The Daryl Protocol

Berry wasn’t expecting a delivery that morning. He barely remembered ordering anything, but when the knock came at 8:03 a.m., sharp and impatient, he opened the door in his socks and took the brown package from a courier who didn’t speak, just handed it off and left.

It wasn’t addressed to him.

The name on the label read “DARYL STEVENETT.” Same building, same floor, but a different unit — apartment 12B. Berry lived in 12A.

He thought about doing the right thing — walking next door, knocking, maybe meeting Daryl Stevenett and making a small joke about mix-ups — but he’d overslept, had a meeting in 15 minutes, and was juggling coffee with a half-dead laptop. He figured he’d drop it off later.

Except, he didn’t.

At lunch, the package still sat on the table. Small. Light. Taped in a sloppy X. The curiosity was stupid, really, but human. What did people even order anymore that came in boxes like that?

He shook it gently. No rattle, no sliding. Whatever was inside fit snugly.

Berry told himself he’d just peek. Just to make sure it wasn’t dangerous. That was technically responsible.

Inside the box- a phone. Black, unbranded. No logos, no power button on the side. Just a screen and a thin card taped to the back that read, Wait for the call. Do not power off.

He stared at it.

Then the phone rang.

It wasn’t a ringtone. More like a vibration with a pulse, like something alive. Berry hesitated, then tapped the screen. No unlock code. The call answered itself.

A voice came through. Low, calm, and unfamiliar.

“Is this Daryl?”

Berry opened his mouth. Closed it. “...Yes.”

A pause.

“You’re in position. You understand the protocol?”

“I — yes. Yes, I do.”

Another pause. “Good. Final confirmation- The exchange happens at 3 p.m., Canal and Varick. You’ll recognize the contact. One hour window. One attempt. Understood?”

“Understood.”

The call ended.

Berry sat back in his chair. His lunch had gone cold. His laptop pinged a calendar reminder he ignored. He looked at the screen of the mystery phone. It had gone dark again.

Three options ran through his head-

1. Bring the phone to 12B and explain the mix-up.

2. Call the cops.

3. See what happens at Canal and Varick.

The first two options were the responsible ones. The third was stupid. Irrational. Reckless.

But Berry's job was a dead-end. His rent was overdue. His girlfriend had left three weeks ago and taken the cat. He’d spent the last six months trying to convince himself that his life wasn’t stalled.

So at 2:30 p.m., he left his apartment and caught the downtown train.

Canal and Varick was crowded. Tourists, traffic, a street vendor yelling about lamb gyros. Berry leaned against a utility pole and scanned the street, trying to look casual while his heart thumped like a slow explosion.

He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. A guy in a trench coat? A briefcase swap? This was the kind of thing that happened in movies, and in movies, the dumb guy got shot by mistake.

At 3:07, a woman walked up beside him. Late 30s, athletic, expensive coat. She didn't look at him directly.

“You’re early,” she said.

Berry didn’t answer.

She held out a hand. Not for a handshake. Open palm. Waiting.

He gave her the phone.

She slipped it into her coat, then handed him something in return. A small padded envelope.

“You didn’t open it?” she asked.

“No.”

“You don’t seem like the usual type.”

“I’m… trying something new.”

She smiled faintly, then turned and walked away. No fanfare. No chase scene. Just gone.

Berry stared at the envelope. No markings. No weight. He should have thrown it in the trash and run. Instead, he walked three blocks north, ducked into a cafe, and sat in the back corner.

He opened it.

Inside- a flash drive. Plain. Silver. Generic.

He plugged it into his laptop, hands shaking.

Two files. One was a PDF. The other was a .exe file named “ORPHEUS.”

He opened the PDF.

It was a list of names. Dozens. Next to each- a country, a date, and a status. Some were marked “Terminated.” Others- “Pending.” At the top- a logo he didn’t recognize and a heading that read Directive Dossier – Eyes Only.

He stared at it for a full minute before closing the file.

What the hell had he just stepped into?

He pulled the drive out, shoved it in his pocket, and walked out of the cafe trying to calm down.

That night, he heard footsteps outside his door.

Berry didn’t breathe. He didn’t move. The steps were soft but distinct. They paused. A knock — three sharp taps — rattled his nerves.

He didn’t answer.

A minute later, another knock. Then silence. When he finally got the courage to peek through the peephole, the hallway was empty.

He didn’t sleep.

In the morning, the news broke.

A fire at a Midtown data center. Multiple floors gutted. Authorities claimed it was a “systems malfunction,” but amateur videos showed an explosion that wasn’t explained. No official casualties listed. No cause confirmed.

But the building address matched a location in the PDF.

He checked again. One of the “Pending” names was tied to a data engineer at that center. Status- Now- Terminated.

Berry felt like he was losing his mind.

He called his best friend Phil, who worked in cybersecurity.

“Hypothetically,” Berry asked, “if you found a flash drive with sensitive intel — like really bad, like list-of-people-to-be-erased bad — what would you do?”

“Hypothetically? You take it to the Feds. Or, better yet, you disappear. That stuff gets people vanished.”

“What if you already opened it?”

“Then it’s probably already too late.”

Two days later, Berry's apartment was broken into. Nothing stolen. Just ransacked. Someone had been looking for the drive.

He bought a burner phone, packed a backpack, and took a train to Boston. Then another to Montreal. He never used his credit cards. He shaved his beard, changed his name at cheap hostels. He told himself this was temporary, that he’d go back once things calmed down.

But they never did.

By the third week, the story had vanished from the news. No follow-up. No investigations. No leaks. Just silence.

Berry understood why.

He mailed the flash drive anonymously to three news outlets. Only one responded. A single encrypted message- We received it. If you’re smart, disappear.

So he did.

A year later, a documentary dropped on a fringe streaming site. Orpheus- The Ghost Protocol. It laid out parts of the story — covert programs, off-book operations, digital erasure. It was slick, well-produced, and vague enough to be dismissed by mainstream media.

Berry watched it from a cabin in Slovakia, face lit by the glow of his screen. They didn’t name him. They didn’t even know he was the leak.

That was good. That kept him alive.

But every few months, he changed phones. Moved cities. Used aliases.

All because of a package that wasn’t meant for him.

He’d looked for her face once online — the woman from Canal and Varick. Nothing. No social, no records. Like she only existed for that single hour.

Sometimes, late at night, he wondered about Daryl Stevenett. Had he been silenced? Had he shown up at 3 p.m., too, only to find the contact gone?

More than once, Berry imagined him doing the same thing — running, hiding, watching.

Somewhere out there, he figured, Daryl Stevenett was telling a different version of the same story.

And wondering who the hell was dumb enough to take his package.