[METROPOLITAN POLICE DATABASE | INTERNAL NODE | 01:46:13 AM]

USER: ZUKIE WATS

CLEARANCE: MAJOR CRIMES – TIER IV

SESSION STATUS: ACTIVE

BIOMETRIC CONFIRMATION: VERIFIED (RETINAL / PULSE / NEURAL RHYTHM)

The cursor blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Zukie doesn’t touch the keyboard yet.

She’s listening to the room first.

The precinct after midnight has a sound of its own—not silence, but the absence of intention. Old fluorescent lights hum at slightly different frequencies. Somewhere down the hall, a vending machine emits a hollow click, then gives up. The air smells faintly of toner, burned coffee, and something metallic that never quite goes away.

Her shoulders rise as she inhales. Fall as she exhales.

Only then does she type.

Zukie:Load archived cases!!!

SYSTEM:Accessing archival directories…

A progress wheel spins. Too slowly.

Zukie’s eyes narrow. She tracks it the way she tracks suspects—looking for stutter, lag, hesitation.

SYSTEM:Query parameters?

Zukie:Case ID four-four-one dash S.

A pause.

Not the normal half-second delay.

Longer.

Her fingers still.

SYSTEM:Case ID 441-S retrieved.

The words appear without sound, but Zukie feels them land anyway—low in her chest, like a dropped weight.

She leans forward, elbows resting lightly on the desk. The leather chair complains under the shift. She ignores it.

Zukie: …Load everything.

SYSTEM:Displaying case summary.

The screen refreshes.

{CASE SUMMARY}

•|Victim: Elias Morren

•|Age: 32

•|Occupation: Data Archivist (Contractual)

•|Residence: Apartment 9C

•|Time of Death: Approx. 11:40 PM

•|Cause: Acute poison ingestion

•|Manner: Suicide

•|Case Status: CLOSED

Zukie stares.

Not at the words as a whole—at the gaps between them.

Her right thumb presses lightly against the side of the desk. She hadn’t realized she’d done it until the pressure registers.

Zukie: …That’s it?

She scrolls.

The scroll bar moves a millimeter. Stops.

Her jaw tightens, just enough to ache.

Zukie:No interviews?

SYSTEM:No interviews logged.

A faint clicking sound from the monitor. Old hardware.

Zukie:No neighbor canvass?

SYSTEM:No neighbor statements on record.

She exhales through her nose. Controlled. Measured.

Zukie:Psych eval?

SYSTEM:Not required. Case classified as non-criminal.

The word classified sits wrong. Too neat. Too clean.

Zukie leans back. The chair creaks again, louder this time. She lets it—grounds herself in the sound.

Her eyes drift upward, unfocusing, as her mind starts assembling a checklist without her permission.

```[INTERNAL NOTE – ZUKIE]

Even an open-and-shut suicide requires:

• Behavioral trajectory

• Digital footprint review

• Worksite contact

• Family notification

• Corroborative witness statements```

This file has none of it.

None.

Her gaze snaps back to the screen.

Zukie:Evidence tab.

```{EVIDENCE LOG}

• Photograph – Living Room

• Photograph – Drinking Glass

• Photograph – Victim Seated on Couch```

She blinks once.

Then again.

Zukie:Only three?

No response. Systems don’t argue.

She opens the second image.

The glass fills the screen.

Clear. Ordinary. No branding.

She zooms.

The rim enlarges. Pixel edges sharpen.

Her eyes flick left. Right. Back to center.

Zukie (quietly):Even spacing.

Her breath slows.

Zukie:Too even.

```[INTERNAL NOTE]

People don’t poison themselves cleanly.

They hesitate.

They wipe their lips.

They leave saliva streaks, tremor marks, half-turns of the wrist.

This glass was placed.

She pulls up the coroner’s report.

Her pupils track line by line.````

Zukie:No struggle indicators.

Scroll.

Zukie:No hesitation abrasions.

Scroll.

Zukie:No emesis. No aspiration.

Her lips part slightly. She doesn’t notice.

Zukie:No note.

A longer pause.

She checks the metadata.

Zukie:Closed in… forty-eight hours?

Her fingers hover above the keyboard now, suspended.

Zukie:Who authorized closure?

SYSTEM:Approval Authority: ██████████ (REDACTED)

Her spine straightens instantly.

The room seems sharper. Louder.

Zukie: …Redacted?

```[INTERNAL NOTE]

Only federal or supra-national overrides redact approvers.

