Kobayashi stood in stunned silence, staring at the empty corner of the wall. He still held the sampling blade in his hand, his mind momentarily blank as if he had forgotten what he was doing.
Captain Victor Hale, the middle-aged leader of the second unit of the Special Affairs Bureau, furrowed his brows deeply as soon as he saw the bloodstain vanish.
Something had been erased from his memory and thoughts, but faint traces of its impression remained. These lingering fragments stirred his "sensitivity," warning him that something was amiss.
Victor's eyes flickered briefly with a chaotic glow. He immediately focused his mind, trying to "lock in" those residual impressions before they, too, were wiped away. Years of professional training kicked in, grounding him as Kobayashi hesitantly looked up.
"Captain, I feel like I've suddenly forgotten what I was doing. Was there something here just now?"
"There's mental interference!" Victor snapped, his voice urgent. "Check the depth of the area immediately!"
Kobayashi didn't hesitate. Setting aside the sampling tool, he swiftly retrieved a small, black device no bigger than his palm from his belt. He tapped the surface a few times before extending a thin, needle-like tube from its side. Without hesitation, he attached the sharp end of the tube directly to his eye.
The device emitted a faint hum, and liquid seemed to flow within the thin tube. Kobayashi's eye gradually turned pitch black as his enhanced vision overlaid the scene with shades of gray and white.
"Depth level: L-0. No signs of anomalous activity," Kobayashi reported while scanning the surroundings. "No trace of anything crossing over from an 'anomaly' or leaving behind residues."
Victor frowned, glancing at the handheld depth gauge in Kobayashi's grip. It was a portable model, less sensitive than the larger suitcase-sized versions, but still reliable enough to detect "depth changes."
Victor was certain something had tampered with their thoughts. The residual impressions he had managed to lock in confirmed this. Yet, the equipment detected nothing.
As Victor was about to instruct Kobayashi to recalibrate the device, the younger man suddenly froze, his gaze fixed on something at the far end of the street.
Through the device, Kobayashi's altered vision picked up faint, hazy colors amidst the black-and-white landscape of Boundary City. The shape was large but indistinct, blending into the surrounding environment. After careful observation, he concluded that the size roughly matched that of a house.
"Captain, there's… something ahead. It looks like a building, but it's faint," Kobayashi said, cautiously stepping closer. "Depth reading still shows L-0. No signs of contamination. I'm moving closer—do you sense anything?"
Victor followed behind, one hand gripping a badge in his pocket, ready to intervene if necessary. His brows knit tighter. "No spiritual warnings."
Kobayashi stopped a few feet from the faint shape. After a moment's hesitation, he extended his hand toward it.
The depth gauge emitted a piercing whine, followed by several sharp pops. A thin wisp of smoke curled from its vents as the device abruptly shut down.
The tube connected to Kobayashi's eye detached, and an inky black substance dripped out, evaporating into the air as soon as it made contact.
"Ah, dammit!" Kobayashi cursed, recoiling from the sudden pain in his eye. He dropped the now-scorching device, his hand reflexively moving toward his face.
Victor stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Kobayashi's temple. "Don't rub it! Hold still—it'll pass."
Kobayashi froze, feeling a warm sensation spread from Victor's hand. The pain in his eye receded, and within moments, his vision returned to normal. He glanced down at the smoking remains of the depth gauge.
"...File a report with HQ?"
"Definitely," Victor said grimly.
"Good," Kobayashi sighed in relief, then glanced uneasily at the spot where he had reached out moments ago.
The corner now looked entirely ordinary—just an empty patch of pavement leading to a wall covered in crude graffiti. Drawings of houses, trees, and stones were sketched with colorful spray paint.
He waved his hand through the air. Nothing.
"There's definitely something here," Kobayashi muttered. "The device picked it up. It just broke before I could confirm anything. And the depth reading was still L-0."
Victor fell silent for a moment before speaking decisively. "We're heading back to HQ. I'll file a report with the council. This place needs ongoing surveillance. It could be an undocumented anomaly. We might need heavier equipment and trained deep divers for this. How's your eye?"
"It's fine, I think. Unless I can get a half-day off for it?"
"Nope. We're short-staffed."
"Then it's fine. A bit of eye drops should do."
Victor nodded. Kobayashi carefully picked up the now-dead depth gauge before the two of them returned to their parked electric bikes.
Kobayashi turned the key. The bike's LCD screen flickered briefly before going dark.
"Uh…" He looked up, meeting Victor's equally perplexed gaze. "My bike's dead. Yours too?"
Victor gave a silent nod.
"Do you think that's a coincidence?"
Victor's expression darkened. "The Academy has a term for phenomena like this."
Kobayashi hesitated, recalling something from his training.
"Machine spirit unrest."
"Or machine spirit reluctance," they said simultaneously.
Both paused, then muttered, "No, you got it wrong."
Victor waved dismissively. "We'll argue later. Let's push the bikes out of here."
Kobayashi groaned. "Push them? All the way back?"
"Unless you want to leave your bike here?"
"Can't we call for a truck or something? Even one of those tricycles from the maintenance department? This is going to kill me…"
"Stop whining. You're young. Your stamina should be better than mine."
With no other choice, the two Special Affairs Bureau agents began the long trek back, their figures fading into the distance as they exited Sycamore Street.
Adrian Wells floated in the familiar, oppressive darkness.
He was growing accustomed to this abyss—recent visits had been frequent enough that it almost felt like home.
Eileen's panicked scream still echoed in his ears.
He must have given her quite the scare, staggering through the front door, bloodied and dying, only to collapse dead in the middle of the house. It seemed even a cursed artifact like Eileen had her limits when it came to shock.
Adrian wondered how she'd react once he returned again, alive and well.
Would she even remember?
His thoughts drifted to Focus. In that valley of eternal night, when they met in the ruined temple, she'd forgotten entirely about smashing him to pieces with her headbutt—at least initially. She eventually remembered, but only after some time had passed.
What if Eileen also forgot?
Adrian couldn't tell whether the issue lay with him or those around him. If Eileen didn't recall his dramatic death either, it would confirm one thing: the problem was him.
Time was impossible to gauge in the darkness, so Adrian let his mind wander. When he finally sensed the familiar pull of descent, he readied himself, focusing on the boundary crossing.
Images flashed before his mind's eye—a flurry of impressions guiding his return. He tried to discern them, to capture their meaning, but one stood out, growing larger and clearer:
Sycamore Street, 66. The living room just beyond the front door.
Adrian's eyes snapped open.
The familiar surroundings of his home greeted him. In the dining room, the ornate oil painting rested on the table.
And from within, Eileen's voice broke the silence.
"Adrian! You're finally back!"