In Eternity Federation Investigation Centre (EFIC)
The office was quiet in the way graveyards are quiet not peaceful, just empty. The kind of silence that settles over a place like ash, thick and unnatural, pressing against your eardrums until you're not sure if the ringing in your head is real or imagined. Outside, the sun sagged low, bleeding orange through the blinds, slicing the room into uneven shadows. Dust motes danced lazily in the slanted light, undisturbed for what felt like years.
Bulge slouched deeper into his chair, the worn leather groaning beneath him like it was just as tired as he was. Nineteen, and light brown hair, He is wearing a light-gray collared shirt under a dark gray or navy blazer-style vest. His body build is lean and slender and now he just hollowed out. Not the kind of tired that could be fixed with sleep or coffee. No, this was the slow, grinding exhaustion of waiting too long for something you couldn't name. The kind of weariness that creeps into your bones and builds a nest there, feeding off you like a parasite.
His fingers tapped a restless, irregular beat on the edge of the desk three quick taps, a pause, then one long drag. The rhythm of someone trying not to think. The desk was a warzone of neglect: a half-empty mug of coffee gone cold hours ago, its oily surface shimmering with rainbow scum; a tangle of papers, corners curled and ink smudged into unreadable hieroglyphs; and a single photograph, facedown and gathering dust.
He hadn't looked at it in months. Didn't need to. The image was carved into his memory: his mother's laughter frozen mid-burst, sunlight catching in her hair like fire; his father's strong hand on his shoulder, grounding him, steadying him. A family moment stolen from a time before everything fell apart. Before the world got quiet.
The ceiling fan clicked overhead, its blades sluggish in their rotation, doing more to stir memories than air. Somewhere deep in the walls, a pipe dripped steadily. Plink. Plink. Plink. Each drop a reminder that time still moved forward, even if nothing else did.
Then..
BRRRRZT.
The fax machine exploded to life, shattering the silence like a gunshot.
Bulge jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs. The chair skidded backward with a screech. For a second, he just stared. The machine, an ancient beast older than he was, buzzed and clanked like it was coughing up secrets it had no business knowing.
Nobody used faxes anymore.
Which meant one thing:
This was either very important…
Or very, very bad.
The single sheet unfurled like a tongue from the machine's mouth, curling at the edges as it slid into the tray. He crossed the room in three strides, boots scuffing against the stained linoleum. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the paper, a ridiculous thing to be afraid of. It was just paper.
Except it wasn't.
The header hit him like a punch to the gut:
INVESTIGATION OF EARTH
That was all it said at the top. Beneath it, a few lines of sterile, bureaucratic text—no names, no signatures, just phrases like Phase One Initiated and Local Response Assessment Pending. Cold. Clean. Calculated.
Bulge felt the breath leave his body in a rush. His mind scrambled for a foothold, but the ground had already shifted.
The first domino, tipped and falling fast.
And for the first time in weeksbmaybe months, Bulge realized he was no longer waiting.
Something was coming.