The chamber doesn't empty after I agree.
It reorganizes.
Panels of light slide across the walls, reshaping the space into something more functional than interrogative. The chair retracts into the floor, replaced by a low metal platform etched with faint symbols that hum softly as I step onto it.
The person who assigned me watches without comment.
"Observation sites are prepared in advance," they say, tapping the disk at their wrist. "Unresolved Records don't appear randomly. They form along stress points—places where infrastructure, history, and human activity overlap imperfectly."
"So this city is full of them," I say.
"Yes," they reply. "Which is why Virelis still stands."
That's… not comforting.
The platform shudders, then begins to descend. Metal slides past in a controlled blur as we move downward, deeper into the city's layered structure. Pipes, conduits, and reinforced beams pass by in dense succession, all vibrating with the steady rhythm of machinery.
This is the part of the city no one advertises.
The air grows warmer as we descend, thick with steam and oil. I catch glimpses of maintenance corridors branching off at odd angles, some sealed, others pulsing faintly with warning sigils layered over industrial markings.
"How many assignments like this?" I ask.
They glance at me briefly. "For you? As many as it takes to stabilize your record."
So there's no end point.
The platform slows, then locks into place with a heavy click. The doors slide open, revealing a wide underground passage illuminated by rows of amber lights. Massive pressure tanks line the walls, their gauges ticking steadily as steam vents release controlled bursts into overhead ducts.
"This is the Lower Furnace Tier," they say. "Most citizens never come this far down."
I can see why.
The heat is oppressive, and the hum of machinery is loud enough to vibrate through my bones. The city feels more alive here, less abstract and far more dangerous. Every step I take is echoed by the hiss of steam and the groan of overworked metal.
They lead me toward a narrow bridge spanning a deep shaft where gears the size of buildings turn slowly below. The movement is hypnotic, each rotation accompanied by a deep, resonant thrum that I feel in my chest.
"Unresolved Record detected thirty-seven minutes ago," they say, checking the disk. "Local instability increasing. If left unattended, it will manifest physically within the hour."
"And if that happens?" I ask.
"Then the Furnace Tier loses pressure balance," they reply. "Which cascades upward. You don't want to see that."
I really don't.
We stop at the center of the bridge. The deck of cards drifts closer to me, its presence tightening, as if responding to something below. The air here feels different—charged, restless, like a storm trapped underground.
The person steps back slightly.
"I won't interfere unless containment fails," they say. "This is your observation."
I look down.
Far below, between interlocking gears and roaring vents, something flickers into view. Not a shape, not yet—more like a distortion in the air, a patch of space that refuses to align with the rest of the world.
The pressure behind my eyes returns instantly.
Stronger than before.
Text flickers at the edge of my vision.
[Unresolved Record activity escalating.]
I swallow and steady my breathing.
This feels different from the street above. The city isn't just watching now—it's relying on me. The systems around us hum louder, their rhythms subtly adjusting, as if preparing to accommodate whatever happens next.
The deck shifts.
One card slides partway free, heavier than the others, its surface still blank but straining with intent. I don't touch it, but I feel the pull all the same.
"This one's older," the person says quietly. "Industrial accident. Early expansion phase. Never fully documented."
Of course it wasn't.
Virelis was built too fast, too aggressively, layering steel over stone and hoping the past wouldn't push back. Down here, among the furnaces and engines, the city's unfinished history has nowhere left to hide.
The distortion below sharpens, flickering in and out of focus. I catch fragments—heat, panic, the screech of metal under impossible strain. The sensation makes my teeth ache.
I lean forward slightly, careful not to lose my balance.
The pressure spikes.
Not pain.
Invitation.
This is what they mean by assignment.
Not a job.
A responsibility forced onto me because the alternative is worse.
I close my eyes briefly, then open them again, fixing my attention on the distortion. The deck hums in response, aligning itself as the city's machinery reaches a synchronized rhythm around us.
Somewhere deep within the Furnace Tier, valves lock into place.
The world braces.
I draw a slow breath.
And begin to observe.
The moment my attention settles fully on the distortion, the world reacts.
The hum of the machinery below shifts pitch, deepening into a strained rhythm that vibrates through the bridge and into my bones. Steam vents hiss louder, releasing controlled bursts that fog the air before being drawn back into the ducts above.
The city is compensating.
I feel the pressure behind my eyes sharpen, threading itself through my thoughts with unnerving precision. Images rise unbidden—heat pressing in from every direction, metal screaming as it twists beyond tolerance, workers shouting warnings that come seconds too late.
This record isn't recent.
It's old, buried beneath layers of progress and steel, left unresolved because no one survived long enough to finish observing it.
The deck responds.
The partially freed card slides fully loose, drifting in front of me with deliberate slowness. Its surface remains blank for a heartbeat longer than expected, as if resisting definition.