This is a one-bedroom apartment death.

Why is it protected?```

She sits still for a full five seconds.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Decision made before she consciously names it.

Zukie:I’m going to the scene.

[APARTMENT BUILDING – NIGHT | 11:58 PM]

The building smells like old dust and industrial cleaner—the lemon kind meant to suggest cleanliness without achieving it.

The elevator groans its way upward, cables whining like tired nerves. Zukie watches the floor numbers climb. Her reflection in the steel doors looks flatter than usual, like the lighting has shaved something off her.

Fourth floor.

The hallway lights flicker—not broken. Just old. Cycling.

Her footsteps echo. Too evenly.

She stops in front of 9C.

The door stands exactly as it should.

Zukie (voice memo):Seal intact.

She kneels, joints popping softly, and runs a gloved finger along the faint residue where police tape once lived.

No disturbance.

No secondary adhesive.

Zukie:No tampering.

The key turns.

The lock clicks.

Too loud in the quiet.

Zukie:Entering.

The door opens.

The air inside is wrong immediately.

Not rotten. Not warm.

Just… still.

She steps in.

The door shuts behind her with a sound that feels final in a way doors shouldn’t.

````{LIVE OBSERVATION LOG}

• Temperature: Cool

• Airflow: None detected

• Curtains: Half-drawn

• Primary illumination: Streetlight bleed (sodium-orange)````

Zukie:Living room unchanged.

Her eyes move in practiced arcs. Corners. Midlines. Negative space.

Zukie:Couch aligned.

She steps closer.

Zukie:Table untouched.

Then she stops.

Her head tilts a fraction.

Zukie:Clock.

The wall clock reads 11:42 PM.

Her pulse ticks once in her throat.

Zukie:Time of death.

She glances at her watch.

`11:58 PM.

Back to the clock.

`11:42.

Unmoved.

Zukie:That’s… odd.

A pressure builds—not in her ears, but behind her eyes.

Zukie:Do I smell ozone???

The wallpaper shifts.

Not fast.

Slow.

The pattern reverses direction, like a mirrored breath.

Zukie:No!!!

The clock ticks.

Backward.

Her breath catches halfway in.

Zukie:The clock just—

Tick.

Tick.

The room thickens.

A figure stands by the window.

Alive.

Tense.

Hands clenched.

Mouth moving.

Zukie (barely audible):Elias…!!???

`He’s arguing.

With someone she can’t quite see.`

No sound reaches her.

She steps forward.

Her foot doesn’t make noise.

Zukie:Elias!!?? Is that you!!??

She blinks.

The room snaps back.

Empty.

Clock ticking normally.

Her heart slams against her ribs now, loud enough she expects it to echo.

Zukie (whispering): …No one’s here!!!.... how??

She pulls out her phone.

Her thumb hovers.

Stops.

Zukie:No.

Her voice steadies—not calm, but resolved.

Zukie:I need to see this again!!!!

She pockets the phone.

The apartment watches her go!!!!

Zukie:I’m coming back tomorrow!!!

END OF PART 1

^^COMING NEXT:- The first uncontrolled temporal displacement^^

```[ZUKIE – PERSONAL LOG

02:17 AM

UNSENT]```

`I am writing this instead of sleeping.`

`Sleep would imply continuity.`

Zukie sits on the edge of her bed, shoes still on, coat folded with unnecessary precision beside her. The room is dark except for the thin blue glow of her phone, which she hasn’t unlocked in several minutes.

Her breathing is shallow. Measured. Counted.

In.

Two.

Three.

Out!!!

She presses her thumb into the mattress, grounding herself in the texture—the slight tear in the fabric near the seam, the grit of something long-forgotten.

The apartment clock on her wall reads 02:17.

It has read 02:17 since she came home.

She swallows.

```[INTERNAL NOTE – ZUKIE]

Trauma can distort time perception.

But clocks don’t share hallucinations.```

She stands abruptly, the movement sharp enough to make her dizzy. Walks to the clock. Puts her ear near it.

Tick.

Tick.

Regular!!!

She steps back.

Checks her phone.

02:17 AM.

No notifications.

No missed calls.

No system alerts.

Her skin prickles anyway, like she’s missed something important by seconds she can’t access.

````[CUT – POLICE DATABASE

AUTO-QUERY

02:17:09 AM]````

`UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS ATTEMPT DETECTED`

`NODE: ARCHIVAL / DEEP`

``USER: ████████``

``STATUS: DENIED``

Zukie doesn’t see this.

