Recovered Log — Agent Nocturne
Date: [REDACTED]
Clearance Level: Internal Use Only
They told me to start writing. Not reports, not transcripts — those come later. This is meant to be the in-between space, the quiet hour after the lights hum out and the paperwork cools. They said it helps to keep a record that isn’t bound by protocol. A human voice on the other side of the mirror.
So, for the record: my name is Nocturne, and I work for an organization we call Dead End. Officially, we don’t exist. Unofficially, we clean up what seeps through the cracks — the things that don’t fit cleanly into science, scripture, or sanity. The unsolved, the unspoken, the undone.
Every case starts the same way: a whisper, a rumor, a place someone shouldn’t have gone. By the time it reaches my desk, the story’s already half-eaten. My job is to find what’s left and write it down before it disappears entirely.
The rookies still ask why we’re called Dead End. I don’t answer anymore. You learn fast that every path we take leads to one. Sometimes it’s literal. Sometimes it’s something else — a silence you can’t step past, a shape you can’t unsee.
I’ve been with Dead End long enough to stop believing in closure. What we document doesn’t resolve; it recurs. Patterns echo. Faces repeat. A file ends, and another begins in the same handwriting. Maybe mine. Maybe not.
They say the first entry should be simple. Just an introduction. No case attached. But there’s a noise tonight — something brushing the inside of the ventilation shafts, like paper turning itself over. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe that’s where I’ll start.
End log.
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