The hum of the Foundation’s air recyclers had never sounded so comforting.

Back in Headquarters, everything seemed clean, metallic, and predictable again—no whispering walls, no vanishing doors, no living buildings pretending to offer shelter.  

Monna sat at her desk, typing the final lines of her report.  

*“Entity ARC-031 — Codename: The Inn That Waits.  

Status: Non-hostile, self-contained.  

Recommended action: Observation only.”*

She hit “Submit,” the A.R.C. logo flickering briefly on the screen.  

Then she stood, stretching. “Alright, rookie. Report’s filed. We live another day.”

Ed exhaled, the tension finally beginning to fade. “Do you always sound so casual after nearly dying?”

Monna grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

She motioned for him to follow. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

They walked through a restricted corridor to a heavy steel door marked **ARCHIVE 7 — RECORD DIVISION**.  

When it opened, cool, dry air washed over them. Inside stretched a maze of shelves, filled with dusty folders, old magnetic tapes, and data drives stacked to the ceiling.

“This,” Monna said, “is where the ghosts of the Foundation live.”

Ed looked around in awe. “Every case?”

“Every mistake,” she corrected. “Every anomaly, every theory someone wasn’t brave—or stupid—enough to prove. If you’ve got downtime, come here. Dig through something. Sometimes you’ll find patterns no one else noticed.”

She tapped his shoulder. “Curiosity’s dangerous, sure. But it’s also how we stay ahead of what hunts us.”

He nodded, though part of him still reeled from the last mission. “You ever feel like we’re just gambling with our lives here?”

Monna smiled faintly. “That’s the job. But between you and me… I kind of like the odds.”

She turned and left him there, the echo of her boots fading down the hallway.

Hours later, Ed sat alone in the archive, scanning the endless rows of files. His hand drifted over labels—*“ARC-012: The Clock That Remembers,”* *“ARC-026: The Man Who Dissolved,”* *“ARC-041: The Song Beneath the Skin.”*  

Then something caught his eye.  

A thin black binder tucked between two thick reports.  

Its label was hand-written, faded: **“The Doomsday Organization.”**

He pulled it out.

The folder was surprisingly light. Only a few pages inside.  

Back in his dorm room later that night, he placed it on the desk but didn’t open it immediately. His mind wandered instead—to **Marline Cain.**

He unlocked his phone and hesitated before typing.  

*Hey. It’s Ed. How’ve you been?*  

To his surprise, a reply came minutes later.  

*Busy day. Financial audits never end. And you?*

He smiled faintly. *Just paperwork. Maybe we should grab coffee again sometime.*

A pause. Then another message:  

*Maybe. I’ll think about it.*

He set the phone aside, the faint warmth of that short exchange lingering in his chest. For the first time in weeks, he felt almost normal.

Then he opened the file.

The first page was a simple title sheet.  

**The Doomsday Organization**  

Compiled by: *Investigator Harlan Rhodes (Deceased)*

The text was fragmented, the ink faded.

*“Multiple anomalies across separate containment zones exhibit similar behavioral directives—references to ‘the End,’ ‘Return,’ or ‘Awakening.’ Hypothesis: coordination between entities through unknown communication medium.”*

The next page:  

*“Suspected human intermediaries display traits consistent with Class-III hybrid anomalies. Possible cultic network or emergent hive consciousness.”*

Ed frowned. “Cults, hybrids, end of the world… it reads like conspiracy garbage.”

He flipped to the last page—and stopped.

A red-stamped notice covered the text:

> **Case Status: CLOSED.**

> **Rationale:** Investigator mentally compromised.  

> **Report deemed delusional and unsupported by evidence.**

At the bottom, someone had scrawled in pen:

*“Erase this from the system.”*

Ed leaned back slowly.  

Something about it felt off—too abrupt, too dismissive.  

A.R.C. didn’t close cases lightly. And if Rhodes had gone insane… why preserve the file at all?

He looked again at the first page, tracing a line of faded text near the margin.

There, half-erased, were three words:  

*“They walk among.”*

The room seemed colder suddenly.

He closed the file and stared at the ceiling.  

After everything he’d seen—the living book, the fireborn man, the Inn that waited—he wasn’t sure he could laugh it off anymore.

Outside his window, the city lights flickered like a constellation of false stars.  

He glanced at his phone again.  

One new message.

From Marline:  

*“Be careful where you look, Ed. Some things stare back.”*

He froze.

The message had no timestamp.  

No delivery icon.  

And when he blinked, it was gone.

Only the empty chat remained, silent and waiting.  

Ed sat in the dark, the folder still open before him, the words **“Doomsday Organization”** staring back like an unfinished sentence.  

Somewhere deep within A.R.C., he could almost feel it—  

the world shifting, quietly, toward something vast and unseen.