The rest of the morning passed in normalcy. Foster—Andrew's mind still struggled with the name—stayed at his desk. He observed, he listened, he learned the rhythms of the station. He learned that the clatter of the tea trolley at 10:30a.m was a sacred ritual, that Martha Holmes could silence a room with a single raised eyebrow, and that Ben Frank's lazy demeanor hid a forensic mind that missed nothing.
He also learned about the Davidson case. Officially, it was an animal attack. A large dog, perhaps, or a feral something, or other from the industrial district. The report he'd filed, had been accepted without comment. But the crime scene photo was burned into his mind. The tearing was too precise, the force too great. 'Non-metallic implements', Ben had said.
At noon, the station's energy shifted. Officers headed out for lunch or slumped at their desks with brown-bag meals. Foster's stomach was a knot of anxiety, but he knew he had to move. To be seen acting like a functioning human being. He stood with tension, and made his way towards the breakroom.
On his way, he passed the evidence board for Davidson. Martha was there, adding a new slip of paper—a timeline. She glanced at him.
"You finished the report," she stated.
"Yes, Lieutenant."
"It was adequate." It was the highest praise he suspected she gave to anyone below the rank of Captain. Her eyes lingered on him for a second too long. "The next one is due before the shift ends, not after it begins."
"Understood."
He continued to the breakroom, feeling her gaze on his back. She was sharp. Too sharp. He'd have to be more careful.
The breakroom was a small, windowless space that smelled of old coffee and soup. Eliza was there, laughing with a uniformed officer. She waved him over.
"Foster! Come on, live a little. We're heading to The Crusty Loaf for a sandwich. You in?"
The Crusty Loaf. The name was so mundane it hurt. It was exactly the kind of place a Foster Ambrose would go.
"I, uh… I brought something." he lied, patting his empty coat pocket.
"Suit yourself! Don't let the Captain see you moping," she said with a cheerful wink before disappearing out the door with her colleague.
Alone, he filled a chipped mug with water from the sink. His reflection wavered in the stainless steel backsplash—a distorted version of Foster's face, blue eyes wide.
_Andrew Garfield._
He thought, testing the name. It felt like a secret, a blasphemy.
He jumped as a man slid into the room beside him, all nervous energy and thick-rimmed glasses. Neil Humphrey, the tech guy. He was frowning at a data-slate in his hands.
"Ambrose. Hey. That thing with the Davidson footage is bugging me," Neil said without preamble, his fingers tapping rapidly on the slate's surface. "It's not just corrupted. It's a perfect, three-minute void. No light, no infrared, no audio. It's like a black hole ate that section of the recording. The system diagnostics show zero errors. It's… weird."
Foster's grip tightened on his mug. A void. A black hole. The language was too close to the feeling of falling through clouds. "Weird how?"
Neil pushed his glasses up his nose. "Weird like it shouldn't be possible. It's as if someone invented a device to create perfect silence, and then used it on a random alleyway mugging. It doesn't fit. The cost, the expertise… why?"
_Why indeed?_
Foster thought. But he just shrugged, trying to mimic Ben Frank's nonchalance. "Glitch in the matrix."
Neil snorted. "Right. A glitch." He didn't sound convinced. He gave Foster another appraising look. "You okay? You seem… different today."
The question seemed to become habitual in the precinct. "Just tired." Foster said, the lie now well-rehearsed.
"Aren't we all." Neil muttered, his attention already drifting back to his slate as he wandered out.
Foster was left alone again with the hum of the fluorescent lights and the pounding of his own heart. Perfect digital silence. It was another thin but strong thread, connecting the impossible to the mundane.
He returned to his desk. He waited until the post-lunch lull settled over the station, when yawns were stifled and eyelids grew heavy. Then, he stood and walked towards the records room—a place he'd overhead two officers discussing their least-favorite chore: archival duty.
