CI
Agent Cole's voice hits you like a bucket of cold water as he rings the doorbell — too normal, too human, too government for the world you've been living in. He half yells across the thick oak door as he knocks in staccato, a new woman at his side. I look through the peep hole and let them in.
The doorbell still echoes in my bones as he steps into the hallway, boots leaving faint prints on the old hardwood. He looks different: cleaner haircut, new jacket, posture straighter. And behind him stands a woman with sharp eyes and a calm, assessing presence.
"This is Irene, my partner" he says. "We've got a new case for you."
I'm still half‑stunned, half‑annoyed, half‑terrified that the hat-man might be listening through the mirror upstairs.
"How did you know I was back," I ask, voice tight.
Cole gives me that maddening half‑smile — the one that says he knows more than he's allowed to say.
"Lady, we're the government," he says. "We know everything. You might not see us, but we're always there."
For a heartbeat, paranoia spikes — sharp, electric, crawling up the spine.
But I let it go. Paranoia won't help.
Cole adds, "We figured you'd want to know before things escalate that your government needs your help. We had some readings, your demon is back, isn't he."
I swallow. Because of course they know. Of course they could detect it. Of course they came.
The hat-man's return wasn't subtle. It wasn't quiet. It wasn't ignorable.
And now the government is standing in the hallway, asking me to help with a new case — while a mirror‑king slips through your house like a shadow wearing borrowed flesh.
The tuxedo cat peeks around the corner, eyes wide, tail puffed.
Cole notices and smirks. "Good to see the little guy again."
Irene doesn't smile. She studies the windows, then the house, then the air itself.
"We need your help," she says. "And we need it now."
The mirror upstairs hums faintly.
Irene steps forward, her voice crisp and professional.
"There's a case we need you to look into."
Cole nods, folding his arms.
"There's a cruise line in the Pacific that's been coming back with dead or missing passengers."
"The government has been disguising the deaths as Norovirus," Irene continues, "but we need this solved. ASAP."
Cole adds, "We're talking a dozen incidents. All quiet. All pointing to something… not normal. The government covered it up to prevent panic, but it needs to be looked into."
I glance toward the nearest mirror.
Irene steps closer, lowering her voice.
"We don't think it's the hat‑man. But whatever it is… it's big. And it's killing people."
The cat walks around the corner, eyes wide, tail twitching, inspecting the visitors with cat-like vigilance of his territory.
He arrives like a problem you didn't order — barefoot, bright‑eyed, and absolutely delighted to see strangers in your foyer.
The hat‑man's new human body moves with that dancer's grace he stole from the theatre boy he once was. Pale feet whisper over the carpet. No creak of the stairs. No warning. Just sudden presence.
Irene jumps back, hand twitching toward her holster.
She hadn't heard a single step.
"Oh look who's here," he says, grinning like a cat who found a new toy. "Visitors."
He pads down the last few steps and slides right to your side, slipping into your space like he's lived there for years.
"Who're you," Irene demands, voice sharp.
He beams as she questions. "Boyfriend?"
The word detonates in the hallway.
His eyes light up — bright blue, sparkling, thrilled. He looks like he's been waiting his entire existence to say it.
"Oh yes," he says, wrapping his arms around your waist with theatrical flourish. "Boyfriend."
He squeezes me, and I wriggle like someone caught in a net.
"Hello… girlfriend."
Cole's eyebrows shoot up. Irene's mouth falls open.
"I'm sorry," he says, patting your shoulder like you're a shy pet. "She gets easily embarrassed."
I elbow him in the ribs. He doesn't budge.
"We were just going to go on a date when you arrived," he continues, turning to the agents with a bright, innocent smile. "Please kindly scram as soon as your business is done. You're interrupting snuggle time."
Irene blushes so hard it climbs from her neck to her ears. She tries not to stare, but her eyes betray her — flicking over his lithe dancer's frame, the soft sweater hugging his shoulders, the golden curls brushing his collarbone. When he stretches an arm around you, a sliver of toned abdomen flashes, and Irene's brain visibly short‑circuits.
Cole mutters, "Jesus Christ."
I mumble into his shoulder, "You're being an ass."
He leans down, curls brushing my cheek, whispering just loud enough for me to hear:
"I know."
Then he kisses the top of my head like he's claiming territory.
Cole clears his throat loudly. "We… need to talk about the cruise deaths."
Irene nods, still pink. "Yes. Please. Before your… boyfriend… decides to carry you off somewhere."
The hat‑man smirks, eyes glinting with mischief.
He's enjoying every second of this.
And he's not planning to leave your side anytime soon.
The hat‑man just glows with delight.
He steps closer, barefoot, graceful, predatory in the most casual way possible.
"Her business is my business," he declares, voice smooth as silk.
Cole stiffens.
The hat‑man tilts his head, curls bouncing, eyes narrowing with playful menace.
"Do I seem familiar to you, agent?"
For a heartbeat, he lets the glamour slip.
His eyes flash waxy yellow — bright, unnatural, burning like candles behind glass.
His teeth sharpen, just enough to show the truth beneath the human mask.
Cole swears loudly, stumbling back.
"Good lord! The damn demon's back. I thought he was human."
