sir, watch.’

Video played: Jack, days ago, in the conference room. ‘Execute the plan. Bomb at dawn. No traces.’ His voice, his gestures. Then—the fall. Elevator cam: him stumbling out, dazed.

Pieces slammed together. The bump wasn’t a mugging. He’d blacked out post-meeting, amnesia wiping the slate. The ‘overhearing’—he’d wandered back, caught his own team briefing on HIS orders.

Emily knelt. ‘Jack, we love you. The team’s been scouring the city, terrified you’d hurt yourself or talk in confusion. The plan… it’s what you wanted. To crush the rivals.’

Sarah nodded. ‘You’re the predator, sir. Hiding in plain sight as always. But you knew too much about your own genius—until now.’

Memory flooded: greed, ambition, the thrill of control. Jack laughed, hollow. ‘Of course. Let’s proceed.’

But as they boarded the jet, a sliver of old Jack rebelled. He palmed Harlan’s gun during handshake. At 30,000 feet, turbulence or not, he’d end it—himself, them, the plan. No survivors.

The cabin pressurized with new tension. Jack’s hand in pocket, finger on trigger. The hunted became hunter again.