Bulge leaned across the chipped Formica counter like a man trying to wrestle a secret from a god that didn't believe in confession.
"Show me his file."
The Records Department was a mausoleum pretending to be a bureaucracy.
The air stank of ozone, mildew, and old paper memories.
The floor vibrated with the groan of ancient tech, and the overhead fluorescents flickered like dying stars, pulsing a fever dream into the walls.
Filing cabinets loomed on every side,tall, rust-streaked tombstones etched with forgotten names and declassified sins.
Carmichael moved ahead like a man walking an old path he didn't want to remember.
He didn't speak. Just kept going, slow and steady, like a pallbearer with nowhere to bury the dead.
They stopped at a cracked-glass service window.
Behind it sat a clerk who didn't seem like she belonged in the same reality.
She was tall. Thin. Skin a rich, wet violet.
Her four eyes blinked out of sync, like each one followed a different clock.
Elongated fingers hovered over a keyboard that looked powered by static and regret.
Carmichael said just one word,
"Freeze."
The clerk didn't blink. Didn't move.
Just… paused.
Then, after a breath too long,
"No full designation?"
Her voice sounded like a whisper screamed through a haunted hallway.
Carmichael didn't answer.
Didn't have to.
Her fingers moved.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The keyboard flared, glowing symbols like an altar lighting itself for prayer.
The terminal groaned. It didn't boot up,it woke up.
Amber lines of code scrolled, jittered. The screen glitched, stuttered,and then, finally, stabilized.
One profile.
No photo. No insignia. No metadata trail.
Just a single, ancient-looking ID card:
+---------------------------------+
| DETECTIVE: FREEZE |
| RANK: S |
| STATUS: ACTIVE |
| CASES COMPLETED: 0 |
+----------------------------------+
Bulge blinked.
"That's it?"
The file looked older than the department itself. Older than Earth.
Older than the idea of records.
And yet,
The cursor blinked.
Alive.
Waiting.
Daring someone to ask more.
The clerk leaned closer. Her top eyes widened. Her bottom ones narrowed.
Something about this disturbed her.
"This… can't be right."
Bulge felt a chill run under his collar.
"Why?"
She typed faster. Desperate now.
Her fingers moved like they were trying to outrun what they were uncovering.
Red error messages flashed in quick bursts:
ACCESS DENIED.
CLEARANCE FAILURE.
NULL PATH.
But it wasn't blocking her.
It was ignoring her.
Like the system knew and didn't care.
"Every agent leaves a trace," she murmured. "Even the ghosts. The system maps heartbeat rhythms across universes. It updates when someone dreams about them. It reacts to thought…"
Her hand hovered over the monitor.
"…But this…"
She pointed to the field at the bottom of the screen,
LAST UPDATED
And next to it,
Nothing.
Not "CLASSIFIED."
Not "UNKNOWN."
Not even corrupted code.
Just blank.
A silence too pure to be tampered with.
Her voice broke like frost under a boot heel.
"That's not possible."
"This machine is older than half the known sectors. It updates when time hiccups. But this file…"
She swallowed.
"…It was never touched."
Bulge's spine straightened like a steel rod.
"Then how is he even active?"
The clerk didn't answer.
Not at first.
Then, slowly, voice flat with dread,
"He's not hidden."
She looked at Bulge. All four eyes focused. All of them afraid.
"He's unwritten."
Beside him, Carmichael exhaled.
Not a curse.
Not a word.
Just a sound old, quiet, and full of forgotten fear.
And then,
It happened.
The temperature dropped.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Just enough for Bulge's breath to fog.
Just enough to hush the lights.
Just enough to stop the hum of old wires mid-sentence.
The clerk froze, mid-keystroke.
Bulge didn't move.
He didn't need to look.
Somewhere behind him, the room had stopped being a room.
The air was still, but wrong.
The clerk's hands trembled. Her eyes glassed over.
Then, she spoke barely a whisper:
"…He's here… isn't he?"