alyssa

There were some things that, once spoken aloud, became impossible to ignore.

The impossible files.

The missing investigators.

The repeating events.

The reflection of someone who looked exactly like you standing where nobody should have been.

All of it was too much.

So, you did what you always did when faced with something impossible.

You investigated.

The next morning, you returned to Wriothesley's office with a stack of notes and a lack of sleep.

He looked up from his desk.

One glance was enough.

"You didn't rest."

"You didn't either."

A pause.

Then a small, almost amused smile.

"Fair."

You placed your notes on his desk.

"We need to organize everything."

Wriothesley glanced down.

"You made a timeline?"

"Yes."

"You've been here less than a day."

"Yes."

A quiet moment passed.

Then—

"I see why the court likes you."

You ignored the comment.

"The files aren't random."

"No."

"They follow a pattern."

"Yes."

You looked at him.

"Stop agreeing with me and tell me if I'm wrong."

Wriothesley leaned back.

"I'm trying to decide if you're more stubborn than the last investigator."

You froze.

"...The last investigator?"

His expression changed slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for you.

"You remember them?"

"Not personally."

The answer was careful.

"Records remember them."

You frowned.

"Records don't remember."

"These do."

That was an unsettling sentence.

You wrote the information down anyway.

Because unfortunately, it was also important.

You continued.

"The cases are connected."

Wriothesley nodded.

"All of them."

"But not by crimes."

"No."

"By investigators."

The room went quiet.

The conclusion sat between you.

Uncomfortable.

Impossible.

Yet obvious.

It wasn’t that something was collecting cases.

It was something collecting people.

You looked back at the timeline.

Thirty-two names.

Thirty-two investigations.

Thirty-two disappearances.

And now—

You.

"Why me?"

Wriothesley's expression softened.

Only slightly.

"I was hoping you'd figure that out."

You stared.

"That wasn't helpful."

"I know."

"You enjoy being difficult."

"On occasion."

For the first time in days, the tension eased.

Barely.

A tiny crack in the fear.

Then—

A knock interrupted.

A guard entered.

"Administrator."

Wriothesley looked over.

"What is it?"

The guard hesitated.

Unusual.

Most people in the Fortress knew better than to hesitate around Wriothesley.

"There's been a situation."

Your attention immediately shifted.

"What kind?"

The guard glanced at you.

Then back at Wriothesley.

"The kind that requires someone with your particular experience."

That was not comforting.

Wriothesley stood.

"Details."

The guard handed him a report.

Wriothesley's eyes moved across the page.

And for the first time since you'd met him—

He looked surprised.

Not confused.

Not concerned.

Surprised.

You noticed.

Immediately.

"What?"

He didn't answer.

"Wriothesley."

A few seconds passed.

Then he handed you the report.

You read.

The first line made your stomach tighten.

Missing person.

You continued.

The victim was a researcher from Fontaine's upper districts.

Disappeared three nights ago.

No witnesses.

No evidence.

No signs of struggle.

A standard missing person case.

Except—

The final paragraph.

Before disappearing, the victim had submitted a report.

A report about a series of illegal experiments involving altered memories and repeated timelines.

Your eyes narrowed.

You looked up.

"Wriothesley."

"I know."

The room suddenly felt colder.

Because now you both understood.

The connection.

The repeating events.

The records.

The disappearances.

This wasn't just happening to investigators.

Something was happening to Fontaine.

Something bigger.

"Who else knows about this?"

"Only a few people."

"Good."

You blinked.

"Good?"

Wriothesley folded the report.

"If the person responsible is connected to the records, then the fewer people who know, the better."

The way he said it made your stomach twist.

Because he wasn't speaking like a prison administrator.

He was speaking like someone who had already seen this happen before.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You looked down at the report.

The victim's name.

The date of disappearance.

The final sentence.

A warning.

Written in their own handwriting:

DO NOT TRUST THE RECORDS.

Your blood ran cold.

"Wriothesley."

"I saw."

The two of you stared at the message.

A new case.

A new mystery.

But the same feeling.

The same invisible presence watching from somewhere you couldn't reach.

Then the lights above you flickered.

Once.

Twice.

And for a brief moment—

The report changed.

Only for a second.

Only long enough to see another line appear.

A line that hadn't been there before.

Investigator assigned:

Your name.

Then the paper returned to normal.

Neither of you spoke.

Because now you knew.

The records weren't only following you.

They were leading you.

And whatever waited at the end of the trail had already started moving.

The journey back to the surface began before sunrise.

Meropide was quieter in the early hours.

The constant hum of machinery still echoed through the fortress walls, but the corridors were nearly empty. A few workers moved between shifts, guards exchanged brief greetings, and somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal marked the start of another day beneath the sea.

You adjusted the satchel hanging from your shoulder.

It felt heavier than yesterday.

Not because of the papers.

Because of what they meant.

Wriothesley emerged from his office carrying his coat, already dressed for travel.

"You packed?"

You gave him a flat look.

"I'm carrying the investigation in a shoulder bag."

"...I'll take that as a yes."

Without another word, the two of you made your way toward the docks.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

Not exactly.

It simply reflected the weight of everything you'd learned over the past twenty-four hours.

Thirty-two investigators.

Thirty-two disappearances.

Thirty-two versions of you.

You still weren't sure which revelation bothered you the most.

The transport vessel waited where it always did, rocking gently against the dock. The operator offered Wriothesley a respectful nod before casting a curious glance in your direction.

Apparently, word traveled quickly beneath the sea.

You boarded first, choosing a seat near one of the windows.

The engines rumbled to life.

Slowly, the Fortress of Meropide began to disappear behind layers of steel, glass, and dark water.

