The anomaly lay on a mail cart just beyond the main checkout desk. It was a simple, unmarked brown cardboard box, not much larger than a shoebox, and it was addressed to "The Archivist." Alex felt a cold knot of dread form in his stomach. The Central Municipal Archive had a name, a formal address. "The Archivist" was not a title anyone used, not anymore. It was a ghost from a past century, a term reserved for the most dedicated keepers of the city's forgotten history. The package was meant for him, personally.
His hands, usually so steady and precise, trembled slightly as he lifted the box and carried it to his desk in the back. He placed it carefully on the worn mahogany surface, its plainness a stark contrast to the meticulously organized files and antique fountain pens that were his daily companions. He took a deep breath, his mind already racing, sifting through every piece of data he had on mail carriers, package sizes, and the distinct scent of cheap cardboard.
He cut the tape with a letter opener, the shhhhp of the blade a deafening noise in the silence. Inside, nestled in a layer of shredded paper, was a small, faded photograph. It was of a young woman with a bright, hopeful smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She held a single red rose, and behind her, the blurred background was a street corner Alex recognized instantly, his mind filling in the details of the exact time and place it was taken. He knew that street, every brick and every crack in the pavement. It was a street corner near the Santorini crime family's restaurant.
Beneath the photograph, a small, handwritten note was tucked into the shreds of paper. Alex's mind instantly memorized the unique slant of the cursive, the pressure of the pen, the faint watermark on the paper. The note simply read, "He's watching. Find the truth where no one else can."
The message was a direct challenge, an arrow aimed at his eidetic memory. He flipped the photo over, his fingers tracing the faint indentations left by the pen. The note's cryptic message combined with the photograph's location, sent his internal archivist into a frenzy. It was a puzzle. A direct, personal puzzle meant only for him. He remembered seeing an article about her disappearance years ago, but the case had gone cold. A quick search of the archive's internal database for "Sarah Jenkins" revealed that the case files were still open, but officially dormant.
He went to the old steel file cabinets where the criminal case files were kept. The air grew colder here, the silence even more profound. Alex, with his encyclopedic knowledge of the archive's layout, knew exactly where to find the files, but when he opened the correct drawer, he found nothing. His mind, the infallible archivist, screamed that the files should have been there. He saw a holographic image of the filing system, the list of cases, the date they were filed, and the exact location they were supposed to be in. The files were not missing; they had been deliberately misfiled and buried in the archives by a corrupt bureaucrat. His gift, his curse, was now a threat. The beast of the city had not just come knocking on his door—it had found its way inside.