Scene One: Ghost Protocol

Registry House, Western Wing Annex. 08:56.

Caldra opened the envelope without ceremony.

Cassel watched her from the chair near the inbox chute—a seat he hadn’t asked permission to use, and one she hadn’t told him to vacate.

Inside: three items.

A letter.

A badge.

A page.

She placed each on the desk with surgical calm.

The letter was printed on official Registry letterhead. Department 7A. It was an onboarding memo, stamped four years prior, signed by a registrar named Elric Moorwen. She’d never heard of him.

There was no date of entry.

There was no counter-signature.

The badge came next. Temporary Clearance ID. Level 2. It bore her red wax seal—an outdated audit classification she hadn’t used since her last disciplinary report against the Central Index team. The badge listed Cassel’s name, had no date of issue, and displayed his photo with clinical indifference.

Then the page.

It was torn from a sealed file. Top and bottom margins redacted. A single line visible:

“Do not trigger onboarding until after the Cold Room sequence completes.”

Caldra stared.

Not at the words.

At the marginalia.

Her own handwriting.

“Observe first. Remove if compromised.”

She did not remember writing it.

She looked up at Cassel.

He gave a half-smile—one of those nervous, people-pleasing expressions that looked increasingly like camouflage.

“Want me to start logging this morning’s routing records?”

Caldra placed the badge back in the envelope. Folded the letter. Slipped in the page last.

“No. I’ll handle the records.”

Cassel stood slowly.

“Is something wrong?”

Caldra sealed the envelope with a plain strip of binding tape. Her hands moved carefully, deliberately—the same way one might fold a letterbomb they planned to mail to themselves.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said.

“It just looks like—”

“Cassel.”

He stopped.

She met his gaze fully for the first time since the Cold Room.

“You said you were recruited by Internal Placement. Who signed your assignment papers?”

He blinked. “I… I don’t remember their name. There was a packet. It was in my flat when I got back from provisional training. I assumed it was processed while I was off-site.”

Caldra turned.

Filed the envelope into a locked drawer.

“Assume less. Remember more.”

⸻

Scene Two: Personal Debrief

Registry House, Sublevel 1 – Filing Corridor 3. 09:09.

Cassel walked the corridor alone, a bundle of indexes tucked under one arm like a shield.

The overhead lights hummed inconsistently. The far end of the hall flickered—not enough to report, just enough to notice.

He paused near a dead filing node. Looked both ways. Slipped the top folder off the stack.

Inside, nestled between routing logs and a faded audit form, was a single envelope.

His name was on it.

No seal. Just his name. Printed in the Courier typeface used for internal memos prior to the Registry font update—seven years ago.

He opened it.

Inside: a folded scrap of note paper, torn at one edge.

“You were never supposed to be on her floor.”

He read it twice.

There was no signature.

No timestamp.

He returned the folder to the stack.

And kept walking.

⸻

Scene ends.