Kade dreamed in paperwork: corridors of labeled drawers, bells that chimed on time, a brass plate that said You Did Enough and didn't charge extra for saying it . The hole inside him—corridor, missing word, unsent letter—waited at the end of every aisle like a door he'd refused to inventory, polite as a locked file and twice as stubborn . Ethics confetti drifted through the dream like snow that had learned HR. NAME THE THING. DRINK WATER. TAKE A WALK . "Fine," he told sleep. "Schedule it" .
Morning arrived with the kind of light New York uses as an unbiased witness: gray, honest, unflinching . The Terminal chimed a mission banner as he blinked awake on a S.H.I.E.L.D. cot that had opinions about posture. CASE FILE 006—A NAME FOR THE HOLE—OBJECTIVE: IDENTIFY INTERNAL VECTOR; SECONDARY: INTEGRATE WITH CONTAINMENT RITUALS . "We're case-filing my insides now," Kade muttered . "Congratulations," the Terminal said gently. "You are a site" .
In the briefing room, Fury looked like someone who'd argued with six committees and won five out of spite . Natasha set a paper cup in front of Kade with the gravity of a pact. "Water," she said . Spider-Man bounced in, mask rolled up to his nose because breakfast required access. "Good morning! I brought muffins! Also, emotionally supportive index cards!" He held up a stack of cardstock labeled FEELINGS in bubble letters that had seen some things . "Index cards are a strong choice," the Terminal approved .
Fury's tablet projected a city map bristling with flags. "The Tear's amplitude is up," he said. "Your bell and plaques slowed it, but something's feeding it on side channels" . The Archivist's signature flickered on a few coordinates, then blinked out, shy as a guilty database . "We follow supply," Fury continued. "And we fix your…hole" . "Prefer the term 'corridor,'" Kade said . "Prefer the term 'closed,'" Fury shot back .
Natasha slid a slim folder across the table. Inside: a photo of Kade's ship—the one that wasn't here—floating in a starfield he knew too well, engines hot, cockpit panel lit, co-pilot seat empty . The Terminal put a caption under the image with unusual care: ORIGIN: ESCAPE. LOSS: NAMED. WORD: FORCE . The room tilted a degree left as the corridor in Kade's chest stopped pretending to be anything else . "You knew," he said to the air . "You knew and humored me" . "Humoring is a form of care," the Terminal said .
Spider-Man slid an index card forward like a magician palming a dove. It read: SAY IT ONCE. QUIETLY . Kade looked at Natasha. She didn't offer it for him. She offered her attention and the space inside it . He breathed, and the word fit in his mouth like a key remembering its lock. "Force," he said, soft as a schedule at two in the afternoon . Ethics confetti didn't celebrate; it exhaled a banner that simply read WITNESS .
The Terminal updated his UI with a new module that had been waiting under a tarp: INTEGRATION—CONTROLLED EXPOSURE—MEDITATIVE CONTAINMENT . "We can test in a safe room," it said. "On your terms. With witnesses. With a bell" . Fury glanced at the clock. "You have thirty minutes until the Archivist's next market window opens in Chelsea," he said. "Call your inside tool what you want and make it earn its badge" .
The safe room was a glass box inside a larger room, layers of precautions like onion skin and overprotective relatives . Natasha stood outside the glass with a bell in hand; Spider-Man perched on a stool with a notebook titled SCIENCE OF FEELINGS; Fury loomed in a way that created structural integrity out of posture . The Terminal projected a simple ritual card against the glass: THE NAME RITUAL—STEP 1: SIT. STEP 2: BREATHE. STEP 3: SAY THE WORD. STEP 4: STOP TWO SECONDS EARLY. STEP 5: BELL .
Kade sat. The stool didn't fight him. He closed his eyes, the corridor inside him a hall lit by exit signs, and found the place where he'd always reached for luck and found a lever labeled Denial . "Force," he said again, quiet. The air moved through the room as if remembering how to carry itself . Lights dimmed a fraction, not dramatic, just enough that objects had opinions about edges . The safe room speakers whispered static that wasn't, all warm and waiting . The Terminal's metrics spooled tidy threads: HEART RATE UP 7%. BREATH SLIGHTLY SHALLOW. ANOMALOUS FIELD: LOW, STABLE .
He stopped two seconds early. Natasha rang the bell; the sound mapped him back into himself without judgment . Spider-Man wrote something down and underlined it three times with acceptable vigor . "Again," the Terminal said, softer . Kade did it again. And again. On the fourth repetition, the corridor didn't lurch; it opened like a door on a hinge that had been oiled by admission . He didn't push. He let it breathe with him .
"Integration at 12%," the Terminal reported. "New synergy unlocked: Pact Weave—combine Force intuition with Containment Pact to tailor terms mid-negotiation" . "So I can feel what the anomaly actually wants while I'm writing the contract," Kade said . "And what you actually want," the Terminal added . "That sounds illegal," Kade said . "We filed it," the Terminal said .
Fury tapped the glass once. "Good enough to field?" he asked . "For low to moderate weird," Kade said . Natasha lifted the bell. "Then we field," she said . Ethics confetti drifted: BRING WATER . "Always," Spider-Man said, rattling a backpack that sloshed like a hydration station with ambitions .