Neither of you spoke until the prison had become little more than a silhouette in the distance.

Then Wriothesley broke the silence.

"I've been thinking about the researcher."

You looked up from your notebook.

"The missing one?"

He nodded.

"The report doesn't make sense."

You raised an eyebrow.

"That's becoming a recurring problem," you crooned, lifting your hand to your temple.

"The disappearance isn't what bothers me."

"No?"

"It's the timing."

You frowned.

"The report says they vanished three nights ago."

"Right."

"And?"

"They submitted their findings only a few hours beforehand."

You flipped open the copied report you'd borrowed from his office.

He was right.

The researcher had delivered a formal report warning about altered memories and repeated timelines... then disappeared before anyone could question them.

It was almost as though they had known they were running out of time.

"They expected something," you murmured.

"Or someone."

The thought lingered between you.

You tapped your pencil against the page.

"If they knew they were in danger..."

"They would've hidden something."

You finished the sentence for him.

"Exactly."

You looked back down at the report.

There were no personal belongings listed among the recovered evidence.

No journals.

No research notes.

No correspondence.

Nothing that explained months—possibly years—of work.

Just the warning.

Too clean.

Far too clean.

"You think someone cleared the office."

"I think someone wanted us to believe there was nothing worth finding."

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

"So we're breaking into a missing person's office."

"We're investigators."

"That's not a denial."

"It wasn't meant to be."

You laughed.

It surprised both of you.

The sound was brief, disappearing almost as quickly as it arrived, but for a fleeting moment the crushing weight of the investigation lifted.

Wriothesley glanced toward you.

"Feeling better?"

"No."

"Honest answer."

"I'm simply becoming desensitized."

"I'm not sure that's healthier."

"It probably isn't."

The conversation faded again.

Outside, sunlight filtered through the water as the vessel steadily climbed toward the surface. Shafts of pale blue drifted across the cabin, illuminating the scattered reports between you.

Your eyes landed once more on the final page.

DO NOT TRUST THE RECORDS.

The sentence still made your stomach tighten.

You'd spent months treating the records as evidence.

Studying them.

Organizing them.

Building investigations around them.

You'd never stopped to consider the possibility that they wanted you to do exactly that.

A cold realization settled over you.

"If the records are leading us..."

Wriothesley looked over.

"...then every clue we've followed might've been chosen for us."

He didn't answer immediately.

When he finally did, his voice was quieter than before.

"That's what worries me."

The engines slowed.

Ahead, Fontaine's skyline emerged from the morning mist, elegant towers catching the first light of dawn.

Somewhere beyond those streets sat an office belonging to a researcher who had uncovered something worth disappearing for.

And if your instincts were right… they hadn't left willingly.

—

The researcher's office was exactly where the report said it would be.

Tucked away between two larger academic buildings in Fontaine's upper district, the modest stone structure looked almost forgotten. Its brass nameplate had long since lost its shine, and ivy had begun creeping around the windows despite someone's obvious attempts to trim it back.

You stopped at the front steps.

"No guards," you observed.

Wriothesley glanced toward the neighboring buildings.

"No official investigation."

You frowned.

"A missing government researcher disappears after filing a report about altered memories, and nobody's secured the scene?"

"Officially, they're still treating it as a standard missing persons case."

"...Right."

Neither of you sounded convinced.

The front door was locked.

You reached into your satchel, producing a small set of lock picks.

Wriothesley watched with mild interest.

"You carry those often?"

"I'm an investigator."

"I thought investigators preferred keys."

"We do."

The pick slid into place with practiced precision.

"When people give us keys."

A quiet click echoed through the hallway.

The lock gave way.

Wriothesley smiled faintly.

"I'll pretend I didn't see that."

"You absolutely did."

"Plausible deniability."

The office was silent...

Not abandoned.

Paused.

Dust hadn't settled heavily enough to suggest it had been empty for long, but nothing looked disturbed either. A coat still hung beside the entrance. An unfinished cup of tea rested on a side table, a thin ring staining the porcelain where it had long since gone cold.

It looked less like someone had left...

...and more like they had expected to return, only to be ripped away.

You moved carefully through the room.

Bookshelves lined nearly every wall, overflowing with journals on psychology, Irminsul theory, memory formation, and Fontaine's legal history.

One title caught your attention.

On False Recollections and Manufactured Testimony.

You slid it from the shelf.

A folded piece of paper slipped free.

You caught it before it hit the floor.

"What've you got?" Wriothesley asked.

You unfolded it.

It wasn't a letter.

It was a list.

Twenty-three names.

Some were crossed out.

Others were circled repeatedly.

Near the bottom—

Your own name.

Fresh ink.

Added recently.

You stared.

"...That's unsettling."

Wriothesley stepped beside you.

His expression hardened the moment he read it.

"They knew about you."

"Or expected to."

You folded the page and tucked it into your satchel.

"We'll come back to it."

The desk drew your attention next.

Unlike the rest of the office, it was immaculate.

Too immaculate.

No scattered papers.

No misplaced pens.

No loose notes.

Someone had cleaned it.

Deliberately.

You opened the top drawer.

Empty.

The second.

Stationery.

The third?

Locked.

You looked toward Wriothesley.

"Thoughts?"

He crouched beside the desk, running a hand beneath the wood.

"There."

Hidden beneath the lip of the drawer was a small release latch.

A soft click echoed.

The drawer slid open.

Inside lay a single leather-bound notebook.

Nothing else.

You exchanged a glance.

Whoever had emptied the office had missed one thing.

Carefully, you opened it.

The first half contained ordinary research notes.

Dates.

Interviews.

Observations.

Nothing unusual.

Then the handwriting changed.

