It began like most days did for Inspector Dylan Grae: in silence.
His apartment was minimal. Too clean. A sterile reflection of the man who lived in it. A single framed photograph rested on a bookshelf that looked untouched in years. It showed Dylan, younger and smiling, flanked by two other men in police uniforms. The glass was cracked.
Dylan stood in front of his mirror adjusting his coat. It was slightly frayed at the cuffs, and the fabric had lost its original sharpness. Still, he wore it like armor. His dark hair was tousled in a way that suggested he didn't care enough to fix it, and his eyes—tired but alert—were the only part of him that looked alive.
He didn't talk to himself. He didn't need music to fill the void. The silence was the routine.
Dylan worked under the Bureau of Internal Crisis Management (BICM), specifically within a sub-division known as Section 6. No press knew about Section 6. No outside departments had jurisdiction over it. Officially, it didn't exist.
Unofficially, it dealt with the Blinks.
Inside BICM headquarters, the tension was constant. The offices were underground, illuminated by cold overhead lights and polished steel. Most of the agents were veterans: men and women hardened by what they'd seen. Dylan, by comparison, was tolerated more than respected.
He was sharp—too sharp. His attention to detail bordered on obsessive, and it earned him few friends. His reports were often buried. His questions, ignored. It didn't help that he was blunt and solitary, and refused to schmooze with higher-ups like the others did.
"Still chasing ghosts, Grae?" one of the senior agents muttered as Dylan passed by.
"Still trying not to become one," Dylan replied without looking up.
He didn't flinch from the glares. He just walked faster, clutching a folder against his side.
Today, something felt different.
An unmarked file had landed on his desk. That wasn't uncommon in Section 6—information came through encrypted channels. What was strange was that the file wasn't assigned to any of the top-tier agents. It came directly to him.
He flipped it open.
Case No. 0427-A
Subject: Disappearances preceding Blink Events.
Photos. Five victims. All seemingly unrelated.
Except they all went missing hours before a Blink phenomenon had been officially recorded in the area.
His brow furrowed.
There were timestamps. Cross-referenced maps. Surveillance footage redacted to hell. But what caught his attention was the pattern.
They were being taken before the Blinks occurred.
"What the hell..."
He double-checked the report's routing codes. Someone from above wanted him to see this.
Was it a mistake? A warning? Or a test?
Later that day, Dylan found himself in one of the private conference archives, scrolling through locked incident reports. He had access codes—one of the few perks he retained.
Most of the documents matched the official narrative: Blinks appeared without warning, destroyed everything in their path, and vanished into thin air.
But buried in a Level 5 file was an internal note:
"Subject D-81 showed pre-Blink neurological activity. Taken into containment. Status: Transferred to External Holdings (Classified)."
"External Holdings?" Dylan murmured.
No location. No explanation. Just a directive.
He tapped his fingers on the table, mind racing. People weren't just dying in Blink events. They were being taken before the events even occurred. That meant someone knew when a Blink would happen. And someone else was cleaning up before the mess hit public channels.
He leaned back.
This wasn't about anomalies. This was organized.
That night, Dylan sat alone at his kitchen table. A bowl of instant noodles had long gone cold. Rain pelted the window beside him. He stared at his board—lines of red string connecting people, times, and places. But now, a new string had appeared: a facility nestled in the mountains.
He didn't have a name. Just rumors. Patients transferred there were never heard from again.
He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. He wasn't a smoker, but tonight demanded it.
He whispered, to no one:
"They're selling them."
It was the only conclusion that made sense. All the misfits. The Touched. The people who got too close. The people who felt things before the rest of the world could see it. They were being taken out of circulation.
And the only people with the reach to do that... were his own employers.
He didn't know who was behind it yet. But for the first time in years, his pulse quickened.
He had something.
Something real.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall of threads and scattered case files, and a slow grin crept onto his face.
It had been a long time since he felt this alive.