Then the first line appears.
LOCATION: Virelis – Lower Furnace TierEVENT TYPE: Industrial Collapse (Incomplete)
The words etch themselves into the card, not glowing, not dramatic—simply final. As they settle, the distortion below sharpens violently, coalescing into something vaguely humanoid amid the gears.
I inhale sharply.
The figure is larger than the one in the street above, its outline uneven and jagged, as if formed from warped metal and condensed heat. Its movements lag, each motion trailing afterimages of force and friction.
This isn't just a moment that never ended.
It's a disaster that keeps trying to happen.
The pressure spikes again, but this time it's different. It isn't just scrutiny—it's demand. The city's systems lean into my awareness, synchronizing their rhythms with my heartbeat.
I'm not just witnessing for myself.
I'm witnessing for everything around me.
The person assigned to oversee me stays silent, standing just far enough back to avoid the worst of the pressure. I sense their attention flick between me and the distortion, ready to intervene but unwilling to disrupt the process.
Smart.
I focus on the figure.
The moment I do, the record surges forward, flooding my mind with fragmented sensations. Blistering heat. The taste of ash. The vibration of machinery pushed far beyond safe limits. A catastrophic failure chain triggered by a single overlooked flaw.
Someone knew this would happen.
That realization cuts deeper than the pain.
The figure lurches, gears grinding against unseen constraints. It raises one arm—or what passes for an arm—and the surrounding machinery groans in response. Pressure gauges along the shaft spike sharply, needles trembling near red.
"Stabilization threshold approaching," the observer says quietly.
I grit my teeth and hold my focus.
This isn't about stopping the collapse.
It's about finishing it.
I shift my attention, not to the moment of failure, but to the moment before it. I observe the misaligned valve, the worn bolt, the ignored warning etched into a maintenance log that was never filed.
The record resists.
The pressure behind my eyes flares into pain as the card trembles, its surface flickering between clarity and distortion. The figure convulses, fragments of imagery tearing free and bleeding into the surrounding space.
I almost lose my footing.
The deck hums louder, its vibration cutting through the chaos like a tuning fork. I latch onto that steadiness, using it to anchor my focus.
I see it then.
The ending.
Not a heroic sacrifice. Not a dramatic last stand.
Just the quiet, brutal inevitability of systems failing because no one finished paying attention.
I let the observation complete.
The card's surface stabilizes, lines locking into place with a sensation like a seal snapping shut.
OUTCOME: COLLAPSE CONFIRMEDCASUALTIES: RECORDEDSTATUS: ACCEPTED
The figure freezes.
For a brief, breathless moment, everything goes still—the gears, the steam, even the pressure in my skull. Then the Unresolved Record collapses inward, its warped form folding into itself before dissolving completely.
The machinery below shudders violently, then steadies.
Pressure gauges drop back into safe ranges. Steam vents hiss once more, releasing excess heat in controlled bursts. The city exhales, its systems adjusting smoothly as if nothing catastrophic had nearly occurred.
I sag forward, gripping the railing as exhaustion crashes over me. My head throbs, and a sharp ache pulses behind my temples, but the suffocating pressure is gone.
The card drifts back into the deck, its surface blank once more.
Text flickers briefly at the edge of my vision.
[Unresolved Record stabilized.][Observation accepted.]
No praise.
Just confirmation.
I straighten slowly, forcing myself to breathe through the lingering dizziness. The observer steps closer now, their expression unreadable as they peer down into the shaft.
"Pressure balance restored," they say into the disk at their wrist. "No cascade detected."
They turn to look at me.
"You handled it," they say. Not approval—acknowledgment.
"I finished it," I reply quietly.
They nod once. "That's what matters."
The bridge trembles faintly as the city settles back into its steady rhythm. Below us, the Furnace Tier continues its endless labor, oblivious to how close it came to failure.
I glance at the deck hovering at my side. It feels heavier now, fuller, as if something irreversible has been added to it.
"This happens a lot, doesn't it?" I ask.
"More than we'd like," the observer replies. "Virelis was built on speed. Speed leaves things unfinished."
I look back at the gears turning below.
"And I'm supposed to clean that up."
"Yes," they say. "Until your record stabilizes. Or until something goes wrong."
The implication hangs between us.
I nod slowly, accepting it.
As we turn to leave the bridge, the city's hum feels different—not friendlier, but… aware. Somewhere deep within Virelis, systems update, logs finalize, and attention shifts away from the Furnace Tier.
For now.
I follow the observer back toward the lift, the deck drifting faithfully at my side. My head still aches, and fragments of the record linger at the edges of my thoughts, refusing to fade completely.
This was my first assignment.
And judging by the weight settling into my chest, it won't be my last.