The neat script became hurried.

Uneven.

Words crowded the margins.

*Entire pages* had been rewritten over themselves.

You skimmed the entries.

"Subject remembers conversations that never occurred."

"Witness insists yesterday happened twice."

"The records always appear afterward."

"I don't think they're predicting anything anymore."

The final pages were almost unreadable.

Sentences began halfway down the paper.

Paragraphs repeated themselves.

Some words had been scratched out so aggressively the ink had torn through the page.

One sentence, however, had been rewritten again and again until the paper nearly split.

someone is editing us.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched through the room.

Finally, Wriothesley closed the notebook.

"He wasn't paranoid."

You looked at him.

"You think he was right."

"I think..."

He hesitated.

"...he believed he was."

You understood the distinction.

Belief didn't make something true.

But it didn't make it false either.

You resumed searching.

Behind a bookshelf, you found a detailed map of Fontaine covered in colored pins and handwritten annotations.

Most marked locations of disappearances.

Several had dates.

Three were connected by red thread.

Each corresponded to a case file already in your possession.

At the center of the map, written in careful block letters, was a single address.

No explanation.

No notes.

Just an address.

You copied it into your notebook.

Wriothesley looked over your shoulder.

"I don't recognize it."

"Neither do I."

You glanced around the office one final time.

The room had given up nearly every secret it intended to.

The notebook.

The list.

The map.

The address.

It wasn't enough to explain what had happened to the researcher.

But it was enough to tell you where they had gone looking next.

You had a feeling you were about to follow the exact same trail.

—

The address led you farther away from the center of Fontaine.

Far enough that the streets became… unfamiliar.

Far enough that even the sound of the city seemed distant.

The building itself looked abandoned.

Not ruined.

Not destroyed.

Simply forgotten.

A small research facility hidden beneath layers of old stone and overgrown pathways.

Wriothesley examined the entrance.

"No official records."

You glanced at him.

"Well, of course," you say with a scoff.

"That's becoming another pattern."

You pushed open the door.

It opened too easily.

Neither of you commented on that.

Inside, the air felt different.

Not dangerous.

Just wrong.

The hallway lights flickered weakly overhead, illuminating empty rooms filled with old equipment. Papers covered the floors, some yellowed with age, others appearing much newer.

The strangest part wasn't the mess.

It was the organization.

Everything had a place.

Everything had been labeled.

Every room had a purpose.

Like whoever worked here expected to return.

You moved deeper into the facility.

A faded sign hung above one doorway.

MEMORY OBSERVATION

You stopped.

Wriothesley noticed.

"Keep going."

You looked at him.

"You already knew something like this existed."

His expression didn't change.

"I suspected."

"That is a very convenient word."

"It usually is."

You hated that he was right.

Inside the room were rows of files.

Not the records.

Not official court documents.

Research notes.

The names were unfamiliar at first.

Then you saw one you recognized.

A previous investigator.

Your hands went still.

You pulled the file free.

The contents were brief.

Observations.

Behavioral notes.

References to "repeated exposure."

References to "memory instability."

And one final statement:

Subject began recognizing previous outcomes.

You slowly closed the folder.

"Wriothesley."

"I know."

A strange feeling settled over you.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Recognition.

—

The deeper you searched, the stranger the evidence became.

There were photographs.

Hundreds of them.

Most appeared ordinary.

Research rooms.

People working.

Experiments you couldn't fully understand.

But then you noticed the pattern.

The same people appeared repeatedly.

Not older.

Not younger.

The same.

Different photographs.

Different dates.

Different circumstances.

Different endings.

You placed one photograph beside another.

Same researcher.

Same room.

Different expression.

In one, they looked exhausted.

In another, terrified.

In the final one—

They were looking directly at the camera.

As if they knew someone would find it.

A note was written on the back.

If you are reading this, the cycle has progressed further than expected.

You turned the photograph over.

A cold sensation ran through you. You're hit by a wave of intense nausea and cold chills, placing your fist onto your lips as you breathe out harshly.

"Wriothesley."

He took the picture.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then:

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

The words were quiet.

You looked at him.

"What wasn't?"

He didn't answer.

Which was an answer.

You continued searching.

A locked cabinet at the back of the room contained the strangest discovery yet.

Not files.

Not research.

A list.

A numbered list.

Each entry contained a name.

A date.

And a status.

You recognized the first thirty-two.

The previous investigators.

All marked:

COMPLETED.

At the bottom:

33.

Your name.

The status field was blank.

—

You stopped breathing.

Not because you were afraid.

Because for one moment, everything made sense.

The records weren't searching for you.

They weren't warning you.

They were waiting.

Incredibly patiently.

Wriothesley stepped closer.

"Don't touch it."

You looked at him.

"Why?"

His gaze stayed fixed on the page.

"Because every previous investigator who found something like this disappeared shortly after."

You swallowed.

"Then why are we still here?"

Neither of you had an answer.

The lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

The entire building went silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

The kind of silence where even your own breathing sounded unfamiliar.

Then—

A voice echoed from the hallway.

Your voice.

"Wriothesley."

Every instinct screamed at you to move.

But you froze.

Because Wriothesley was standing right beside you.

And he hadn't spoken.

The hallway light flickered again.

The sound repeated.

Closer.

"Wriothesley."

This time, the voice sounded almost confused.

Almost like someone trying to remember a name.

The door behind you slowly opened.

The hallway was empty.

But on the floor outside sat a folder.

Fresh.

Clean.

Waiting.

You didn't want to touch it.

You already knew what it was.

Still—

You picked it up.

Inside was a single page.

No case number.

No date.

No signatures.

Only one sentence:

You always find this place.

The room seemed to shift.

