The interrogation room existed in a state of perpetual discomfort. Everything about the space had been designed with intention—the temperature kept just cool enough to raise goosebumps, the metal chair bolted to the floor at an angle that prevented truly relaxed posture, the overhead fluorescent panels that hummed with a frequency just barely perceptible to human hearing. The light they cast bleached all color from the room, reducing everything to shades of institutional gray and sickly white. Shadows pooled in the corners where the illumination couldn't quite reach, giving the space an atmosphere of deliberate oppression.
The one-way mirror dominated the far wall, an enormous rectangle of reflective glass that turned the interrogation chamber into a stage. On the other side of that barrier, visibility flowed in only one direction.
Slate occupied the single chair on the interrogation side, his body language broadcasting a mixture of fury and exhaustion that had been building for hours. His shoulders hunched forward as though carrying invisible weight, but his jaw remained clenched tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin whenever he ground his teeth together. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hands—zip-tied to the chair's arms—kept flexing and releasing in unconscious patterns of frustration. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror without really seeing it, completely unaware that he was being observed, catalogued, discussed like a laboratory specimen.
On the observation side of that mirror, Anthony Stroud stood as still as carved stone, his arms folded across his chest so tightly that the fabric of his suit jacket bunched at the shoulders. His face had settled into an expression of barely controlled tension, the kind that came from trying to project authority while feeling fundamentally uncertain about the ground beneath your feet. A thin line of sweat beaded along his hairline despite the room's climate control.
Three operatives from the Office of Special Investigations shared the observation room with him, and their presence transformed the familiar space into something foreign and vaguely threatening. The OSI didn't make casual visits to Crestwood headquarters. Their appearance meant complications, the kind that rippled outward in ways you couldn't predict or contain.
All three wore tactical uniforms constructed from some advanced material that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it—a black so absolute it played tricks on the eye, making it difficult to judge exactly where one operative ended and the shadows began. But what made them truly unsettling was the heavy cloth that covered the lower half of each face, leaving only eyes visible. It was an old-fashioned touch, almost anachronistic in an age of high-tech surveillance and biometric identification, but that was precisely the point. The masks rendered them anonymous, interchangeable, their individual identities subsumed into the collective authority of their organization. They became representatives of institutional power rather than individual actors, and that made them more intimidating than any amount of aggressive posturing could achieve.
Two men and one woman, all maintaining the kind of relaxed readiness that came from extensive field experience. They watched Slate through the mirror with varying degrees of interest—clinical observation mixed with the calculating assessment of people trying to solve a particularly complex problem.
The stockier of the two male operatives broke the silence first, his voice emerging rough and gravelly, as though he smoked too much or had damaged his vocal cords years ago. He directed his words at Stroud without bothering to look at him, keeping his attention fixed on Slate's hunched form.
"Our contacts on the other side aren't pleased with how this situation has developed," he said, each word weighted with significance. "The extraction operation didn't proceed as cleanly as we'd hoped. Protocol was compromised at multiple points. But that's not the worst of it." He paused, and something in his tone made Stroud's stomach tighten with apprehension. "We've received intelligence suggesting that someone from my extended network—elements that should theoretically be under coordination—attempted to eliminate him permanently. That's going to complicate our operational parameters significantly."
The female operative shifted her weight from one foot to the other, a small movement that somehow conveyed skepticism and alertness in equal measure. Her eyes narrowed as she studied Slate's reflection.
"Who would have the nerve to move directly against a protected target?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity beneath the professional detachment. "That kind of action requires either extraordinary confidence or complete disregard for established protocols. It takes serious nerve, even for opposition elements that operate outside normal constraints. Someone either didn't know about his protected status, or they knew and decided the risk was acceptable. Neither option is reassuring."
The thinner man released a sharp exhalation, the sound cutting through the observation room like a knife. When he spoke, his voice carried the flat certainty of someone delivering news they wished wasn't true.
"Azaqor."
The name landed in the space between them like a physical object, something with weight and substance that displaced the air around it. Even the ambient noise from the interrogation chamber on the other side of the glass seemed to diminish, as though reality itself was holding its breath. The fluorescent hum faded to near-silence. Stroud felt the temperature in the room drop by several degrees, though he knew rationally that nothing had changed.
The stockier operative's eyebrows drew together, creating deep furrows across his forehead. He turned away from the mirror for the first time, directing his full attention to his colleague.
"Azaqor?" He pronounced the name carefully, testing each syllable. "You're talking about the ghost story? That thing they tell rookies during orientation to keep them properly cautious? The cautionary tale about what happens when you stop following procedure?"
"It's not a story," the thin operative replied, his tone brooking no argument. A thread of steel ran beneath his words. "The entity that exists in violation of every principle we understand. Something formless that somehow achieved form, completely outside any recognized hierarchy or chain of command. Some factions are genuinely terrified of it—I've seen experienced operatives refuse assignments if they suspect any connection to Azaqor. Others have constructed entire belief systems and operational philosophies around its existence. Those groups call it the original Absolute—the raw, uncarved essence that existed before categorization, before the establishment of any order or structure. The primordial chaos given will and purpose."
The woman's eyes sharpened with interest, her earlier skepticism transforming into focused attention. She crossed her arms, mirroring Stroud's defensive posture.
"You're talking about those fringe groups we keep in the peripheral databases?" she asked. "The ones who operate completely outside normal parameters and refuse standard coordination? The cells that don't fit into any conventional organizational structure?"
