The following morning, Elion awoke before the sun.
His dreams had been shapeless—just sound and shadow, like breathing heard through walls. When he opened his eyes, the spiral behind his ear was warm. His room was still. Too still.
Something had changed.
He prepared in silence, skipping breakfast. The city outside remained drowned in its eternal fog. But now, it felt heavier. Every step through the streets echoed twice. Once on the stone. And once in his head.
At the Department, the halls were unusually empty.
Archivists passed without greetings, eyes low. Doors that were normally ajar were shut tight. Even the lamps burned lower than usual, casting long spider-leg shadows across the stone floors.
He entered the central chamber, where ancient relics awaited classification. But before he could begin sorting, a voice called from behind.
— Elion Grahm?
He turned.
A tall woman stood in the doorway, dressed in a black coat with silver stitching along the cuffs. Her eyes were sharp and dark, the kind that read more than they saw. She didn't wear a badge from the Department.
— Yes, I'm Elion.
She stepped closer.
— My name is Lenna Vale. I'm with Internal Oversight.
— There have been… irregularities in your recent assignments.
Elion frowned.
— I wasn't aware of any issues.
She smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
— You handled Relic RD-1057 two nights ago.
— The object was logged but never properly recorded.
— Yet when we checked this morning… the vault where it was held was empty.
His breath caught.
The mask.
It had vanished?
But he'd seen it. Touched it. Spoken to it.
— I don't understand — he said slowly. — I never removed it. It was sealed.
— So you did see it? — she asked, eyes narrowing.
He hesitated.
— Yes… but I didn't touch it.
A long silence followed.
Then she nodded once.
— Understood. Please remain available for questioning.
— And… Elion?
He looked up.
— Be careful what you remember. Some things in this place prefer to be forgotten.
She turned and walked away, her steps making no sound.
Elion stood frozen, a cold knot forming in his chest.
Oversight?
They had never shown interest in relics before.
Not unless something was truly wrong.
He returned to his desk but couldn't focus. Every page he touched seemed to hum faintly under his fingers. Every whisper in the corridors sounded like his name. Even the ink on his notes moved slightly when he looked too long.
Then, as he reached for a drawer, he found something inside that hadn't been there before.
A folded piece of paper.
No seal. No name.
He opened it carefully.
Inside, a single sentence written in elegant handwriting:
They're not watching the relics. They're watching you.