Not physically.

Something worse.

Much worse.

Like reality itself had noticed you were paying attention.

You want to reach for your weapon, but you didn't bring it with you, assuming there wouldn't be any prominent threats. It's too late now.

Wriothesley reached for the folder.

The moment his fingers touched the page—

The ink changed.

A new line appeared.

This time, you brought him.

For the first time since you met him,

Wriothesley looked afraid.

And somewhere deep inside the abandoned facility—

Something moved.

—

Neither of you spoke until you were outside.

The archive—or whatever it had truly been—stood behind you, silent and ordinary.

Almost convincing.

Almost.

You looked back once.

The building remained unchanged.

No flickering lights.

No impossible doors.

No signs that anything unusual had happened.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because you knew better now.

You knew impossible things didn't always look impossible.

Wriothesley walked beside you in silence.

For once, he wasn't making a comment.

Wasn't offering a dry remark.

Wasn't pretending the situation was easier to handle than it was.

You noticed.

"You're quiet."

"So are you."

"I'm usually quiet when I'm thinking."

"So am I."

You glanced at him.

"That's annoying."

A smirk appeared.

"You're only noticing now?"

You almost laughed.

Almost.

The feeling disappeared when you remembered the notebook.

The files.

The list.

The name.

Your name.

You stopped walking.

"Wriothesley."

He stopped too.

"What?"

You hesitated.

There were a hundred questions.

Maybe more.

But one kept returning.

"The previous investigators."

His expression shifted.

"What about them?"

"Did any of them get this far?"

The silence answered before he did.

"No."

The word was quiet.

Final.

You looked down.

Every investigator before you had followed the same trail.

Found the same clues.

Asked the same questions.

And disappeared.

Except—

You looked back toward the archive.

Something had changed.

You knew it.

The records had changed.

The cycle had shifted.

Maybe only slightly.

Maybe not enough.

But enough.

"Why didn't they?"

Wriothesley studied you carefully.

"I don't know."

You frowned.

"That's the first time you've said that."

"Because it's the truth."

The honesty caught you off guard.

You had spent days assuming Wriothesley knew everything.

That he was always five steps ahead.

But maybe he wasn't.

Maybe he was just someone who had been trying to understand something impossible for three years.

Just like you.

You continued walking.

After a moment, he spoke again.

"There is something I didn't tell you."

You looked over.

Naturally.

"Of course there is."

He ignored the comment.

"Every previous investigator reached a point where they realized the records were connected to them."

You listened.

"After that, the files stopped appearing."

Your eyebrows drew together.

"Stopped?"

He nodded.

"The pattern ended."

You felt your stomach tighten.

"And then?"

A pause.

"They disappeared."

The words settled heavily.

You looked ahead.

"So the moment they got too close..."

"They became part of the pattern."

You hated how much sense that made.

For years, the investigators weren't failing.

They were reaching the end of the trail.

And something was stopping them.

A cold breeze moved through the street.

You pulled your coat tighter.

"Then why are the records still appearing for me?"

Wriothesley didn't answer.

Not immediately.

"Because you're not at the end."

You stared at him.

"What?"

He looked toward the city ahead.

"The previous investigators were trying to solve the records... you aren't."

You frowned.

"What's the difference?"

His eyes met yours.

"You're investigating what created them."

The answer settled between you.

And for the first time, you understood.

The records had always been the wrong question.

Everyone before you had asked "what are they?"

But maybe the better question was "who made them?"

The transport back to Meropide waited nearby.

Neither of you spoke during the ride.

There was too much to think about.

Too many possibilities.

Too many impossible truths.

But when you returned to Wriothesley's office, something was waiting on his desk:

A new folder.

Neither of you had brought it.

Neither of you had seen anyone deliver it.

Slowly, Wriothesley approached.

You watched as he examined the cover.

No seal.

No markings.

Only one thing written across the front.

CASE FILE: 33

Your chest tightened as he opened it.

Inside was a single page.

Not a prediction.

Not a crime report...

A message.

Two sentences.

You are getting closer. Stop before you remember why.

For several moments, neither of you moved.

Then Wriothesley quietly closed the folder.

His expression had gone completely serious.

Because there was one thing you both understood.

The records had never been afraid of being discovered.

They had been waiting for you to try.

The journey back to the surface began before sunrise.

Meropide was quieter in the early hours.

The constant hum of machinery still echoed through the fortress walls, but the corridors were nearly empty. A few workers moved between shifts, guards exchanged brief greetings, and somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal marked the start of another day beneath the sea.

You adjusted the satchel hanging from your shoulder.

It felt heavier than yesterday.

Not because of the papers.

Because of what they meant.

Wriothesley emerged from his office carrying his coat, already dressed for travel.

"You packed?"

You gave him a flat look.

"I'm carrying the investigation in a shoulder bag."

"...I'll take that as a yes."

Without another word, the two of you made your way toward the docks.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

Not exactly.

It simply reflected the weight of everything you'd learned over the past twenty-four hours.

Thirty-two investigators.

Thirty-two disappearances.

Thirty-two versions of you.

You still weren't sure which revelation bothered you the most.

The transport vessel waited where it always did, rocking gently against the dock. The operator offered Wriothesley a respectful nod before casting a curious glance in your direction.

Apparently, word traveled quickly beneath the sea.

You boarded first, choosing a seat near one of the windows.

The engines rumbled to life.

Slowly, the Fortress of Meropide began to disappear behind layers of steel, glass, and dark water.

Neither of you spoke until the prison had become little more than a silhouette in the distance.

Then Wriothesley broke the silence.

"I've been thinking about the researcher."

You looked up from your notebook.

"The missing one?"

