The first thing that landed on Nathan Cole's desk wasn't a report.
It was a video.
The source was messy—no original account, no intact timestamp. Just fragments passed from one platform to another, cropped, compressed, reposted, and compressed again. The clip lasted nine seconds. The camera shook violently, clearly filmed while the person holding it was backing away.
At first glance, it looked like an accident.
Fire. Smoke. Wreckage.
At second glance, Nathan knew something was wrong.
"Stop."
The video froze at the third second.
In the distance, the remains of an aircraft burned. Closer to the camera, a building was wrapped in fire. The flames weren't spreading chaotically. They climbed along the outer wall, steady and contained—then abruptly stopped at a certain height.
As if they had hit an invisible barrier.
"Pull up the structural data," Nathan said.
A moment later, blueprints appeared on the adjacent screen. Load-bearing columns, support layers, stress tolerances—everything was laid out in precise lines.
"If this level failed," one of the engineers said, pointing at the diagram,
"the entire structure should've collapsed within three seconds."
Nathan didn't respond.
He slowed the footage down.
In the densest part of the fire, a human silhouette appeared—briefly, but clearly enough.
Not a firefighter.
The posture was wrong.
The camera jolted again.
But the building—
did not move.
No delayed collapse.
No partial failure.
No structural response at all.
"Play it again," Nathan said.
The video looped.
Every time, the result was the same.
The fire burned.
The windows warped.
The load-bearing layer showed zero reaction.
"That's impossible," someone muttered.
"Unless something underneath is counteracting the force," another voice said, slower this time.
"And continuously."
Silence followed.
"CG?"
"No."
"Mechanical support?"
"No trace."
"Air pressure?"
"Doesn't hold."
Nathan leaned closer to the screen.
There was a detail he hadn't focused on before.
At the seventh second, the silhouette raised an arm.
Not a wave.
Not a strike.
A deliberate motion—
Upward. As if lifting.
In the next frame, the fire inside the structure recoiled.
Not extinguished.
Compressed.
Forced inward.
Nathan straightened.
"This isn't an anomaly," he said.
His voice was low, steady.
"This is force intervention."
No one argued.
"Activate noise protocol," Nathan ordered immediately.
"Release all fabricated versions."
"The clearer, the better. The more cinematic, the better."
"I want public opinion tearing itself apart over this."
"And the original footage?"
"Seal it," Nathan replied.
"Only internal access."
He turned to the regional map displayed on the wall.
The crash zone was highlighted. The surrounding area pulsed faintly.
"Begin reverse identification," he continued.
"One criterion only."
He paused.
"Anyone who was inside the core fire zone
without burns, blunt-force trauma, or skeletal stress markers."
One of the analysts inhaled sharply.
"If this person exists," Nathan said,
"they didn't escape."
"They stood there."
The atmosphere in the room shifted.
This was no longer a technical discussion.
This was confirmation.
"Should we make contact immediately?" someone asked.
Nathan shook his head.
"No."
"He hasn't realized what happened yet."
Nathan's gaze returned to the frozen frame.
Firelight flickered.
The silhouette was barely visible now.
"If we make the wrong move first," Nathan said quietly,
"everything that follows will spiral out of control."
By the time the meeting ended, the fabricated videos were already spreading.
Cleaner footage.
More heroic framing.
Movements exaggerated just enough to feel unreal.
They were easier to believe—and easier to dismiss.
The real clip disappeared into the system's deepest archive.
At the same time, across the city—
Kent sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands.
They looked exactly the same as always.
He pressed his palm against the table beside him.
The wood cracked.
He pulled back instantly.
His heart raced.
Not with excitement.
With certainty.
The fire hadn't been the problem.
He was.