Cole's reaction is instant — pure fight‑or‑flight and mostly fight. He stumbles back, hand flying to his sidearm, eyes wide like he's seeing a ghost he hoped never to meet again.
The hat‑man bursts into laughter — real, unrestrained, shoulders shaking, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.
"Hilarious," he wheezes. "Absolutely priceless."
Irene reacts faster than Cole. She draws her weapon, stance perfect, eyes locked on him.
"Is he safe?" she demands.
You don't hesitate.
"No. Never safe."
The hat‑man beams at your honesty.
"But he won't eat you."
Irene's eyes flick between you and him, trying to reconcile the barefoot golden boy with the flash of monster she just saw. Her knuckles whiten around her gun.
Cole mutters, "This is above my pay grade."
The hat‑man leans casually against the wall, crossing his arms, curls falling into his eyes, looking for all the world like a smug theatre kid who wandered into a government briefing.
"Relax," he says, waving a hand. "I'm domesticated now."
I elbow him. He grins wider.
Cole looks like he's about to pass out. Irene looks like she's trying to decide whether to shoot him, arrest him, or ask for his number.
The house feels suddenly too small — government agents in the foyer, a mirror‑king in human flesh at my side, and a sigil humming under my ribs like a second heartbeat.
Cole spreads the folder across your coffee table, pages fanning out like a grim little deck of cards. Irene stays tense, but her eyes keep flicking toward the hat‑man, who has now draped himself over the back of the couch like a lounging cat, watching the agents with bright curiosity.
The tuxedo cat hops into the sun patch, curls into a perfect loaf, and immediately begins purring as you stroke his back. The normalcy of it is almost surreal against the backdrop of government agents and a barefoot mirror‑king.
Cole clears his throat and begins.
"A dozen people have either died or disappeared on the Angel Wings wedding cruise line."
He taps the first page — a photo of a massive white ship, all glass balconies and gold trim.
"They were all couples. Six men, six women."
Irene adds, "Four listed as disappeared. Supposedly fell off the boat. No witnesses. No camera footage. No splash detected."
Cole flips to the next page.
"The others were found on the ship. Cold."
You look up. "Cold?"
"Cold," he repeats. "Not hypothermic. Not drowned. Just… cold. Like the heat was sucked out of them."
The hat‑man perks up at that, head tilting like a curious animal.
Cole continues, "We covered those up as food poisoning or norovirus. But there's no viral cause. No bacterial cause. No toxins. No physical trauma. Nothing."
Irene leans forward, voice low.
"We haven't found anything on the mundane side. So, all we have left is the supernatural."
Cole flips through the folder, pages rustling.
"Patterns match nothing we've seen before. No known entities. No dimensional signatures. No alien interference. No mirror‑realm bleed."
He glances at you meaningfully.
"Which means we need someone who can see what we can't."
The hat‑man snorts softly. "She sees plenty."
Cole ignores him.
"We need you on this."
Irene nods. "People are dying. And whatever's doing this is getting bolder."
The cat stretches, paws flexing.
The hat‑man leans closer to you, whispering, "Cruises are boring. But I suppose we can make it fun."
Cole stiffens. "He's not coming."
The hat‑man grins, teeth perfectly human this time. "Try stopping me."
The sigil in my chest warms — a reminder that he's tethered to ne now, whether I like it or not.
The agents wait. The hat‑man watches. The cat purrs.
And the folder sits open, full of dead couples and cold bodies, waiting for your answer.
Cole's words land like a brick, but the hat‑man reacts like he's just been handed a birthday present.
"If you insist on coming," Cole says, pointing at him like a teacher scolding a misbehaving student, "you'll have to pose as her husband. These are wedding cruises."
The hat‑man's entire face lights up.
"You'll both be undercover as newlyweds. You'll have to do a little bit of acting as you investigate."
"Brilliant!" he exclaims, grabbing you in a sudden squeeze that lifts you half off the couch. "I get a free wife."
I shove at him, but he's already spinning toward Irene with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who just discovered fireworks.
Irene, cheeks still faintly pink from earlier, hands over a neat stack of identity papers.
"You'll need these," she says, clearing her throat. "Another team will be meeting you on the cruise posing as a couple. We had one agent assigned as your husband, but we'll adjust to include… him."
She gestures at the hat‑man like she's not entirely sure he's a person.
He beams at her.
Cole flips open the brief. "The details are all here. Your government thanks you for your service, and of course you'll be well compensated."
Irene adds, "Just fill out this sheet for preferred names, occupation, background. We'll set some easy details for you to memorize."
The hat‑man snatches the sheet before I can reach it, reading it upside‑down with intense concentration.
"Preferred name?" he says. "Oh, I have so many."
"No," you say immediately.
He pouts.
Irene continues, "If this is supernatural, we'd like it solved, if possible, without additional loss of life. If there are dangerous things involved, the other team should be able to handle the details."
The cat stretches luxuriously in his sun patch, completely ignoring the chaos.
The hat‑man drapes himself over your shoulders again, chin resting on your head.
"Snuggle time and a honeymoon cruise," he says smugly. "This is the best assignment you've ever had."
I mutter, "You're impossible."
He kisses the top of my head like he's stamping a signature.
Cole sighs. Irene looks like she's trying not to stare at him again. The cat yawns.