He nodded.

"The report doesn't make sense."

You raised an eyebrow.

"That's becoming a recurring problem," you crooned, lifting your hand to your temple.

"The disappearance isn't what bothers me."

"No?"

"It's the timing."

You frowned.

"The report says they vanished three nights ago."

"Right."

"And?"

"They submitted their findings only a few hours beforehand."

You flipped open the copied report you'd borrowed from his office.

He was right.

The researcher had delivered a formal report warning about altered memories and repeated timelines... then disappeared before anyone could question them.

It was almost as though they had known they were running out of time.

"They expected something," you murmured.

"Or someone."

The thought lingered between you.

You tapped your pencil against the page.

"If they knew they were in danger..."

"They would've hidden something."

You finished the sentence for him.

"Exactly."

You looked back down at the report.

There were no personal belongings listed among the recovered evidence.

No journals.

No research notes.

No correspondence.

Nothing that explained months—possibly years—of work.

Just the warning.

Too clean.

*Far* too clean.

"You think someone cleared the office."

"I think someone wanted us to believe there was nothing worth finding."

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

"So we're breaking into a missing person's office."

"We're investigators."

"That's not a denial."

"It wasn't meant to be."

You laughed.

It surprised both of you.

The sound was brief, disappearing almost as quickly as it arrived, but for a fleeting moment the crushing weight of the investigation lifted.

Wriothesley glanced toward you.

"Feeling better?"

"No."

"Honest answer."

"I'm simply becoming desensitized."

"I'm not sure that's healthier."

"It probably isn't."

The conversation faded again.

Outside, sunlight filtered through the water as the vessel steadily climbed toward the surface. Shafts of pale blue drifted across the cabin, illuminating the scattered reports between you.

Your eyes landed once more on the final page.

DO NOT TRUST THE RECORDS.

The sentence *still* made your stomach tighten.

You'd spent months treating the records as evidence.

Studying them.

Organizing them.

Building investigations around them.

You'd never stopped to consider the possibility that they wanted you to do exactly that.

A cold realization settled over you.

"If the records are leading us..."

Wriothesley looked over.

"...then every clue we've followed might've been chosen for us."

He didn't answer immediately.

When he finally did, his voice was quieter than before.

"That's what worries me."

The engines slowed.

Ahead, Fontaine's skyline emerged from the morning mist, elegant towers catching the first light of dawn.

Somewhere beyond those streets sat an office belonging to a researcher who had uncovered something worth disappearing for.

And if your instincts were right… they hadn't left willingly.

—

The researcher's office was exactly where the report said it would be.

Tucked away between two larger academic buildings in Fontaine's upper district, the modest stone structure looked almost forgotten. Its brass nameplate had long since lost its shine, and ivy had begun creeping around the windows despite someone's obvious attempts to trim it back.

You stopped at the front steps.

"No guards," you observed.

Wriothesley glanced toward the neighboring buildings.

"No official investigation."

You frowned.

"A missing government researcher disappears after filing a report about altered memories, and nobody's secured the scene?"

"Officially, they're still treating it as a standard missing persons case."

"...Right."

Neither of you sounded convinced.

The front door was locked.

You reached into your satchel, producing a small set of lock picks.

Wriothesley watched with mild interest.

"You carry those often?"

"I'm an investigator."

"I thought investigators preferred keys."

"We do."

The pick slid into place with practiced precision.

"When people give us keys."

A quiet click echoed through the hallway.

The lock gave way.

Wriothesley smiled faintly.

"I'll pretend I didn't see that."

"You absolutely did."

"Plausible deniability."

The office was silent.

Not abandoned.

Paused.

Dust hadn't settled heavily enough to suggest it had been empty for long, but nothing looked disturbed either. A coat still hung beside the entrance. An unfinished cup of tea rested on a side table, a thin ring staining the porcelain where it had long since gone cold.

It looked less like someone had left...

...and more like they had expected to return, only to be ripped away.

You moved carefully through the room.

Bookshelves lined nearly every wall, overflowing with journals on psychology, Irminsul theory, memory formation, and Fontaine's legal history.

One title caught your attention.

On False Recollections and Manufactured Testimony.

You slid it from the shelf.

A folded piece of paper slipped free.

You caught it before it hit the floor.

"What've you got?" Wriothesley asked.

You unfolded it.

It wasn't a letter.

It was a list.

Twenty-three names.

Some were crossed out.

Others were circled repeatedly.

Near the bottom—

Your own name.

Fresh ink.

Added recently.

You stared.

"...That's unsettling."

Wriothesley stepped beside you.

His expression hardened the moment he read it.

"They knew about you."

"Or expected to."

You folded the page and tucked it into your satchel.

"We'll come back to it."

The desk drew your attention next.

Unlike the rest of the office, it was immaculate.

Too immaculate.

No scattered papers.

No misplaced pens.

No loose notes.

Someone had cleaned it.

Deliberately.

You opened the top drawer.

Empty.

The second.

Stationery.

The third?

Locked.

You looked toward Wriothesley.

"Thoughts?"

He crouched beside the desk, running a hand beneath the wood.

"There."

Hidden beneath the lip of the drawer was a small release latch.

A soft click echoed.

The drawer slid open.

Inside lay a single leather-bound notebook.

Nothing else.

You exchanged a glance.

Whoever had emptied the office had missed one thing.

Carefully, you opened it.

The first half contained ordinary research notes.

Dates.

Interviews.

Observations.

Nothing unusual.

Then the handwriting changed.

The neat script became hurried.

Uneven.

Words crowded the margins.

Entire pages had been rewritten over themselves.

You skimmed the entries.

"Subject remembers conversations that never occurred."

