For seventy-two hours, the rain fell without pause.According to the Bureau's sensors, it hadn't changed tempo once.
Elias Thorne sat in Sub-Basement 4B, where time forgot to tick. Overhead, the ceiling light pulsed with mechanical fatigue, casting a sterile glow over rows of dead documents. The air smelled of paper and rusted patience.
He paged through a record log from 1962, gloved fingers careful not to tear the delicate spine.
He liked this place. It asked nothing. It remembered everything.
Or so he thought.
Date Received: April 11, 1962Origin: Blackwater Bridge IncidentRecord ID: 0044-13-DLocation Stored: [REDACTED]
Note: "The Bell never rang."
He blinked.
The last line wasn't handwritten. It was burned into the page—letter by letter, scorched deep and neat. But there was no smell of ash. No blackening. Just ink that didn't belong.
Elias turned to his terminal. Typed in the Record ID.
No results found.
He checked again. No typos.
Cross-referenced related incidents. Gas leaks. Collapses. Nothing. No Bell.
Yet something cold stirred inside him at the name Blackwater. Not memory—something heavier. Like guilt passed down through blood.
He leaned back in his chair. The light flickered again.
For thirteen years, Elias Thorne had buried himself in silence, beneath layers of city noise and bureaucratic dust. He'd kept his head down and stayed forgotten. That was the point.
That was the deal.
But the records were lying.
And someone was writing in the dark.