I thought I had gotten used to paranoia — after spending so long in the nightmare world, even your shadow can betray you. But now the object of my suspicion is the Bureau, and the reason is my "resurrected" old friend. The irony tastes bitter.
It's like someone took a scalpel to my nerves and said, "Don't forget: you can't even trust yourself."
The conference room lights at the Bureau are as harsh as ever. Agents along the table trade glances and occasionally look at me the way you'd look at a poisonous animal. The scent in the air isn't coffee anymore; it's appraisal and indifference.
Karl sits beside me, pretending to be lighthearted: "Hey, Ethan, are you hogging the limelight lately? People are looking at you more intensely than at the new secretary."
I roll my eyes. "Great comfort. If they stare any harder they'll tie me to an operating table."
Jokes aside, I know this isn't idle talk.
Since that rainy night when I met Mark, I feel trapped in a double snare. Outside, there's the Bureau's suspicion; inside, the conspiracy Mark left for me to untangle. Worst of all — I can't tell which is real.
After the meeting breaks up they keep me back alone. The director stands by the window, stiff as a metal rod.
"Ethan," his voice is cold as ice, "there are rumors. About your contacts with certain 'missing agents.'"
I laugh — a brittle, sharp sound. "Rumors, huh? Pity. I was hoping people would also spread a rumor about me and Karl. Apparently my popularity isn't that high."
The director ignores my jibe and turns, his gaze like a spike: "I don't care whom you're entangled with. Understand one thing: loyalty. The Bureau can tolerate mistakes, but it cannot tolerate doubt."
That sentence weighs heavier than a gun barrel. It's not a warning; it's an ultimatum.
I keep a smile on the surface, but inside everything churns. Loyalty? Could he first tell me who we're loyal to — humanity, or some secret organization pulling the strings of nightmares?
When I leave the room, Karl catches up, voice low: "You better watch your back, Ethan. They're already investigating you."
"Wow, how considerate. Next time maybe they'll send me a 'Suspect Souvenir Mug'?" I shrug, but cold sweat betrays me.
That night I sit alone in the barracks under dim light. On the table is the stolen scrap of the dossier — the ink blurred and teasing like a riddle. A few words stare up at me:
"Nightmare energy conversion — Phase Three. Host selection: voluntary and involuntary."
Voluntary and involuntary. Six small words, but they feel like a slab pressing on my chest.
I remember Mark's words: "They use humans as test subjects."
Truth is a sly illusionist, switching hands. I never know where to look.
I begin to doubt everything:
— Is my friend really back, or a nightmare-made simulacrum?
— Is the Bureau protector or executioner?
— And what am I, in all of this?
My reflection looks back at me, a stranger's eyes peering out.
I mutter, "How ironic, Ethan. You aren't afraid of nightmares — you're afraid you can't tell who to trust."A new contradiction is being born inside me, sharper and more lethal than any nightmare.