Alex hunched over his laptop in the penthouse apartment, the blue glow casting eerie shadows across the room. Outside, the Chicago blizzard raged with unrelenting fury, wind howling like a pack of wolves clawing at the windows. Snow piled high against the glass, turning the world into a white void. It was the perfect night to disappear—or to be buried alive.

Three hours earlier, before the power flickered and died, Alex had cracked the encryption on a dark web forum. What he found chilled him more than the dropping temperature: ‘The Purge List.’ Twelve names, twelve addresses, twelve dates—all marked for execution by some shadow syndicate. Politicians, CEOs, journalists. People who knew too much, just like he was about to.

He’d downloaded the file on impulse, a hacker’s thrill overriding caution. But as the storm intensified, his phone buzzed with an anonymous text: ‘You have the list. Delete it. Or we come for you.’

Heart pounding, Alex deleted the file, smashed the USB drive under his boot. Too late. The building’s heat cut out with the power, leaving only the backup generator’s hum in the distance. He paced the living room, Glock 19 heavy in his sweat-slick hand. Top floor penthouse—no one above, but the elevator dinged below.

Footsteps echoed in the stairwell, slow and deliberate, climbing. Alex pressed his eye to the peephole. The hallway lights were out, but a silhouette moved—tall, hooded, gloved hands at sides. The figure stopped at his door, tested the knob. Locked. A soft knock. Three raps, like a secret code.

‘Who’s there?’ Alex whispered, voice barely audible over the gale.

No answer. The figure lingered, head tilting as if listening. Then, a slip of paper slid under the door.

Alex waited until the footsteps retreated before snatching it. ‘I know you have it. Give it back.’ His own handwriting. Impossible. He crumpled it, tossed it into the cold fireplace. Hallucination? Stress?

The vents rattled. A whisper slithered out, metallic and distorted: ‘Alex… you know too much…’

He jammed a towel into the vent, sweat beading despite the chill. Paranoia clawed at him. The list—had he memorized it? Faces flashed: Senator Hale, the pharma exec, that reporter from last year’s scandal. If they were purging loose ends, he was next.

He checked the front door—double-locked, chain on. Bedroom window? Sealed shut by ice. Fire escape? Buried under drifts. Trapped.

His phone showed no bars. Landline dead. The building intercom crackled static. Alone in a 5,000-square-foot cage.

Another sound: scraping, like nails on drywall, from the kitchen wall. Alex swung the bat—no, gun ready—crept closer. Nothing. But his reflection in the window showed wild eyes, unshaven face. How long since he’d slept?

Flashback hit: Six months ago, he’d quit his cybersecurity job after stumbling on encrypted files at work. Anomalies leading to the dark web. The list was the crown jewel. Or curse.

Scrape-scrape. Louder. From inside the wall?

He grabbed a hammer, smashed the drywall. Dust billowed. Empty space, insulation. But wedged in the gap: another note. ‘Stop running. They’re coming.’ Same handwriting.

His handwriting. From his desk drawer.

Mind fracturing, Alex barricaded the bedroom door with the mattress. Curled in the closet, gun muzzle to temple, listening. The storm screamed mockery.

Hours blurred. Thirst clawed his throat—no water, pipes frozen. Hunger gnawed. Then, pounding at the front door. Wood splintered.

‘Open up, Alex! It’s me!’ A voice, muffled but familiar.

Brother? Mark? No, Mark was dead—car accident two years ago. Alex squeezed the trigger? No, held fire.

The door buckled. A body slammed against it. Groan.

Alex fired through the wood. Crack! Silence.

No footsteps retreated. He waited, counted to 100. Crept out. Door ajar, chain snapped. Hallway empty, blood trail leading to stairs.

He followed, flashlight beam dancing. Down 20 flights, knees buckling, lungs burning. Basement parking garage—power flicker from generator.

There: the figure slumped against a pillar, hood down. Blood pooled.

Alex approached, gun raised. Kicked the body. No movement.

Pulled back the hood.

Mark. His brother. Face pale, bullet wound in shoulder.

‘Mark? You’re…’

Eyes fluttered open. ‘Alex… finally.’

‘What the hell? You’re dead!’

Mark coughed blood. ‘Faked it. To watch you. The list…’

Alex’s mind reeled. ‘The hunters—you sent the texts?’

Weak laugh. ‘Hunters? There are no hunters, bro. The list… you made it.’

Lie. ‘I hacked it—’

‘No. You compiled it. After Dad died, you snapped. Started “cleaning” the world. Bad guys, you said. Vigilante. Blackouts. You kill, forget. I found your hidden server. Tried to warn you. Notes, whispers through vents—I rigged speakers. Footsteps? Me, trying to get in. To stop you.’

Memories crashed: Blurry nights, waking with blood on hands. Missing time. The “hacks”—covering tracks.

Senator Hale: Alex had met him, argued. Gone missing.

Pharma exec: Fired Alex indirectly.

Reporter: Exposed Alex’s old fraud.

The list wasn’t targets against; it was his trophies. Names crossed as he purged.

‘You shot me… trying to save you from yourself.’ Mark gasped.

Alex dropped the gun. Sirens wailed outside, snowplows clearing.

‘I called them. Before breaking in. Told them everything.’

Mark’s eyes closed.

Alex sat in the pooling blood, storm dying. Lights flickered on fully. Elevators hummed.

Cops burst in minutes later. He didn’t resist.

In the squad car, watching the city emerge from white, Alex whispered to the cuff-bound window, ‘I knew too much… about me.’