The Lazarus Protocol

The first thing Ethan noticed was the taste—metallic, bitter, like iron bleeding into his mouth. It clung thick and sour in the back of his throat, dragging his senses up from whatever abyss had swallowed him whole.

His eyelids fought gravity as he blinked, slow and raw, to a blur of streetlamp halos melting into midnight haze. The scent of rain-damp concrete and burnt ozone cut sharply through the damp night air.

He was lying on his side in an alleyway, the cold wet grime biting through his thin jacket. The world spun lazy circles, warping into grotesque shapes: a flicker of neon signage, a clattering rat darting across cracked pavement, and the distant rumble of traffic swallowing the city’s endless hum.

A sudden jolt ran through his arm — sharp pain flaring where a tattoo burned raw against his skin. His fingers trembled as they traced the crude pattern etched along his forearm: a series of coordinates, ink smudged and partially faded, like a map meant to be forgotten. The numbers burned into his memory, though he didn’t understand why:

39.7392° N, 104.9903° W

His mind, fogged and fractured, tried to pull together the shards of a dream—or was it a memory? A voice whispered, distant but familiar, echoing through his skull.

“Find the truth… before they find you.”

He winced, the sharp sting of a wound on his side reminding him of another truth: he was hurt. Bruised. Blood soaked through his shirt, cooling in the wet alley floor beneath him.

Movement—a shadow folding itself out of the dark. A pair of black boots. A figure paused nearby, cautious, scanning the alleyway like a predator searching for prey. Ethan’s heart hammered unevenly, panic and instinct sparking a surge of adrenaline.

“Hey,” Ethan croaked, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Help…”

No response. The figure’s head turned slightly—just enough for Ethan to catch a glimpse of pale skin and eyes that glinted cold and hard like fractured glass.

Then the figure melted back into the shadows.

Ethan coughed, bitter and ragged. The blood in his throat thickened. His fingers fumbled for something in his pocket, brushing against cold metal: a gun. Old, worn, a revolver with a smooth grip polished by use.

He pulled it out carefully, fingers shaking, and aimed it at the darkened end of the alley. No one was there now—only the distant throb of the city’s heartbeat.

Who am I? The question stabbed at him sharper than any wound.

No name came. No face. Nothing but a void where memories should have been.

A sudden noise—a mechanical whir—drew his gaze upward. A small drone, no bigger than a crow, buzzed through the alleyway’s narrow opening, its red eye scanning the ground below. Ethan ducked instinctively, pressing his back against the brick wall, breath shallow.

Surveillance. Always watching.

He cursed under his breath. In Echelon City, privacy was a myth.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself up, every movement agony. His left leg screamed protest, raw and bruised. The streets stretched out before him like a labyrinth, neon signs flickering in the perpetual gloom.

He tried the fake ID in his hand, the name glaring back at him: “Caleb Raines.”

He frowned. That wasn’t his name. None of this was real. None of this was his.

The rain began again, fat droplets hammering the pavement, washing away the grime and the blood. But it couldn’t wash away the fear.

Ethan’s every instinct screamed to run, to hide, but also to find answers. Someone wanted him dead. And somewhere in the chaos of his fractured mind was a truth worth killing for.

A sudden sharp noise: footsteps pounding closer. He ducked into the shadows behind a dumpster, gun at the ready.

Two men in black tactical gear stormed past—voices harsh and clipped, speaking in code.

“Target’s cold. Nothing but a ghost and a bullet wound.”

“Don’t let him slip. Lazarus can’t fail.”

Ethan’s blood ran cold at the word. Lazarus.

Who—or what—was Lazarus?

The men disappeared into the night. Ethan exhaled, barely able to steady his nerves. This was bigger than him.

He had no choice.

Echelon City never slept. Its neon veins pulsed with secrets, its streets whispered with lies. Somewhere in this dystopian sprawl, the answer to Ethan’s past waited—hidden beneath layers of glass, steel, and digital surveillance.

He staggered into the street, eyes darting for any sign of safety. The city’s lights reflected off rain-soaked pavement, blurring the line between reality and nightmare.

A holographic billboard flickered overhead, displaying a smiling politician’s face: “For a safer tomorrow, trust the new Protocol.”

Ethan’s fists clenched. The word stabbed at his brain again—Protocol.

His fractured memories offered up fleeting images: a sterile lab, a woman’s tear-streaked face, a child’s distant laughter.

What was I running from? Or toward?

Footsteps echoed behind him. Spinning, he raised the gun—only to lower it as Ayla stepped out from the crowd.

She looked out of place: sharp eyes scanning the city’s digital pulse, a hood pulled low over her face, a sleek tablet in hand.

“You’re not dead yet,” she said, voice low and steady. “That’s a win.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “Who… who are you?”

“Call me Ayla. And you’re a sitting target.”

Before he could respond, her tablet buzzed—a message flashing urgently.

“They know you’re alive. We have minutes. Come with me if you want to keep breathing.”

Ayla led him through a maze of back alleys and underground tunnels, places where the city’s glow couldn’t reach. Every corner was a potential trap; every shadow held a secret.

“Why help me?” Ethan asked between gasps.

“Because,” she said, “you’ve been framed. You’re a ghost in a war that’s been brewing long before you woke up.”

Her words struck a chord he couldn’t explain.

As they reached an abandoned warehouse, Ayla punched a code into a rusted keypad. The door hissed open, revealing a cluttered hideout filled with glowing screens, hacked feeds, and whispered code.

“This is the Resistance,” she explained. “And you, Caleb—Ethan—whatever your name is, you’re the key to breaking the Lazarus Protocol.”

Ethan’s head throbbed as more fragments surfaced—plans, names, betrayals—but before he could piece it together, a siren blared. Red lights pulsed.

“They’re here,” Ayla warned.

Gunfire echoed through the hideout. Ethan and Ayla took cover behind metal crates, exchanging sharp glances.

Ethan’s mind raced. The man who’d shot him—Marcus—was still out there, pulling strings from the shadows.

Somewhere in this concrete jungle, his past—and future—were waiting.

As the night swallowed their fight, Ethan clenched his jaw. The only way forward was through the darkness.

Find the truth before they find you.