The church had been abandoned for days.
Candles stood frozen in their last breath of wax. Blood-red glass shards glimmered along the aisle, untouched. The pews were overturned, and a black scorch marked the marble where the mirror once hung.
But tonight, they had returned.
A van marked "Property of Restoration and Historic Archives" hummed silently outside. The logo was fake.
Inside, six figures dressed in matte gray uniforms examined the ruin with precision. Their movements were methodical, their expressions unreadable beneath visors etched with a silver emblem: Section 313 — Guardianship Division.
"Residual echoes are high," murmured one—a woman as thin as a scalpel. Her voice crackled through the comms. "Light spectrum is fractured. Temporal residue lingers."
Another figure, bulkier, crouched by a melted candelabrum. He spoke with military calm. "Not natural. Definitely a Rift Incident. But whatever was here… it's gone."
"Or hidden," the woman replied. "Initiate Class-B Memory Wipe in this sector. No witnesses reported—good. But we're late. Again."
Behind them, the church doors creaked.
Two new figures stepped through—a man in a long black coat and a woman in a sharp suit, both flashing badges.
"FBI," the woman said before anyone asked.
The Guardians didn't move.
The man scanned the room, then smirked, as if amused. "You people never clean up after yourselves."
The lead Guardian tilted her head, her visor reflecting the candlelight. "This is a protected site. Leave."
The man stepped closer. His tone hardened. "This is a crime scene involving an anomalous light event, a school-wide blackout, and missing children who returned with false memories. That makes it federal."
A long silence followed.
Finally, the Guardian turned away.
"We'll find them," she said.
The woman in the suit narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
The Guardian answered without looking back.
> "The ones who touched the shards.
"The ones who changed.
"The ones who don't know… they're already being hunted."
Outside, thunder echoed faintly. The sky above the town churned like stirred oil.The church had been abandoned for days.
Candles stood frozen in their last breath of wax. Blood-red glass shards glimmered along the aisle, untouched. The pews were overturned, and a black scorch marked the marble where the mirror once hung.
But tonight, they had returned.
A van marked "Property of Restoration and Historic Archives" hummed silently outside. The logo was fake.
Inside, six figures dressed in matte gray uniforms examined the ruin with precision. Their movements were methodical, their expressions unreadable beneath visors etched with a silver emblem: Section 313 — Guardianship Division.
"Residual echoes are high," murmured one—a woman as thin as a scalpel. Her voice crackled through the comms. "Light spectrum is fractured. Temporal residue lingers."
Another figure, bulkier, crouched by a melted candelabrum. He spoke with military calm. "Not natural. Definitely a Rift Incident. But whatever was here… it's gone."
"Or hidden," the woman replied. "Initiate Class-B Memory Wipe in this sector. No witnesses reported—good. But we're late. Again."
Behind them, the church doors creaked.
Two new figures stepped through—a man in a long black coat and a woman in a sharp suit, both flashing badges.
"FBI," the woman said before anyone asked.
The Guardians didn't move.
The man scanned the room, then smirked, as if amused. "You people never clean up after yourselves."
The lead Guardian tilted her head, her visor reflecting the candlelight. "This is a protected site. Leave."
The man stepped closer. His tone hardened. "This is a crime scene involving an anomalous light event, a school-wide blackout, and missing children who returned with false memories. That makes it federal."
A long silence followed.
Finally, the Guardian turned away.
"We'll find them," she said.
The woman in the suit narrowed her eyes. "Who?"
The Guardian answered without looking back.
> "The ones who touched the shards.
"The ones who changed.
"The ones who don't know… they're already being hunted."
Outside, thunder echoed faintly. The sky above the town churned like stirred oil.