"Witness insists yesterday happened twice."

"The records always appear afterward."

"I don't think they're predicting anything anymore."

The final pages were almost unreadable.

Sentences began halfway down the paper.

Paragraphs repeated themselves.

Some words had been scratched out so aggressively the ink had torn through the page.

One sentence, however, had been rewritten again and again until the paper nearly split.

someone is editing us.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched through the room.

Finally, Wriothesley closed the notebook.

"He wasn't paranoid."

You looked at him.

"You think he was right."

"I think..."

He hesitated.

"...he believed he was."

You understood the distinction.

Belief didn't make something true.

But it didn't make it false either.

You resumed searching.

Behind a bookshelf, you found a detailed map of Fontaine covered in colored pins and handwritten annotations.

Most marked locations of disappearances.

Several had dates.

Three were connected by red thread.

Each corresponded to a case file already in your possession.

At the center of the map, written in careful block letters, was a single address.

No explanation.

No notes.

Just an address.

You copied it into your notebook.

Wriothesley looked over your shoulder.

"I don't recognize it."

"Neither do I."

You glanced around the office one final time.

The room had given up nearly every secret it intended to.

The notebook.

The list.

The map.

The address.

It wasn't enough to explain what had happened to the researcher.

But it was enough to tell you where they had gone looking next.

You had a feeling you were about to follow the exact same trail.

—

The address led you to a building that shouldn't have existed.

Not because it was hidden.

Because every record you checked claimed it had been demolished years ago.

Yet there it stood.

An old Fontaine archive tucked between newer buildings, its stone walls weathered but intact. The windows were dark. The sign above the entrance had faded almost completely.

Only one word remained readable.

ARCHIVES.

You looked at Wriothesley.

"Well, that wasn't on any map."

"No."

"How convenient."

"You're starting to sound like me."

You frowned.

"I don't think that's a compliment."

"It wasn't meant to be."

The door was unlocked.

That bothered you more than a locked one would have.

Inside, the building was silent.

Not abandoned.

Just waiting.

Shelves stretched endlessly through the rooms, filled with old documents, books, and forgotten case files. A thin layer of dust covered most surfaces, but a path had been cleared through the center.

Someone had been here.

Recently.

You stepped forward.

The temperature dropped slightly.

Not enough to be alarming.

Enough to notice.

Wriothesley glanced around.

"Careful."

You looked at him.

"You're telling me to be careful?"

"Yes."

"That is genuinely concerning."

A small smile appeared.

"Good."

You rolled your eyes and continued searching.

The first thing you found was a filing system.

Old.

Extremely old.

The labels weren't organized by crime.

They were organized by names.

You ran your finger along the spines.

Most were unfamiliar.

Until—

You stopped.

A folder with your name.

You pulled it free.

The date on the cover made your stomach twist.

Three hundred years ago.

You opened it.

Inside were pages of observations.

Not about crimes.

About behavior.

Your behavior.

"Subject demonstrates increased awareness of repeated events."

"Subject begins questioning inconsistencies earlier than previous cycles."

"Memory retention appears stronger this iteration."

You closed the folder.

Slowly.

"Wriothesley."

"I know."

"Why does this place have a file on me?"

He didn't answer.

Because neither of you had one.

—

The deeper you searched, the more strange the archive became.

Some files were normal.

Others weren't.

A report would begin as expected.

A missing person.

An investigation.

A conclusion.

Then halfway through—

The handwriting changed.

The names changed.

The entire outcome changed.

You compared two documents side by side.

Same case.

Same people.

Different ending.

You frowned.

"These aren't mistakes."

"No."

"They're different versions."

Wriothesley nodded.

Exactly what you had feared.

The archive wasn't storing errors.

It was storing possibilities.

You found another journal near the back of a shelf.

Unlike the others, it wasn't dated.

The first page contained a single sentence.

If you're reading this, you already know something is wrong.

You turned the page.

The handwriting was different from the researcher's.

Older.

"The records are not creating the cycles."

"They are documenting them."

"Something exists outside them."

Your hand tightened around the paper.

Outside them.

That was new.

You continued reading.

"Every investigator eventually asks the same question."

"Why me?"

You froze.

Because you had asked that exact question.

The page continued.

"The answer is not because you were chosen."

"It is because you noticed."

The archive suddenly felt much quieter.

—

The first sign was the clock.

You noticed because investigators notice everything. That's your job.

The second hand moved.

Forward.

Then backward.

Then forward again.

You stared.

"Wriothesley."

He followed your gaze.

The clock stopped.

A few seconds passed.

Then it continued normally.

Neither of you spoke.

Because neither of you wanted to acknowledge what happened.

You returned to the files.

Except the file you had just placed on the desk was gone.

You looked around.

It wasn't misplaced.

It wasn't hidden.

It simply wasn't there.

"Wriothesley."

"I saw."

A moment later—

The same file appeared.

Exactly where it had been.

Except the cover was different.

The name had changed.

Not yours.

Someone else's.

A previous investigator.

You opened it.

The contents were identical.

Except the final page.

Instead of:

Investigator disappeared.

It said:

Investigator continued.

Your breath caught.

"That's different."

Wriothesley looked over.

For the first time, he looked uncertain.

"Yes."

"That means..."

"I know."

A silence settled.

Because the conclusion was impossible.

But it was there.

The cycle could change.

The pattern wasn't fixed.

You weren't guaranteed to disappear.

The thought should have been comforting.

Instead, it made everything worse.

Because if the outcome could change—

Something was allowing it to.

The lights flickered.

The archive shelves shifted.

Only slightly.

Enough to make you question if it happened at all.

Then a book fell from a shelf.

You picked it up.

The title was blank.

