At 03:14 in the morning, Station Nine called David Miller by name.
He was the only person inside.
David stared at the speaker.
Static hissed through the old console.
Then the voice came again.
"David Miller."
His hand froze above the controls.
The voice was male.
Calm.
Almost bored.
"David Miller, do you receive?"
David looked at the clock.
03:14.
He looked at the speaker again.
The equipment in front of him had been decommissioned eighteen years ago.
It should not have been receiving anything.
Especially not his name.
He reached for the microphone.
There wasn't one.
David pulled his hand back.
The speaker crackled.
"Station Nine, acknowledge."
He swallowed.
"Who is this?"
Silence.
Then—
"You're early."
The transmission ended.
David sat completely still.
Outside the reinforced windows, the Arctic night pressed against the building.
There was nothing beyond the glass except darkness and snow.
Station Nine stood alone in the middle of nowhere.
No nearby town.
No road.
No mobile network.
No permanent staff.
For the next fourteen weeks, David was supposed to be the only human being within fifty kilometres.
And according to every document he'd been given, the communications array above him hadn't transmitted a signal in eighteen years.
The speaker clicked.
David jumped.
A red light appeared on the console.
RECEIVE — ACTIVE
Then it went dark.
David stared at it.
"Okay."
His voice sounded strangely small in the room.
"That's not normal."
He stood.
The control room was exactly as he'd found it six hours earlier: old consoles, dead monitors, dust-covered switches and a row of newer computers installed along the back wall.
Nothing moved.
Nothing flickered.
Everything looked dead.
Except the console.
David checked the power cable.
Connected.
He checked the system status.
PRIMARY POWER: NORMAL
BACKUP GENERATOR: STANDBY
COMMUNICATION ARRAY: DECOMMISSIONED
He frowned.
The last line had been there when he'd arrived.
He opened the maintenance log.
The most recent entry was dated eleven years ago.
ARRAY MAINTENANCE — FINAL SHUTDOWN
He opened the report.
Primary transmission equipment disconnected. > Receiver disabled. > Antenna mechanically locked. > System classified inactive.
David leaned back.
Inactive.
Then why had it just spoken to him?
A noise came from outside.
A sharp metallic impact.
David turned towards the window.
Nothing.
He walked closer.
The perimeter fence was barely visible through the snow.
Twelve lamps followed its length.
One lamp was dark.
Then another.
David watched as the darkness moved along the fence.
Lamp.
Lamp.
Lamp.
One after another.
All twelve went out.
The compound disappeared.
David stood by the glass, staring into absolute darkness.
Five seconds passed.
Ten.
Then every lamp came back on at exactly the same time.
David looked at the clock.
03:15.
He exhaled.
"Very funny."
Nobody answered.
He returned to the console.
The screen had changed.
A new line of text had appeared.
He hadn't typed anything.
INCOMING CARRIER DETECTED
David stared.
He clicked the signal analysis window.
A frequency appeared.
8.41 GHz
He knew that frequency.
It was part of the station's original long-range telemetry band.
He opened the technical documentation.
The receiver shouldn't even have been capable of detecting it.
Another line appeared.
SIGNAL ORIGIN: UNKNOWN
Then:
DIRECTION: SOUTH
Then:
DISTANCE: UNKNOWN
David's uneasiness became something colder.
He checked the antenna status.
LOCKED
He checked it again.
LOCKED
If the antenna was mechanically locked, it couldn't have moved.
Yet the system was receiving a directional signal.
David looked at the ceiling.
Somewhere above him, hidden beneath concrete and steel, the enormous parabolic dish was pointing south.
Or at least it was supposed to be.
He opened the camera feed for the roof.
Static.
He switched to the second camera.
Black screen.
Third.
Nothing.
The station's internal camera system had been unreliable since before he'd been born.
David sighed.
He was tired.
That was it.
Fourteen weeks in an isolated bunker, no sleep, unfamiliar equipment.
He was seeing patterns because his brain wanted something interesting to happen.
He closed the signal window.
The screen reopened itself.
David stopped.
A text field was blinking.
Waiting.
Then letters began appearing.
One at a time.
D
David stepped closer.
A
Another letter.
V
His stomach tightened.
I
D
The name appeared on the screen.
DAVID.
He didn't touch the keyboard.
The system continued.
MILLER
David's mouth went dry.
The cursor disappeared.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then a new message appeared.
DO YOU REMEMBER STATION NINE?
David stared at it.
"No."
He whispered the answer before he could stop himself.
The message disappeared.
A new one replaced it.
YOU SHOULD.
David stepped backwards.
The lights above him flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the entire control room went dark.
David heard something move in the corridor.
A slow metallic scrape.
He reached for his phone.
No signal.
Of course.
He turned on the flashlight.
The beam cut through the darkness.
Empty corridor.
He took one step.
Another scrape.
Closer.
David stopped.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
He raised the flashlight.
At the end of the corridor stood the entrance to Basement Two.
The vault level.
The door was open.
David was certain he'd locked it earlier.
He had checked.
Twice.
He slowly walked towards it.
The temperature dropped with every step.
At the bottom of the stairs, he saw something lying on the floor.
A sheet of paper.
David picked it up.
There was no letterhead.
No station number.
No classification.
Only a timestamp.
03:14:31
And beneath it:
GENEVA — 28 OCTOBER 2026
David checked his watch.
8 October 2026.
Twenty days.
He read the date again.
Twenty days from now.
A second line appeared beneath the first.
This one was handwritten.
The ink looked fresh.
THEY WILL MOVE AT 09:20.
David stared at the words.
Then came a sound from the darkness below.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Knock.
David didn't breathe.
Knock.
The sound echoed through the concrete.
Knock.
He looked down at the paper.
The ink was beginning to run.
A final sentence appeared beneath the prediction.
David watched the letters form.
AND THIS TIME, DAVID, DON'T LET THEM FIND YOU.