Chelsea's "gallery" was a warehouse with aspirations, the kind of pop-up that asserted authenticity by refusing to mop . The Archivist's market window manifested as a corridor of book carts that hadn't been there until they were, rolling themselves into an aisle like a ritualized accident . "They're good," Spider-Man whispered . "They're punctual," Natasha corrected . The Redaction Anchor purred in Kade's pocket. The bell's weight settled into his palm like a friend who didn't need to be interesting .
The Archivist stood at the aisle's far end, porcelain mask repaired with a vein of gold that read as apology by way of kintsugi and also as subtle brag . "Director," they said, making the title sound like both a compliment and a dare . "Curator," Kade said, returning the dare with a receipt . "We brought terms" . The Archivist gestured. Carts parted, revealing tonight's specials: a reel of B‑ROLL OF TRAGEDY, a jar of COINCIDENCE, a key labeled FORESHADOW ME .
"Not buying," Fury said in their ears . "Labeling," Kade replied . He let the Force breathe with him, not a shove, not a trick—just a listening that didn't flinch . The jar of COINCIDENCE hummed like a coin between fingers; it wanted to be used cheap, to justify laziness . "You get Tuesdays," he told it. "For magic hour. Not rush hour. You arrive when the bell rings or you don't arrive at all" . A Pact template unfolded, ink drying in the air with the dignity of rules .
The reel of B‑ROLL OF TRAGEDY tried to play itself under everyone's eyelids—the conversation you should've had, the look you missed, the word you didn't say . Kade's throat tightened; the corridor inside him stirred with echoes . "That's mine," he said, and meant it as inventory, not confession . He set the Curator's Seal against the reel. "You get museum hours only," he said. "Context plaques mandatory. Witnesses present. No private screenings at 3 a.m. in the shower" . The reel sulked into a labeled canister with the righteousness of a diva denied a solo .
The key labeled FORESHADOW ME wanted to hang, to glint, to whisper "remember me" at the worst possible moment . Kade felt the tug and stepped sideways, out of the corridor's echo and into the schedule's square . "You get a hook," he told the key. "On a wall. In a room. With a sign. On Tuesdays. If you're special, you'll survive the wait" . The key softened, metal warming into compliance .
"You are not buying," the Archivist observed, amused . "We are converting," Kade said . "From contraband to curation" . The Archivist tilted their head. "And your hole?" they asked, conversational as blood . Natasha's presence tightened behind him, not protective exactly—accompaniment . "Filed under F," Kade said . "For Force" . "And for 'Finally,'" Spider-Man added, because the kid couldn't help himself .
The carts shivered. In the far corner, something tried to come through—a crease in air that flexed like a throat swallowing a scream . The Terminal whispered: CROSS‑WORLD TEAR—LOCAL FLUCTUATION—AMPLITUDE MODEST; SOURCE: ADEPT TRYING A SIDE DOOR . Captions tickled the edges of shelves. Kade flicked the Anchor; the itch died, billed to his soul's petty cash . He lifted the bell. "Schedule," he said to the tear, absurd and true . "You open on Tuesdays at fourteen-hundred for thirty seconds with witnesses and a rope" . He let the Force breathe through the words, not power, not push—permission wrapped in boundary .
The air considered him. The crease drew itself into a neat, labeled seam with a tie-off loop any ship rat would respect . "Containment Credits: +120," the Terminal murmured, almost awed. "Compliance Score: 72%. New tool: Safety Line—tether for brief, consented apertures" . The Archivist's mask reflected him—bell, Anchor, a man who had finally said a word out loud without bleeding out . "You will make the story smaller," they said, almost fond . "No," Kade said. "Just slower" .
Fury's approval sounded like a grunt that had paid taxes. "Package the jar and the reel, tag the key, log the seam," he said . "Romanoff, escort our librarian back to their shelves" . Natasha's gaze met the Archivist's blank porcelain. "Tuesdays," she said . "Don't be late" . The Archivist bowed the minimum angle allowable by etiquette and mischief, then dissolved between carts like a footnote choosing not to appear on this page .
They rolled out with a dolly of labeled temptations and a bell that had become a habit . On the sidewalk, the city did what it always did: moved . Spider-Man balanced the jar of COINCIDENCE like a waiter with a drink he didn't trust. "Is it weird that labeling things makes me feel calmer?" he asked . "That's civilization," Kade said . "And therapy," the Terminal added . Ethics confetti arrived with a sticker that read NAMING IS POWER in a font that had seen committee .
Back at the site, the safe room waited for its second shift: Kade, the bell, the word . The corridor inside him didn't feel like a hole now; it felt like a room with a chair and a sign that said Please Knock . "Tuesday at fourteen-hundred," he told it quietly, and felt the yes come back without teeth . The Terminal slid the mission banner aside. CASE FILE 006—A NAME FOR THE HOLE—RESOLVED. NEXT: CASE FILE 007—THE ADEPT SETS A TRAP .
Natasha paused at the door, looked back with that particular steadiness she wore like armor. "When it's time to knock," she said, "don't do it alone" . Kade lifted the bell. "Never again," he said, which was both a promise and a label worth filing .