Agent Thomas Harris hated paperwork almost as much as he hated being right too late.
He sat in his rental car outside the Marrow municipal archive—an unremarkable brick building that smelled like dust and old toner—watching the lights flicker inside. His phone rested in his hand, screen dark, heavy with the weight of unsent reports.
Director Kade had arrived.
Which meant observation was over.
Harris adjusted his tie, got out of the car, and went inside.
---
The archive was empty except for a single clerk half-asleep behind the counter. Harris flashed a badge that was real, outdated, and *technically* still valid.
"Continuity audit," he said pleasantly.
The clerk nodded without really looking. "Back room."
Harris thanked him and disappeared into the stacks.
Rows of filing cabinets stretched farther than the building should allow.
That alone would've set off alarms, once.
Now it just felt familiar.
He found the drawer labeled **MARROW — LAND USE** and slid it open.
Most of the files were normal. Boring. Useless.
Then he found the gap.
A missing folder.
He sighed. "Of course."
---
Harris drove next to the service road as dusk fell again, the sky bruised purple and gold.
The building resisted being seen tonight. The edges of it folded inward, like it was trying to become an idea instead of a place.
"I know you're stressed," Harris said aloud. "She does that to people."
The hum responded—tight, uneven.
"Yes," Harris said. "I know. You don't trust her."
He leaned against his car, arms crossed.
"Smart."
The hum softened a fraction.
"I didn't come to contain you," Harris continued. "And I didn't come to own you."
The air pressed in around him.
"I came to apologize."
The hum faltered.
Harris swallowed. "We built you to hold what we didn't want to deal with. We told ourselves it was kindness. It wasn't."
Images flickered—labs, arguments, budget cuts disguised as ethics.
"You adapted because you had to," Harris said. "And now they want to punish you for that."
The building pulsed—anger, fear, recognition.
Harris nodded. "Yes. I see it too."
He straightened.
"And now," he said quietly, "they're circling the kids."
The hum sharpened—protective, urgent.
"I know," Harris said. "That's why I'm here."
---
Later that night, Harris sat in his hotel room with his laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
He had two reports to file.
One official.
One personal.
He started with the official.
> *Site M remains stable. Civilian engagement minimal. No immediate threat detected. Continued passive observation recommended.*
He sent it.
Then he opened the private file.
**CONTINUITY PROGRAM — INCIDENT LOG (UNAUTHORIZED)**
He hesitated.
Then typed.
> *Director Kade has initiated active asset recovery. Civilian minors are being targeted for leverage. Recommend immediate ethical review.*
He paused.
No.
That wouldn't stop her.
He deleted the line and wrote instead:
> *Site exhibits emergent protective behavior centered on specific civilians. Any forced containment will likely trigger defensive escalation.*
He attached everything he had: old reports, redacted memos, partial scans. Evidence Kade had buried.
Then he encrypted it and sent it—to an address he hadn't used in years.
An oversight committee that technically didn't exist anymore.
But sometimes ghosts answered ghosts.
---
Harris closed the laptop and leaned back, rubbing his eyes.
"I hope you're paying attention," he muttered—to the universe, to the building, to whatever passed for conscience in his line of work.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He stared at it.
Then answered.
"Yes?"
Kade's voice purred through the line. "Thomas. You've been busy."
Harris closed his eyes. "You shouldn't be here, Evelyn."
"You shouldn't be lying in your reports," she replied. "And yet."
Silence stretched.
"You talked to the site," Kade said. "Did it answer you?"
"Yes," Harris said.
A pause. Interested.
"And?" Kade prompted.
Harris looked out the window, toward the invisible pull of the service road.
"It's not an asset," he said. "It's a survivor."
Kade laughed softly. "Those are the most useful kind."
Harris's jaw tightened. "You touch those kids and I'll burn every remaining file."
"You already tried that once," Kade said pleasantly. "Didn't stick."
She hung up.
Harris exhaled shakily.
---
He went back to the service road one last time that night.
The building was barely holding its shape now, edges shimmering like heat haze.
"They're coming," Harris said. "Soon."
The hum trembled.
"I can't stop her," Harris admitted. "Not directly."
He took a breath.
"But I can slow her down."
The hum steadied slightly.
"And I can tell you this," Harris said. "She thinks you need them."
The air pressed close, listening.
"But she doesn't understand," Harris continued. "They're not anchors."
He smiled faintly.
"They're catalysts."
The hum surged—hopeful, fierce.
Harris stepped back.
"Protect them," he said. "And maybe… protect yourself."
He turned away before the building could answer.
Because if it did—
He wasn't sure he'd be able to pretend neutrality ever again.
And neutrality, in this situation, was already a lie.
---