PART 1: THE FILE THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST

[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^^

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