Elise stands before the conspiracy board in her dimly lit studio apartment, now turned evidence board—evidence of little consequence. What she had been fighting to uproot had done so itself. The story she crafted to inspire scrutiny in the colossal institute scrutinises itself, even inviting it from others. This path that was chosen is what many would consider to be the right path, but none of it added up, not with her understanding of the leadership in place.

She begins unravelling the board, comparing her findings with the reports publicised. First, she removes the photo of the ex-commissioner for France's Interpol Agency, Patrice Wess. Newspaper clippings of his last public statement earlier this year, in March, the signs of an internal investigation brewing, Elise's suspicions now contextualised. With only an interim at the helm, they didn't have a replacement planned all this time, and probably not for a while, given how much of the agency was involved. 

Then followed other commissioners, starting with the commissioner of the Rhine Union's Agency Null, additionally now interim for France, Trafalgar. Compliant to the court's every beck and call, perfect as a replacement, even if temporary. And it's not like their agency is under any real pressure either, how curious, she concluded, and with no strings attached, the image is discarded without a second thought.

She momentarily gazes at the void in the middle left of the board. Asian Agencies and their syndicate counterparts are too focused on themselves to be involved. There is so much smoke and no fire, at least in this case.

Then came the prolific Syndicates of the Americas, blue string taking up across the board. Always up to something. Their personnel were found across Europe. Elise compared the sightings she found from social media and other independent journalists on her board with the official reported activity sites, matching like for like. No sense of vindication filled her; it's as if they are fitting the reports with public information, adding nothing new. Despite the heavy involvement of the French Interpol agencies, no activity was reported in France. The reports remained brief on the activities, downplaying the scope of their involvement. Most definitely, to minimise the public perception of their influence, Elise thought as her mind drifted to news she had heard months before, 'French prisons at max capacity', and to make room, they would... Elise stops the thought, disturbed by the possibility.

She untangles the web of connections across the board, uncovering the remaining American agencies, somehow uninvolved in the scandal, even in official reports. She grabbed the logos of Agency Zero and Agency None, holding them side by side, both based in the United States. Zero was established in 2047, old enough to matter. None showed "established February 2074"; another agency formed on equal footing, but why? The more she read the names, the more annoyed she got, Nichts, None, Null, all different ways to say the same thing. She almost tossed it aside with the other newcomer agencies, but her mind felt heavy with the weight of realisation, something about its formation, leadership...

Formed this February, the month before Agency Nichts's silence. It's a coincidence too strong to ignore. Elise, seeking threads to grasp, makes her way to her desktop, her heart racing as she verges on an epiphany. With the new precedent set, two agencies operate under one nation. There had to be more to it than a redundancy measure to make up for Zero's slack. They could've set up the new agency in France to take over the now defunct agency, or even in a neighbouring nation like Spain or Italy, but no set up another across the ocean and left a potential imbalance in Europe.

She began digging for as much of the commissioner's background as possible, only to find that his background, having worked at the national level, was more suited to the job than the others. If he's so suited, why not transfer him over and have him integrate alongside? 

But the detail of never getting promoted past captain raised her eyebrow. Such a leap of authority had to be substantiated somehow, unless foul play was involved, she deduced as theories started flying around in her head. Time seemed to blur as eye strain crept in while she delved deeper into news articles after police reports, looking for justifications for his role.

Then she clicked on another article, from a few years ago, which was already scrolled to its end. She scrolled up slightly to read it, only to find herself at another unrelated article, not remembering how she'd got there. A dull headache began to settle in the back of her head as she tried returning to it. Then she found something that caught her eye, a name, five letters, ordinary enough. But when she tried to highlight it, her selection kept slipping. She tried again. The letters seemed to shift slightly, the text trying to obscure itself.

The headache sharpened. She screenshot the page instead, but the image showed only a black smudge where the name should be. Her heart rate picked up. Back to the original article, the letters now transfigured openly, five becoming seven becoming three, refusing to hold still. The distortion writhed in her head, but curiosity drove her to copy and paste the unreadable name.

The query went through at her request. Pages of information were displayed, but every last pixel rendered incomprehensible. With a surmounting headache forming at the back of her head, she switched tabs to something else, finding that it was being presented flawlessly; the issue lay with information related to the name. 

The more she thought about the name, the more the headache panged, like her brain refusing to comprehend the fog growing thicker and clouding her mind.

She got up from her chair and felt lightheaded. She tried to catch her breath, but it felt empty. Her chest felt empty, and her heart was absent. Her hollow breaths hastened. Her legs gave out beneath her, failing to move towards the door, her body struggling to restart her absent heart.

Her eyes flickered to keep the darkness encompassing her vision. She gazed at the door hopelessly as a misty foot kicked the air in the corner of her room. She gazed to her side slightly, towards her bed, and the hazy figure sat on her bed, watching light fade from her with its white halo eyes, carefree, as if nothing was wrong. Lifeless exhaustion kept her from reacting to its presence as her eyelids flickered and grew weaker, hearing a faint organic thump grow faint; instead of her eyes sealing shut, they felt lighter as they flickered open.

Her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room where she stood before her board, the logo of Agency None in her hands.

Her head filled with whispers and murmurs in her voice. Thoughts colliding with the recollection of moments prior made her mind hazy. Her hand, with a lazy fatigue, loosely clutches her shirt in the position of her heart. It was beating, but the sensation felt weak. Her body felt weak. She sat where she stood, letting go of the image, as the hollow whispers washed over her until they settled as memories.

She felt lucid once more, but still fatigue overcame her. The memories restored the events leading up to her supposed death. The memories felt as real as any other, and too vivid to be a dream or hallucination. It served as a reminder of the night when she'd lost control of her body, but this instance, her autonomy felt entirely hers, or so she thought.