The dim corridor flickered intermittently, the lights humming low, as if warning everyone who stepped in that this was no ordinary office, but a shadowed domain capable of swallowing a person whole. Ethan walked alone through the deeper hallways of the Nightmare Investigation Bureau, clutching a report he had just borrowed from the archives. The cover was icy to the touch, the texture exuding a subtle sense of oppression; his fingers gripped it as if holding his own life and death. The metal walls reflected the faint light, and shadows wriggled like living creatures in the corners, making him feel as if countless eyes were watching.
Just as he approached a turn, a lazy, teasing whistle sounded from behind, carrying an air of careless insolence: "You really don't fear death, huh, rookie?"
Ethan whipped around. Before him stood a tall man, expression playful. He wore the Bureau uniform but had casually undone a few buttons, his shoulders slanting as if rules could never bind him. A faint smirk lingered on his lips, his eyes both scrutinizing and challenging.
"I don't recall meeting you," Ethan said cautiously, his steps yet uninterrupted.
The man stepped lightly, deliberate, his gaze lingering briefly on the report in Ethan's hands. "Running around the Bureau and poking through files? You don't quite understand the situation here, do you? Not everyone is a death-bringer's loyal dog. Many… have their own stance."
Ethan frowned, unease rising within him. He had long sensed that the Bureau's internal order was far from monolithic, but no one had ever so brazenly pointed it out.
"Stance?" he asked coldly.
The man tilted his head slightly, smiling ambiguously. "Ever heard of the 'Order Faction' and the 'Purge Faction'?"
Ethan said nothing, simply staring at him.
The man seemed to enjoy the atmosphere, hands in pockets, voice low: "The Order Faction trusts the director. They believe balance must be maintained between humans and the Nightmare realm. Clean up what needs cleaning, protect what needs protecting. They value rules, control. But the Purge Faction—they see humans as the source of calamity, destined to attract uncontrollable nightmares. They want to strike first, eliminate all instability… even if the price is humanity itself."
The air seemed to freeze. Ethan's fists clenched, knuckles whitening. He disliked being treated as a pawn, and he could not accept anyone treating humanity as disposable.
"And you?" he asked, voice lower than expected.
The man tilted his head, a faint, elusive smile playing at his lips. "Me? I speak for whoever offers the greatest benefit." His eyes glinted dangerously, as if ready to draw this rookie into some unseen whirlpool at any moment.
At that moment, a sharp, icy voice cut from the end of the corridor: "Lyle, you're spreading pointless chatter again."
Ethan's chest tightened. He looked up—his superior, Director Ayla, stood there. Her posture was upright, her gray-blue eyes cold as ice, easily enough to strip away anyone's courage. Her gaze swept over Lyle with a warning edge, then slowly fell on Ethan. Her words were brief but powerful: "Rookie, remember this: in this Bureau, every word you hear, every smile you see, could be a blade."
With that, she turned and left. Her boots clanged on the metal floor, each step echoing like a strike of a cold blade, making Ethan's chest tighten.
The corridor fell silent again.
Lyle whistled lightly, a self-satisfied grin on his face. "Understand now? Rookie, you've just been drawn into the Bureau's factional struggle. Watch your step, or next time you might find your name in the archives."
Ethan didn't answer. He lowered his gaze to the report in his hands, heart pounding. The dossier seemed to remind him that every entry, every detail, could become a deadly clue.
He recalled Silas's warning: "Not everything can be casually examined. Someone is rewriting history; if you continue investigating… even your existence could be erased."
Ethan clenched his fists, cold sweat seeping into his palms. He knew he could no longer turn back. Once this path was taken, every step risked treading hidden currents.
He raised his head, staring into the darkness at the end of the corridor. The deep shadows spread like a vast net, enveloping the entire Bureau. He reminded himself silently: this place isn't just a battlefield of investigations and nightmares—it's a quagmire of hidden currents. Every colleague, every dossier, every order, could conceal unpredictable danger.
His gaze returned to the report, its paper cold, detailing disappearances, rift anomalies, and mysterious symbols. Ethan murmured, "In this Bureau, anything could be manipulating everything… even me."
The lights flickered again. Shadows along the walls seemed to writhe. He felt whispers echoing in the corners: "Rookie… welcome to the true Nightmare Bureau."
He took a deep breath, suppressing the unease in his chest, clutching the report tightly against himself. From this moment, he understood: the surface order was only a thin veil over dark currents. He would have to learn to survive in the whirlpool, or… even the chance to live could be stripped away.
He stepped forward slowly, walking along the flickering corridor, his shadow elongated and lonely under the dim lights. In the Nightmare Bureau, every step was uncertain, every breath could trigger danger, and he had already, inevitably, stepped into the abyss of shadows.