Ethan sat in the perpetually damp archive room of the European branch, staring at a stack of yellowed files on the table. Oil stains, dust, and even a faint whiff of coffee clung to the pages, as if the last person to read them had been mid–donut bite when a nightmare spooked him, spilling half his cup.
The file's title was brutally blunt—"Operation D-23: Record of Betrayal."
Ethan arched a brow."'Betrayal'? Tch. That's so on-the-nose even a soap opera wouldn't dare."
He flipped the first page—and his eyes widened. The codenames, the operation details, every single arrow pointed to the same person—his old friend. The same blurry-yet-vivid figure he'd seen in dreams. And the file was clear: his friend hadn't tried to kill him for power, money, or even personal choice. The order had come straight from the Bureau itself.
"Well, well." Ethan spread the file open wide, as if afraid it might bolt. "So you were forced, huh? No wonder your knife hand shook. Turns out you're not Judas—you're just another unlucky extra caught in the script."
More salt in the wound: attached was a psychological evaluation report.Cold letters on the page read:
"Subject (the friend) displays serious hesitation, insufficient mental resilience, and may attempt secondary defection. Recommend cleanup after mission completion."
Ethan stared at the line, then burst into laughter so hard his eyes watered."Ha! Classic Bureau. Send you to do their dirty work, then plan to dispose of you. Faster than corporate downsizing."
In his head replayed his friend's last expression—eyes tangled with words, swallowed by blood. All these years Ethan thought it was betrayal, pure and simple. But now? Maybe it was just another pawn shoved onto the board, forced into the ugliest move.
"So, you're not a traitor. You're the scapegoat." Ethan lifted a page toward the empty air, as if to toast the ghost. "And me? I'm the poor bastard you stabbed—who still has to sit through your wake."
The joke of it all? The truth brought no comfort. If anything, it made the absurdity sharper. Like a joke where the audience expects a touching twist—only to be told: sorry, the actor's been dead for years, here's a death certificate instead.
At the bottom of the file lay a photocopied directive, scrawled in red ink:
"If necessary, ensure compliance through family threats."
Ethan sat frozen for half a minute, then leaned back and barked a short laugh."Perfect. Not betrayal, just coercion. Humanity's specialty—push people off a cliff, then file a report saying, 'Didn't jump clean enough.'"
The room was silent, save for the buzzing light. Ethan thought he saw a shadow flicker behind him, but didn't bother turning. He was used to it by now—past, illusion, truth—they all lined up to whisper over his shoulder.
"Old friend, you owe me an explanation," he muttered. "Too bad all that's left to defend you is paperwork."
He shut the file one page at a time, more unsettled than before, but with a crooked grin."Guess I've got a knack for being used. Death plays me, the Bureau plays you—together, we're the human equivalent of a fuse. Blow one, slot in another."
He patted the stack like shaking hands with a bad joke."Thanks for the comedy show. Truth revealed, but it's not funny. Shame I can't stop laughing."
The light overhead flickered with him, like it was in on the gag. And Ethan thought: the past doesn't just repeat—it keeps adding scenes, until everyone's a clown.