The Silent Trace

London rain never fell quietly.

It hammered the pavements, hissed against neon shop signs, and turned the narrow street outside Ethan Vale’s locksmith shop into a river of reflected light. He liked that. The noise of rain was the one thing that made the city seem honest , it drowned out the lies.

Ethan sat behind his counter, rolling a brass cylinder lock between his fingers, the radio whispering an old jazz tune from a forgotten decade. It was nearly midnight. The kind of hour where only ghosts and desperate people knocked on doors.

He was just about to close when he heard it.

A single, sharp knock.

Then another.

Then a hand , frantic , slamming against the glass.

He looked up.

Through the fogged window, he saw her , a woman, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to her face, clutching something tight to her chest. The way she kept glancing over her shoulder made the hairs on Ethan’s neck stand up.

He unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Shop’s closed,” he said quietly. “You lost?”

The woman stumbled in, nearly collapsing against the counter. Her coat was torn, blood blooming through the fabric near her shoulder.

“They’re coming,” she gasped. “Please. I, I didn’t know where else to”

Her knees buckled. Ethan caught her before she hit the floor, his instincts kicking in ,not the gentle kind learned from first aid manuals, but the practiced motions of someone who had handled wounded people before.

He eased her onto a stool, pressed a towel against the wound, and scanned the street through the window.

Nothing. Just the rain and a flickering streetlight.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Clara,” she whispered. “Clara Daines.” She glanced at the object she’d been holding ,a small, matte-black case no bigger than a lunchbox, sealed with a biometric lock. “They can’t find this. Please.”

Ethan frowned. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Before she could answer, headlights swept across the shop front ,a black van rolling to a stop outside. No plates. Windows tinted.

Ethan’s pulse tightened.

He moved to the back of the counter, reaching under the shelf. His fingers found a familiar weight ,the cold steel of an old SIG Sauer. He hadn’t touched it in years, but the feel of it fit his palm like memory.

“Back door,” he muttered. “Move.”

Clara stared at him. “You’re armed?”

He didn’t answer. He led her toward the back, past shelves of keys and metal blanks. The rain roared on the tin roof above them.

When he opened the rear exit, a man in tactical gear was already there, raising a silenced pistol.

Ethan reacted first. He shoved Clara aside, swung the heavy steel door with all his weight, and slammed it into the man’s wrist. The gun fell, clattering into a puddle. Ethan drove his shoulder into the attacker’s chest, twisting the man’s arm until he heard a snap.

The man didn’t scream — trained. Professional.

Two more shadows appeared behind him.

Ethan fired twice, muffled shots cracking through the rain. Both fell.

“Move,” he hissed again.

They slipped into the alley, disappearing into the maze of side streets. Clara clutched the case like it was her heartbeat. Ethan led her through the back lanes until the sound of engines faded behind them.

Finally, they ducked into a derelict workshop under a railway bridge. He switched on a single hanging bulb.

“Start talking,” he said.

Clara’s face was pale under the flickering light. “I work at a tech consultancy. We design encrypted systems for private contractors. A few months ago, I was assigned a project called Aegis.” She touched the case. “This contains the prototype.”

“What kind of prototype?”

She hesitated. “Something that shouldn’t exist.”

Ethan studied her. She wasn’t lying , or if she was, she was too terrified to pull it off convincingly.

He knelt by the case, examining the lock , retinal scan, DNA input, secondary key pattern. Military-grade.

He could open it.

He didn’t want to.

“What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

“I heard about you,” she said. “They said if anyone could break it, it’d be the ghost locksmith from Shoreditch. You were”

“Stop.” His tone was sharp.

No one used that name anymore.

No one should even know it.

She flinched. “Please. If they get this, people will die. You don’t understand”

“I understand perfectly,” Ethan cut in. “But you brought something here that has men with suppressed weapons knocking on my door. That makes it my problem.”

Before she could respond, he froze.

Somewhere outside, gravel crunched under a boot.

Ethan moved silently to the door, glanced through a crack. Another pair of figures in black gear approached the alley, scanning with flashlights.

He turned back. “We move again. Now.”

But Clara was shaking her head. “I can’t. I’m losing too much blood”

He checked the wound , not deep, but she’d faint soon if untreated. He looked around, found a first aid kit, wrapped her shoulder, and helped her stand.

Then she grabbed his wrist.

“If you open the case,” she whispered, “you’ll understand everything.”

Ethan hesitated.

Old habits warred with common sense.

He’d promised himself never to touch that world again. But the way she said it the quiet certainty chilled him.

He exhaled slowly. “Give me five minutes.”

He cleared a space on the workbench, set the case down, and began. Tools glinted under the single bulb picks, microdrills, and circuit bypass leads. His hands moved automatically, finding the rhythm of precision. The soft clicks of tumblers and servos filled the silence.

Clara watched, trembling. “How do you know how to do this?”

Ethan didn’t look up. “I used to open worse things.”

It took exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds.

The final lock disengaged with a low beep.

The case hissed open.

Inside, nestled in black foam, were several thin data drives, each marked with a red serial number.

And on top of them , a sealed envelope, stamped with the MI5 insignia.

Ethan froze.

He tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper.

SUBJECT: VALE, ETHAN JAMES

STATUS: TERMINATE ON SIGHT

AUTHORIZED BY: DIRECTOR, DIVISION 9

DATE: 24 Hours Ago

The paper trembled slightly in his hand.

Clara’s voice broke the silence. “What is it?”

Ethan didn’t answer.

Outside, engines roared again. Tires splashed through water. The warehouse lights flickered once , and went dark.

He looked up.

Through the window, the night exploded with muzzle flashes.

“Get down!” he shouted.

Bullets tore through the walls. Sparks rained from the hanging bulb. Ethan pulled Clara behind the workbench, firing back toward the doorway. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

He hit one , saw the shadow collapse. But there were too many.

The case lay open between them, its contents glowing faintly under emergency light. One of the drives pulsed red, emitting a faint hum ,like something had just been activated.

Clara’s eyes widened. “You opened it,” she whispered. “Oh God, you opened it”

Ethan grabbed the drive, stuffing it into his jacket.

“Move!”

They ran for the side exit, ducking low as bullets shattered the glass. Outside, the rain was heavier now, thunder rolling overhead. Ethan dragged Clara through a service tunnel leading toward the river.

Halfway through, she stumbled, clutching her side.

He turned to help her ,but she was staring past him, eyes wide.

Behind him, a silhouette stood in the tunnel’s mouth.

Tall, calm, wearing a hooded coat.

The man’s voice was almost gentle.

“Ethan Vale,” he said. “You shouldn’t have opened it.”

Ethan raised his gun. “Who are you?”

The man stepped closer. A faint scar cut across his cheek. His eyes were sharp , familiar in a way Ethan couldn’t place.

“You don’t remember me?” the man asked. “You signed my discharge papers in Prague.”

Something cold twisted in Ethan’s chest.

He did remember.

That mission had gone wrong , disastrously wrong. Everyone was supposed to be dead.

The man smiled. “Division 9 sends its regards.”

He pulled the trigger.

A flash.

A roar.

Darkness swallowed the tunnel.