The government had set up a temporary office inside the school — a room once used for faculty meetings, now stripped bare except for stacks of folders, sealed envelopes, and buzzing fluorescent lights that cast everyone in sickly white.
Detectives, investigators, even officials in suits moved back and forth, their expressions tight and weary. The corridors outside echoed with students' whispers and parents demanding answers. But in here, silence was demanded.
George Moore stood stiff near the long table, his fists pressed into its surface. His eyes moved like a hawk over the documents, scanning names, dates, attendance logs. His jaw tightened with every page he turned.
Something wasn't right.
"Where is it?" he muttered, flipping through another folder.
"What are you looking for?" asked Inspector Darius, a heavyset man with greying hair and permanent frown lines.
George slammed the folder shut. "The records. Student records, staff files—whole chunks are missing. This isn't disorganization. This is erasure."
The room stilled. A younger officer glanced nervously at a stack of boxes. "Sir, we catalogued everything we received from the principal's office. If something's missing, it wasn't from our side."
George's voice rose, sharp, commanding: "Don't lie to me. I know how schools keep their records. You don't just lose entire files—names, dates, histories. They've been pulled out deliberately."
One official, a thin man in a navy suit, exchanged a glance with another. He finally spoke, his voice low: "Mr. Moore… perhaps it's better if you let this rest."
George's head snapped toward him. "Better? Children are missing. Teachers collapsing. And you want me to 'let this rest'?" His voice thundered, echoing off the walls.
The thin man didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice further. "You've been a military man, haven't you? You know when a matter grows… above its proper scale. This isn't just about a school anymore. This runs deeper."
George narrowed his eyes. "How deep?"
The official smiled faintly, but it was a cold smile. "Deep enough that certain files were never meant to exist. And if they did, then erasing them was a mercy."
George's stomach tightened. He recognized the deliberate vagueness, the evasive tone — this wasn't incompetence. This was containment. Someone, somewhere, wanted to keep the truth buried.
Suddenly, a younger officer at the far end of the table let out a curse. "Sir! You need to see this."
Everyone turned. The officer held up a thin file with trembling hands. On its front was stamped: AVELINE, MARIBEL.
George's pulse quickened. "Bring it here."
The officer set it on the table, opening it carefully. But inside, the pages were torn out. Only scraps of paper remained, with jagged edges where information had been ripped away.
The room went silent.
George reached down, running a finger over one remaining scrap — a fragment of typed words:
"…transferred from…"
"…disciplinary concerns…"
"…incident — file sealed under…"
And then nothing.
George looked up slowly, his voice low and dangerous. "Who did this?"
No one answered.
Then the thin official spoke again, calm, almost too calm: "You're treading on ground that has swallowed men whole, Mr. Moore. Don't dig too deep. For your family's sake."
George stared at him, rage simmering, but something colder threaded through his chest: dread. Because he knew that tone. He had heard it before in classified briefings, in war rooms where truths were buried to protect nations.
This was bigger than the school. Bigger than missing children.
And somehow, his own daughter was standing in the center of it.