Scene 3

The next day, Levy arranged a small aircraft for Andrew, and he set out for Montreal.
He had been given a precise flight path—one his contact insisted he follow to avoid interception by military jets.
They called it a ghost route.
Three hours later, Montreal finally came into view.
He landed on a private airstrip on the outskirts of the city.
The moment he stepped out, he saw a figure waiting.
A man in a gray suit—brown hair, dark complexion—and, more strikingly, a document held neatly in his right hand.
The man greeted him with impeccable politeness, offering a firm handshake.
“A pleasure. I assume you’re Levy’s associate—Andrew, correct?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled.
“As of today, you go by the name on this document.”

The man extended it toward Andrew.
He took it without thinking and glanced down.
“Benjamin Forklift?” he asked. His eyes flickered.

The man in the suit nodded, his expression carrying a quiet pride in his work.

The name didn’t feel like his.

A sharp ache tightened in Andrew’s chest.
“That’s…” He faltered. “Did you choose it?”

“No. An algorithm assigns them,” the man replied. “Is there anything you require before I leave?”

Andrew ran a hand through his hair—then something surfaced in his mind.
“I’ve got an address. I need to get there. Can you take me?”

“Of course,” the man said. “Follow me.”

---

During the drive, Andrew rested his head against the window, watching the buildings drift past in a dull blur.
Not even the beauty of a city like this could make him feel any better.
Everything was new.
Everything was… better.
But it wasn’t his. It wasn’t where he had built anything.
And could he really feel any attachment to something he hadn’t made?
But I did build that…
And I wish I hadn’t.

“Hard, isn’t it?”

Andrew turned toward him, sluggish, unfocused. “What?”

“Starting over. Letting it all go—every little thing you did in your old life.”

The man’s expression shifted, catching himself. “Sorry. That… probably didn’t come out right.”

That drew Andrew’s full attention.
“What are you… talking about?”

“Your boss, right? That’s what this is about. Assuming you’re one of the many who’ve come here because of it.”

My… boss?
Andrew’s eyes went pale.
He meant him.
He looked away quickly.
“Right. Yeah. My boss. He was… a piece of shit,” he said, biting down on the words more than necessary.

“I believe you,” the man replied. “From what I’ve heard.”

Andrew dragged a hand across his cheek, as if he could smooth away the twist in his expression.
He couldn’t shake the feeling—like something rotten clung to him.
He would never outrun what he’d done.
Never.