If the Director's threat was a blunt club, the Dossier leak was a live grenade. Difference being: one gives you a lump, the other fireworks your skull.
It started on an ordinary morning. I was contemplating life over instant coffee when the whole building erupted. Not literally—more like "paper everywhere, panic like New Year firecrackers."
"Leak!" someone shouted."The Shadow Dossier's online!" another cried.
Suddenly, the hall was stampedes, printers screaming, kettles overturned. With the right soundtrack, it could've been a black-comedy disaster flick.
I strolled out with my cup. "So… who hit 'Reply All' this time?"
Nobody answered. Faces paled like ghosts rushing to their own funerals. I was the only one not running, oddly energized by the caffeine of mass hysteria.
Half an hour later, I saw it: scans of the Dossier. Nightmare-devoured cities, shady Bureau pacts, hand-scribbled notes creepier than love letters from stalkers.
Best part? Each page stamped "TOP SECRET—DO NOT DISTRIBUTE." Now? Public download fodder. I bet Hollywood was already pitching adaptations.
The Director's face went corpse-gray with rage."No one's caught the leaker yet?!" he roared.
A glass exploded on the table, water splattering like shared sweat.
I muttered, "Check the printers. Feels like they're the real mole."
A female agent shot me daggers. "This is serious!"I nodded. "Of course. Whoever catches the mole gets a medal—or a bullet."
Suspicion infected the Bureau like a plague. People got hauled off for questioning, offices raided. They even ransacked my drawer—found nothing but expired gum and an empty diary.
I grinned. "Want to read it? Safer than the Dossier."
By afternoon, the farce escalated. Someone posted the files on a forum under the title:"The Bureau's Secrets: Why You Can't Sleep at Night."
Downstairs, the café owner clapped my shoulder: "You guys are juicy. Next time leak your payslips too—I wanna see what you really make."
I gave him a dry laugh. If salaries leaked, that would spark riots faster than the Dossier.
That evening, the Director convened us again. His voice was colder than a morgue slab:"The mole dies."
I sat in the corner thinking: Great. Doesn't matter who it is, odds are they'll pin it on me. After all, three days ago he'd told me not to meddle. Now, with the leak? If he didn't frame me, I'd be insulted.
Sure enough, when we adjourned, he loomed over me, eyes like knives."Agent," he said low, "your mouth better be tighter than you claim. Otherwise, the next thing leaked won't be files—it'll be your head."
I smiled like a man who'd just signed a lifetime loan."Relax, sir. My head may be useless, but I'm fond of it staying on my neck."
He said nothing—just clapped my shoulder, checking if I was still alive.
As I left, one absurd thought bubbled up:Maybe I should start a column. Title it: 'How to Survive Three Days in the Bureau's Conspiracy.'