Not yet.

She sits again. Opens her notebook. Pen uncaps with a soft click that feels too loud.

She writes:Elias Morren did not die alone.

The pen hesitates.!!

She adds:He may not have died at all.

Her hand trembles. She presses harder, grounding herself in the pressure until the paper dents.

•

```[TRANSCRIPT FRAGMENT – UNKNOWN ORIGIN]```

``INTERVIEW ROOM A``

``TIMESTAMP: 11:39 PM``

INTERROGATOR:Say it again!!??

ELIAS MORREN:I told you. I already lived this minute.

INTERROGATOR:You’re saying you’ve been here before!!??

(Pause. Breathing audible.)

ELIAS:No,I’m saying I never left.!!!!

Zukie jerks upright.

Her notebook slides off her lap, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Her heart is racing now, uncontrolled.

Zukie: …What the hell was that!!??

She scans the room.

Nothing.

No sound. No screens active.

Her phone lights up.

A single notification.

```[METROPOLITAN POLICE DATABASE]

AUTO-SYNC COMPLETE```

Zukie’s fingers hover before she unlocks it.

Her reflection in the screen looks… delayed. Like it finishes blinking a fraction too late.

She unlocks.

A new file sits in her drafts.

``SOURCE: UNKNOWN

TITLE: 441-S / SUPPLEMENTAL``

She never created it.

Her pulse thuds in her ears.

Zukie: No. No, no—

She opens it anyway.

``SUPPLEMENTAL RECORD – CASE 441-S

ACCESS LEVEL: ABOVE CLEARANCE

VIEWONLY

SUBJECT: Elias Morren

STATUS: TEMPORALLY UNRESOLVED``

Zukie’s breath leaves her in a slow, involuntary exhale.

Zukie:That’s not a status.

She scrolls.

The text doesn’t move smoothly. It lags, like

it’s waiting for her eyes to catch up.

``[INTERROGATION TRANSCRIPT–PARTIAL]``

INTERROGATOR:Why did you poison yourself, Elias?

ELIAS:I didn’t.!!!

INTERROGATOR:

The glass—

ELIAS: —was already there.

(Long silence.)

INTERROGATOR:Already where?

ELIAS:On the table.

On the report.

On the timeline.

(Breathing accelerates.)

ELIAS:You think I drank it.

But I remember placing it after.!!!

Zukie’s fingers curl tightly around the phone.

Her mind races, assembling possibilities—contamination, fabrication, stress-induced hallucination—but none of them explain the timing.

Zukie:Who is interrogating him?

She scrolls up.

Every reference to the interrogator is blacked out.

Not redacted.

Missing.

```[POV FRACTURE – ELIAS]```

The room smells like antiseptic and old paper.

Elias’s hands are on the table.

They’re steady.

That’s how he knows something is wrong.

He should be shaking.

He looks at the clock on the wall.

11:39 PM.

It has been 11:39 PM for a very long time.

He speaks carefully now, like choosing the wrong word might reset something.

ELIAS:She’s close, isn’t she?

Silence.

ELIAS:The one who notices things.

The lights hum.

He smiles faintly.

Not relief.

Recognition.

```[ZUKIE – PRESENT]```

Zukie’s stomach twists.

She feels it then—not fear exactly, but a pressure, like time itself has leaned closer to inspect her.

Her phone vibrates.

Once.

A new line appears at the bottom of the supplemental file.

ADDENDUM:Observer interference detected.

Her mouth goes dry.

Zukie:Observer!!??

She laughs softly, once. The sound cracks halfway through.

Zukie:I’m not—

The word human almost comes out.

She stops herself.

Her apartment clock ticks.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

Stops!!!!

```[SYSTEM LOG – BLACK MERIDIAN NODE

ACTIVE]

ANCHOR POINT SHIFTING

OBSERVER: ZUKIE

STATUS: UNREGISTERED```

Zukie doesn’t see the log.

She feels it.

A subtle vertigo. Like standing up too fast, except she hasn’t moved.

Her phone screen dims.

Before it goes dark, one final line renders.

ELIAS MORREN:If you come back to the apartment tomorrow,don’t knock!!

You already didn’t.

Zukie’s phone shuts off.

The room is silent.

The clock does not resume ticking.

She sits very still, aware—suddenly, terribly—that time around her is no longer flowing forward.

It is waiting.

•

END OF PART 2

•

Next in Part 3:

|

•• Zukie returns to Apartment 9C—and arrives before herself