The thin man nodded slowly, a gesture that carried more weight than its simplicity suggested.
"Those fringe groups shouldn't be casually dismissed," he said quietly, but with an intensity that demanded attention. "They might not command conventional power structures or control significant resources by standard metrics, but their operational methods are genuinely strange. Disconnected from established practice in ways that make their actions difficult to predict or counter. That unpredictability makes them substantially more dangerous than their apparent size would suggest. They don't follow the usual patterns, which means standard containment protocols don't work reliably against them."
The stockier operative continued staring at his colleague, clearly wrestling with implications that kept expanding the more he considered them. His hands flexed at his sides, unconscious nervous energy seeking outlet.
"So you're suggesting this Azaqor entity might not be some isolated individual operator?" he said slowly, working through the logic as he spoke. "You're saying it might be connected to those groups? Not just a single actor, but something bigger—a focal point for an entire network of irregular elements that operate outside our visibility?"
The woman cut in before the thin man could respond, her skepticism reasserting itself now that the initial shock had passed.
"Doesn't the lore surrounding this thing claim it's supposed to be intrinsic to everything?" she asked, one eyebrow arching above her mask. "According to the stories I've heard, it's supposed to be some kind of foundational element that went wrong—something woven into the fabric of existence itself that somehow achieved independent agency. How do you reconcile that with the idea of it being a discrete entity you can track and eliminate?"
The thin man gave a minimal shrug, the gesture deliberately noncommittal.
"That depends entirely on which interpretation you subscribe to," he said. "Some frameworks say yes, others say no. The textual sources contradict themselves depending on which faction produced them and when. That fundamental ambiguity is part of what makes the whole situation so troublesome. Azaqor exists in the conceptual space where questions shouldn't have definitive answers, where clarity itself becomes a kind of limitation. It's the uncertainty made manifest."
The woman snorted, a sound of derision that carried clearly in the confined space.
"Very helpful," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Wonderfully actionable intelligence there. And now we're arbitrarily calling it 'he'? You operatives and your psychological need for masculine pronouns—you can't stand ambiguity when it comes to your own comfort, but you won't commit to clarifying anything actually useful for the rest of us. Classic."
Neither man responded to her pointed observation. The silence that followed her words stretched taut, filling with unspoken tensions and calculations. The three OSI operatives seemed to communicate through minute shifts in posture and nearly imperceptible glances, a language of shared experience that excluded outsiders.
Finally, Stroud broke the silence, his voice carrying an edge of irritation sharpened by anxiety.
"What's the operational play here?" he demanded, gesturing toward the one-way mirror and the man slumped on the other side. "What exactly do you want me to do with him? He's convinced we sent that assassin. I delivered the message you instructed—told him that the Head of the Unseen Accord has placed him under formal banishment. But he's becoming increasingly unstable with each hour that passes. His anger needs a target, a focus for all that aggression, and I would strongly prefer that target wasn't me. I'm running out of ways to contain his rage without either releasing him or escalating to measures we'd all rather avoid."
The three operatives exchanged weighted glances again, that silent communication flowing between them with practiced ease. The stockier man's eyes narrowed as though an idea was taking shape behind them, crystallizing from vague possibilities into concrete action. When he spoke, his words emerged slowly, carefully considered.
"There's an option available," he said. "A way to channel that aggression productively rather than trying to suppress or contain it. We could redirect his energy toward objectives that serve our larger interests."
Stroud leaned forward slightly, his arms unfolding.
"Which is?" he pressed, unable to keep the impatience from his voice.
The stockier operative turned to face Stroud fully for the first time, and even through the mask, his expression seemed to sharpen with decisive clarity.
"We provide him with partial truth," he explained, the plan clearly forming even as he articulated it. "We tell him that the Head of the Unseen Accord has identified a new priority assignment for him—something that supersedes normal operational parameters. The banishment isn't permanent; it's temporary, contingent on him successfully completing one specific task."
He paused for dramatic effect, then made a decisive slashing gesture across his throat, the universal signal for termination.
"We task him with locating the entity called Azaqor," he continued, "and eliminating it permanently."
The words hung in the air like a verdict. The woman's visible skepticism transformed in an instant into something else entirely—cold calculation, the wheels already turning as she considered tactical implications and probability matrices. The thin operative nodded slowly, his earlier caution giving way to what looked like approval.
"Exactly," the woman murmured, her voice taking on an almost predatory quality. "We send him hunting. It keeps him fully occupied and removes him far from our primary operations. He becomes someone else's problem while simultaneously addressing a legitimate concern. Either he succeeds and removes a genuine threat, or Azaqor removes him. Both outcomes resolve our immediate complications."
Stroud studied the three masked figures arrayed before him, feeling a deep unease settle into his chest like ice water in his lungs. The casual ruthlessness of it, the elegant efficiency of using one problem to potentially solve another—it made perfect logical sense while simultaneously feeling profoundly wrong on some instinctive level.
But that was the nature of work at this level, wasn't it? The kind of harsh pragmatism that kept cities like Crestwood functioning, that maintained order in a world constantly threatening to slide into chaos. Sometimes you had to make calculations that looked monstrous from the outside but were simply necessary from within the machinery of power.
He nodded once, a sharp decisive movement.
"Understood," Stroud said, his voice flat and professional. "I'll relay the new assignment to him immediately."