The first page was empty.

Except for one sentence.

Written in fresh ink.

You are looking in the right place.

You stared.

Slowly, another sentence appeared.

But not far enough.

The ink faded.

The page returned to normal.

Wriothesley looked at you.

Neither of you needed to say it.

The records weren't just recording events.

They were responding.

And somewhere beyond what you could see—

Something was watching.

—

Neither of you spoke until you were outside.

The archive—or whatever it had truly been—stood behind you, silent and ordinary.

Almost convincing.

Almost.

You looked back once.

The building remained unchanged.

No flickering lights.

No impossible doors.

No signs that anything unusual had happened.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because you knew better now.

You knew impossible things didn't always look impossible.

Wriothesley walked beside you in silence.

For once, he wasn't making a comment.

Wasn't offering a dry remark.

Wasn't pretending the situation was easier to handle than it was.

You noticed.

"You're quiet."

"So are you."

"I'm usually quiet when I'm thinking."

"So am I."

You glanced at him.

"That's annoying."

A smirk appeared.

"You're only noticing now?"

You almost laughed.

Almost.

The feeling disappeared when you remembered the notebook.

The files.

The list.

The name.

*Your* name.

You stopped walking.

"Wriothesley."

He stopped too.

"What?"

You hesitated.

There were a hundred questions.

Maybe more.

But one kept returning.

"The previous investigators."

His expression shifted.

"What about them?"

"Did any of them get this far?"

The silence answered before he did.

"No."

The word was quiet.

Final.

You looked down.

Every investigator before you had followed the same trail.

Found the same clues.

Asked the same questions.

And disappeared.

Except—

You looked back toward the archive.

Something had changed.

You knew it.

The records had changed.

The cycle had shifted.

Maybe only slightly.

Maybe not enough.

But enough.

"Why didn't they?"

Wriothesley studied you carefully.

"I don't know."

You frowned.

"That's the first time you've said that."

"Because it's the truth."

The honesty caught you off guard.

You had spent days assuming Wriothesley knew everything.

That he was always five steps ahead.

But maybe he wasn't.

Maybe he was just someone who had been trying to understand something impossible for three years.

Just like you.

You continued walking.

After a moment, he spoke again.

"There is something I didn't tell you."

You looked over.

Naturally.

"Of course there is."

He ignored the comment.

"Every previous investigator reached a point where they realized the records were connected to them."

You listened.

"After that, the files stopped appearing."

Your eyebrows drew together.

"Stopped?"

He nodded.

"The pattern ended."

You felt your stomach tighten.

"And then?"

A pause.

"They disappeared."

The words settled heavily.

You looked ahead.

"So the moment they got too close..."

"They became part of the pattern."

You hated how much sense that made.

For years, the investigators weren't failing.

They were reaching the end of the trail.

And something was stopping them.

A cold breeze moved through the street.

You pulled your coat tighter.

"Then why are the records still appearing for me?"

Wriothesley didn't answer.

Not immediately.

"Because you're not at the end."

You stared at him.

"What?"

He looked toward the city ahead.

"The previous investigators were trying to solve the records… you aren't."

You frowned.

"What's the difference?"

His eyes met yours.

"You're investigating what created them."

The answer settled between you.

And for the first time, you understood.

The records had always been the wrong question.

Everyone before you had asked "what are they?"

But maybe the better question was "who made them?"

The transport back to Meropide waited nearby.

Neither of you spoke during the ride.

There was too much to think about.

Too many possibilities.

Too many impossible truths.

But when you returned to Wriothesley's office, something was waiting on his desk:

A new folder.

Neither of you had brought it.

Neither of you had seen anyone deliver it.

Slowly, Wriothesley approached.

You watched as he examined the cover.

No seal.

No markings.

Only one thing written across the front.

CASE FILE: 33

Your chest tightened as he opened it.

Inside was a single page.

Not a prediction.

Not a crime report.

A message.

Two sentences.

You are getting closer. Stop before you remember why.

For several moments, neither of you moved.

Then Wriothesley quietly closed the folder.

His expression had gone completely serious.

Because there was one thing you both understood.

The records had never been afraid of being discovered.

They had been waiting for you to try.

♥︎ i am a firm believer that illuga falls in love gradually. he's the type who becomes your friend first and realizes like. months later that he's been looking for you in every room.

♥︎ he remembers tiny details about you without trying. your favorite tea, what snacks you buy after missions, the stories you've already told him three times, basically anything :)

♥︎ whenever you're cold, his coat somehow ends up around your shoulders before you've even asked. he is a big fan of sharing clothes! loves seeing you in his clothes and loves to wear yours (if you let him)!

♥︎ he worries about you constantly but tries (poorly) not to show it. if you get injured (very rare, especially on his watch), he'll spend the next week checking on you every few hours.

♥︎ he has a habit of standing slightly in front of you in crowded places, almost unconsciously shielding you. so kindness and for what sir…

♥︎ he loves quiet evenings more than grand dates. he really would probably rather sit inside than go out. he's a real one for that actually #same

♥︎ he enjoys sitting together while doing separate activities. reading reports, repairing equipment, or simply relaxing in comfortable silence. his love language might as well just be quality time but we'll actually get into that in a bit

♥︎ if you fall asleep on his shoulder, he absolutely refuses to move. he would never dare wake you up, how scandalous!

♥︎ he "secretly" enjoys cooking simple meals for people he cares about, even if he isn't particularly skilled at it.

♥︎ he likes to check that you made it home safely. ie modern au he will ALWAYS text you. reg au he will walk you home no questions asked okay? okay.

