I thumbed the corner of the phone screen.
The stream went dark, but the watcher count kept ticking up in the background. They were hungry for answers. Hell, I was hungry for answers.
I slipped the device into my coat pocket and stepped around the fencing, down into the skeletal remains of the building.
The dust was fine and pale, clinging to the soles of my boots like ash. Crows had nested on the twisted beams above, black shadows against a gunmetal sky. I moved slowly, deliberately, weaving between slabs and rebar until I reached the area where the man had been working.
He didn’t look up at first.
Bent low over a cracked section of concrete, he pounded rhythmically with a sledgehammer, eyes hidden beneath a worn gray cap. He was rather young, mid-twenties maybe, yet his body was wiry and taut like a piano wire ready to snap. His posture was textbook, too precise, too professional like an expert who had been born into this profession.
Since when do kids like these get hired?
I stepped into the ring of silence that hovered around him.
"Rough day," I offered casually, voice low.
The hammer stopped mid-swing.
Not startled. Not defensive. Just calm.
The kind of calm you get from training, not peace.
His eyes flicked over my coat. The cut of it. The camera clipped to the collar. The half-bandaged shoulder. I might as well have worn a name tag.
"Mr. Jester," he said, tone dry. "Didn’t think the collapse of a mid-tier government building warranted a personal appearance."
I offered a small, crooked smile. "I report where the story bleeds." I tapped the side of my head. "And this place is hemorrhaging silence."
He looked back at the beam like he hadn’t heard me. "Building’s condemned. Cleanup effort’s underway. Shouldn’t be walking through an active site."
"Would’ve gotten the memo if someone actually sent one," I said, taking another step. "Fire department said it was a minor incident, but structure doesn’t fall over a stove left on."
My eyes flicked to his pocket. The lump there was unmistakable now that I was up close. Rectangular. Solid. Taped edges. No dust on it.
"You didn’t come here to clean, You came to erase something, be honest. Though I find it crazy at that the government would be forgetful of something ." I was chuckling at the very thought of it.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, like a man deeply tired of kindergarten games.
"And you’re here to poke the bear," he said. "You know how that usually ends?"
"Usually? Yeah." I stepped closer. "But I’m not here to poke. I’m here to pull out the splinters before the bear chokes on them."
I met his gaze without flinching.
Interrogation (Lv. 6): Activated.
My mind sliced through the moment like a scalpel, taking in every detail: his voice was calm but low, practiced. Body relaxed, but shoulders too squared. His sentences were trimmed and rehearsed, like someone reading from an invisible manual. His eyes didn’t dart, not even once.
But he hadn’t said who he was.
No name. No title. Not even a fake one.
Honestly, I could use Scan, but something about this guy was telling my Instincts that I didn’t need it.
"Must be exhausting," I said slowly. "Pretending you’re just another worker. Clocking in, pretending to clean rubble when really you’re making sure nobody finds the thing you just slipped into your pocket."
He gave the faintest shrug. "You don’t want what’s on that drive."
I tilted my head. "Maybe not. But I’m not here for it."
I stepped in again, now only a few feet away. Honestly, his presence was starting to feel minimal by now. My body was practically towering over him.
"I’m here for the people who disappeared with this building."
A twitch. Barely visible. His thumb pressed against the sledgehammer’s grip.
"There were researchers here. Paper-pushers. Interns. I bet there were a bunch of experimental subjects...Maybe the Cain Protocol sounds familiar to you? So tell me—"
I paused, watching him.
"What happened to them?"
But his grip on the hammer tightened.
"You ever wonder," I murmured, voice dipping to a whisper, "if maybe... you picked the wrong side of the rubble to stand on? You wouldn’t be the first government agent to help me out. It’s so chaotic by now that sides are being switched every day."
But I could see it now. The smallest tremor in his left hand. The too-quick blink. The measured breaths, slipping out of rhythm just slightly.
Not enough for the untrained eye.
But I was far more than trained with my S-Rank Detective Job.
Psychological Insight (Lv. 5): Activated.
It hit me like a gust of cold wind.
He was composed—but he was barely holding it together.
Not because I was threatening. Not because I knew too much.
But because something deeper—something heavier—was eating him alive from the inside.
He wasn’t just tired.
A mix of regret, shame and embarrassment coursing through him. He was beyond nervous to the point where he was borderline about to...cry?
He wanted to be anywhere but here.
He wanted to be home.
Not in a trench war of secrets. Not breaking concrete over buried things that didn’t want to be unearthed. Not feeding lies to watchdogs like me.
I stepped back a half-pace, voice softening.
The words weren’t strategic.
For the first time, the man looked at me—really looked at me. Not through me. Not around me. At me.
His composure cracked.
His lips parted. Then closed. Then opened again as his shoulders sagged like a deflated balloon.
"...Bro I don’t know what I’m doing man!" he said.
His voice was rather loud, panicky and honest.
Like a thread pulled too far.
And in that single sentence, the illusion shattered.