The room was in the basement, a space lit by flickering glow-orbs that cast long wavering shadows. The air was cold and smelled of dust and decaying paper. Shelves stretched into the darkness, crammed with case files from decades. This was the pre-digital memory of the Metropolitan Police.
His purpose was twofold: to hide, and to hunt. To hide from the probing eyes of his colleagues, and to hunt for any echo of his own experience.
He found a section marked "Unexplained / Open." It was a small, collection. He pulled a file at random. "Case 734: Disappearance of Elias Thorn." He skimmed it. A watchmaker, last seen entering his shop. The door was locked from the inside. No signs of struggle. The only anomaly noted was a "faint, sulfurous odor" and that all the clocks in the shop had stopped at the exact same time.
A cold finger traced a path down his spine. He put it back.
Another. "Case 811: Apparent Suicide of Mara Lin." A woman found in her sealed apartment, cause of death listed as self-inflicted knife wound. The attending officer's scribbled note in the margin caught his eye: "Deceased's hands show defensive wounds. No knife found at scene." The case was closed. Lack of evidence to suggest otherwise.
His blood ran cold. Closed. Not solved. Just… closed. Swept under the rug.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A report of a man falling from the sky? A case involving a blood-stained notebook? It felt futile, and yet, the very normalcy of these files, with their tiny, ignored cracks of the impossible, was more terrifying than any monster. It meant the system was designed not to see.
He spent an hour there, surrounded by the records of failures and forgotten mysteries. Each closed file was a quiet testament to a world that preferred easy answers.
When he emerged, the shift was nearly over. He felt nauseous, not just from the dust, but from the knowledge. This world had a darkness, and its police force, his police force, was willfully blind to it.
He gathered his things—Foster's things—and headed for the door. Captain Hart Hanson's office was still open. As Foster passed, the Captain's voice, low and flat, stopped him.
"Ambrose."
Foster turned. Hanson was standing at his door, his coat on.
"A word."
Foster's heart froze. He knows.
He followed the Captain back into the office. Hanson didn't sit. He stood by the window, looking out at the strange, anachronistic city.
"The Davidson report," Hanson began, his back to Foster. "It was serviceable."
Foster said nothing, waiting for the axe to fall.
"But it lacked insight." Hanson turned, and his granite eyes pinned Foster again. "You observed the scene yesterday. You wrote what you saw. But you didn't write what you thought."
"Sir, I thought it was an animal attack, as per the preliminary—"
"I don't care about preliminaries," Hanson interrupted, his voice still quiet but now like a razor's edge. "I care about what my officers think. You saw that wound. What did you think?"
The question was a trap. To agree was to align with the official story. To disagree was to mark himself as a problem. Foster's mind raced, balancing on an edge between Foster Ambrose, the dutiful officer, and Andrew Garfield, the man who knew about impossible deaths.
He chose a middle path. "I thought… the violence was extreme for a robbery, sir. It felt… personal."
Hanson studied him for a long, silent moment. The hum of the city the only sound apparent.
"Personal," Hanson repeated, tasting the word. "An interesting choice." He picked up his briefcase. "Don't be late tomorrow, Ambrose. And try to have a thought of your own. It's what I pay you for."
Dismissed, Foster walked out of the station on legs that felt like water. The encounter had been a warning. Hanson was watching him, not with suspicion of impostorship, but with dissatisfaction at his performance.
He stepped out into the twilight. The streetlights—a mix of old gas lamps and new electric bulbs—were flickering on, casting a hazy, orange glow over the cobblestones. He started the long walk home, the trench coat feeling less like a costume and more like a shield.
He was playing a part in a dangerous game, on a stage he didn't understand, for an audience that included a captain who demanded answers he couldn't give and a hidden world that had already killed him three times over.
As he turned onto his street, his eyes were instinctively drawn to the gate. The sharp, iron points were like black teeth against the darkening sky. It was no longer just a symbol of his death.
It was a reminder. The case of his own life was the only one that mattered, and the clock was ticking.