♥︎ if you're having a bad day, he'll drop whatever he's doing to sit with you. whether or not you want to talk about it is up to you. he does it not necessarily to solve the problem, sometimes he'll just listen. he's a great listener, id like to think

♥︎ he gets especially soft when you're exhausted. you should expect blankets, warm drinks, and gentle reminders to rest.

♥︎ i think that he struggles to ask for help himself, so he appreciates partners who remind him that he doesn't have to carry everything alone.

♥︎ remember how i mentioned talking about his love language? here it is! his love language is acts of service.

♥︎ firm believer that he shows affection through actions rather than dramatic confessions.

♥︎ i.e. random flowers he noticed you liked. fixing something that broke before you even realized it. walking you home despite it being out of his way.

♥︎ physical affection starts shy but becomes very natural over time. hand-holding becomes his favorite thing. EVER. and hugs. he loves a good hug

♥︎ back to acts of service i do think he really loves bathing with his beloved. which i know sounds sexual to a lot of people but it isn't!!! omg!!! he loves helping you wash your hair or your back after a long day. and that's so cutes to me okay i think that's adorable

♥︎ he's also a big fan of skin to skin contact, will take off his shirt and encourage you to do the same (if you're comfortable) to cuddle with him for warmth. i feel like i sound insane saying this but it makes sense to me okay? okay. actually idk if encourage is the right word there

gosh i love illuga i think he's such a genuine lover. so sweetness so cutes

however, the truth always finds a way out, one way or another. and of course it's the day you're struggling.

it's hot out, one of those days that rival someone’s first time being in the desert. and your tape is being particularly stressful. your boyfriend is out early today with nahida, having left you to wake up with a simple, "I won't be long."

you don't mind if he goes out, especially if it's per the dendro archon’s request. but as your sweaty hands peel the tape and it crumples yet again, you could admit, help would've been nice. not that he knows you do this though — he doesn't.

at least to your knowledge.

you don't try flatten your chest every day. sometimes, being a woman doesn't bother you at all. in fact, you smile when you accomplish something a "woman can't do." still, the fact it's said to you at all gets.. tiring.

so every now and then, like a magician would from a stage, you wish they'd simply.. disappear! and tape is the quickest and easiest option you have.

the sun burns throughout the room, and the tape just.. isn't sticking well. it's frustrating, but better than feeling dysphoric all day. "come on, come on.." you plead to no one in particular, finally managing to place the first pieces.

"would you like some help?"

you practically jump, closing your eyes. if it was any other voice, you would've probably thrown the tape, but you could recognize his quicker than you could your own name.

gripping the tape, you hide it behind your back as you turn to him. "you're home early.."

"it can't be ‘early’ if i never gave you the time I'd come home, it was just.. earlier than you seemed to expect," wanderer remarks coyly, crossing his arms up and down. it's not that he's judging, moreso.. analyzing. his eyes drift to the sides of your chest, then your hands, then the sweat covered tape.

he sighs, especially as you avert your eyes. but before he can speak— "are you mad at me?"

that almost makes him scoff, but instead he simply walks up to you. "why would i be?" he asks simply. that makes you pause. he waits.

"i hid it from you," you land on. that's true, you did hide it. that's a reason to be mad, right? of course. you didn't want to, it's just.. not an easy subject to bring up. 'oh hey yeah i actually sometimes wear tape to push these lumps on my chest away because it annoys me enough to not feel comfortable but not all the time and—' ..yeah. as you brace yourself, he suddenly grabs the tape.

"i hid my past from you for years, your point?" at your blank expression, he rolls his eyes. "look. does this make you happy?" that's what he's asking..?

you nod. and so then he begins rolling it out and retrieves sharper scissors. "good. that's what i care about. i want you to be happy." he looks away as you smile, your heart beating quicker. "or something i guess.." he mutters.

"you’re really not—?" "i’ll love you no matter what, you're mine. so shut up and come get me whenever you do this again, we've got places to be," he interrupts, all without meeting your gaze as he begins to wrap your chest, his hands not sweaty which makes it a lot easier. his hands move with both skill and grace you can't help but envy at times.

relief comes at his words. and so as you lift your arms, you can't help but feel more at ease. wanderer always feels like rain carried by a breeze, both steadying and soothing. you're sure he doesn't even realize just how much comfort he brings you, but you always do your best to show it. and he loves you for that.

"are you.. flustered, wanderer?"

you've always been so, so stubborn. and yet that's something he can't help but love you for. you anchor him when he feels like he's drifting, and so he promises to do the same. even if it's with the little things, like helping you feel more comfortable by fixing tape.

"..whatever."

he handles you with care, until it's tight and comfortable, his touch featherlight over your skin when he isn't sticking the tape. after a few minutes he looks at you, tilting his head like a curious cat, which makes you smile and nod. "you’re good at this.."

"obviously, it isn't that hard to grasp," he replies flatly, finishing up, though his eyes do look away for a moment.

once he's done, you take in a deep breath. it's exactly how you like it, out of the way. it's done perfectly, with such obvious thoughtfulness. and after you dress, he extends a hand. "tell me these things, yeah? it's inconvenient for you to be using the tape with your mortal ability to sweat when i can do it."

you take his hand with practiced ease, understanding the meaning behind the words, let me help you. he's adorable, truly.

he pauses at the way you're looking at him, then scoffs. "stop staring," he says, though it sounds more like a plea rather than demand.

he shakes his head, and then places his hat on your head before pushing the front down to cover your eyes. and then softly smiles at your chuckle. "come on, we have more things to do today," he says, taking your hand as you push the hat up and follow.

"thank you, wanderer."

"anytime."

and if the next morning there's rounded tape and different binders on your beside table as wanderer sleeps beside you? don't ask him.. must've been the wind.