The sun climbed over New York City like a shy musician arriving late for a gig. It offered a few apologetic rays of light before the sheer size of the buildings swallowed it whole, leaving the streets in their usual shadowy state. The city didn't mind. It had its own light anyway, a constant electric glow that made the air hum, a sound so constant you only noticed it when it stopped. The air itself tasted of wet asphalt and the faint, ghostly scent of a thousand pretzels sold and eaten a long time ago.
Sven moved through the city as if he were part of its shadow. He wore his white uniform, a stark patch of impossible brightness in a world of grey coats and black umbrellas. In some places, people would have stared. In New York, people saw a man dressed as if he were about to perform surgery on the sky and simply thought, well, that's his problem, and hurried on their way. The city was a place that politely ignored miracles and monsters, because it had no time for either.
He bought a hotdog from a street vendor whose face was a roadmap of every bad day he'd ever had. The man slid the hotdog into a bun without a word, a perfect, practiced motion he'd performed a million times. It was a small, ordinary thing. A piece of sausage in a piece of bread. Sven found a bench and ate it, a small act of normalcy in a life that was anything but. He watched the people flow by, a river of flesh and worries. He imagined the stories tangled up in their heads. The missed trains, the forgotten anniversaries, the desperate hopes for a promotion, for a call back, for a sign. None of them knew that just a few blocks away, a woman had ceased to exist not in the way people normally cease to exist, but in a much more final, much more permanent way. They were safer that way.
He was contemplating the last bite of his hotdog, a perfect little package of grease and salt, when the device on his wrist, his ARU, gave a soft, insistent buzz against his skin. It was like a cricket suddenly chirping in a silent room. He glanced down at the screen. A message. "017, regarding the incident on 78th. Your work was effective. The cleanup is… extensive. The residue is stubborn."
Sven typed back with his thumb, the movements slow and deliberate. "Efficiency is rarely tidy. Apologies for the inconvenience." It was a truth he had learned a long time ago. The world did not heal in clean lines.
He crumpled the wax paper from his hotdog, a small, sad little ball, and tossed it towards a bin. It missed. He didn't pick it up. He walked to the bus stop on 11th, the city's hum intensifying as the lunch hour approached. He sat on the bus, pressed in among people who smelled of coffee and damp coats, and watched the world go by in a series of jerky frames. He thought he should get a motorcycle. Something to cut through the traffic, to feel the wind, to be just a little bit more free.
He got off the bus and walked the remaining blocks. The noise of the city began to fade, replaced by a quiet that was somehow louder. He arrived in front of a building that did not belong. It was a monolith of raw, grey concrete, a building without a single window, a face without eyes. It stood there, a mute, stubborn secret. A plaque on the wall, made of brass that never seemed to tarnish, said simply : AMYGDALA GALLERY.
Sven stood before it for a long moment. He sighed, a quiet, tired sound that was meant for no one but himself. Then he pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The world blinked.
The sound of the city was gone. The chaos, the hum, the life of it all, simply vanished. He was standing in a place made of silence. The Grand Atrium was a cathedral built of concrete, a space so vast and quiet you could hear your own blood moving in your veins. In the middle of the floor, under a circular opening in the ceiling that let down a single, dusty column of light, grew a tree. It was utterly black and leafless, a skeleton of a tree that looked like it had been petrified by grief. This was the Sable Tree. It was not art. It was a warning.
A few people in similar uniforms moved through the space like ghosts. They gave him nods of acknowledgment. He nodded back. It was a language without words.
He walked past the Gallery of Fractured Mirrors, where the reflections in the glass showed things that weren't quite you, a little taller, a little sadder. He ignored them and went to the quietest room in the building. The Archive of Lost Thoughts. It was a place for concepts, not objects. He walked past sculptures of regret and paintings made of forgotten songs until he came to a simple, grey stone under a soft light. The Stone of Forgotten Questions. The plaque beneath it read: HERE LIE THE THINGS WE NEVER ASKED.
He placed his palm flat against the cool, thick glass case. He closed his eyes. "Remember the forgotten," he whispered.
For a second, he was not in a room. He was in a memory. He saw Alma, his wife, and the way the sun caught the gold in her hair. He saw Bianca, his daughter, and the shape of her small hand in his. The images were so clear they hurt. Then, as they always did, they began to run like watercolors left out in the rain. Their smiles softened, then dissipated. Their forms grew hazy, then dissolved into a thick, black nothing. It always ended this way.
Then he was in another place entirely. The West Wing. The hum was back, a low, powerful vibration that was the sound of the building's heart. He was in the true part of the Gallery, the place that was not for the public. He walked the pristine white corridors until he reached a small circular desk. A man with kind eyes was sitting there, writing on a data-slate. His name was Leo.
"Ludvig," Leo said. "You look like you've been wrestling with nightmares again."
"The usual ones," Sven replied.
"They've sent you a package from London," Leo said, gesturing with his chin towards a small, sealed crate on the floor. "Curator Vance. She says it's an upgrade for your A.N.T."
Sven grunted. He didn't like upgrades. They introduced variables. "Anything else?"
"No," Leo said, finally looking up, his eyes full of a genuine concern. "Go get some rest."
Sven gave a curt nod and continued on his way, leaving the crate where it was. He walked through the residential section of the facility, an area called the Nidus, until he reached his own room. It was small, functional, and felt more like a container than a home. He took off his white jacket and peeled off the layers of gear and armor beneath. His body was a map of where he had been, a constellation of scars on pale skin. Each one had a story. He stepped into the shower and let the hot water wash over him, a small, futile attempt to wash away the things that clung to him.
He slept for exactly three hours. It was a deep sleep, the kind of sleep a dead man might have. But he didn't stay dead. He always woke up with a memory.
He was in a pit of black oil, held down by a hundred cold hands. In front of him, Alma and Bianca were melting, their faces dissolving into the blackness around them, their mouths open in silent screams. He couldn't move. He could only watch.
Sven sat bolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was drenched in sweat. He put his head in his hands and focused on breathing. In. Out. The ghosts receded, but they never truly left.
He stood up, his body trembling with leftover adrenaline, and walked to the gym. The Crucible was empty. He loaded a barbell with weight that would have broken a lesser man. He began to lift, his body a machine built for destruction, now turned on itself. The pain was a welcome anchor in the sea of his memories. The burn in his muscles was a prayer against the darkness. His body, a tapestry of hard-earned muscle and old wounds, moved with a brutal grace.
He was in the middle of a final, punishing set when his ARU buzzed. He let the barbell crash to the floor with a final, satisfying clang. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, his chest heaving. He checked the time. Almost noon. He checked the message. It was an order.
"CONSERVATOR 017-X-SV. REPORT TO THE DIRECTOR'S SANCTUM AT 1200 HOURS REGARDING OPERATIONAL PROTOCOL. PRIORITY DIRECTIVE."
Sven read the words. He knew what this was. It was about the mess. About the cost of his efficiency. It was about putting a leash on the dog.
He looked at his own dark reflection in the screen of the ARU.
"Oh shit," he muttered to the empty gym. "They really don't want me to work alone, do they?"