Report

15:51, February 15, 2274 — Hibūra, Floor 63, Lipent Medical Center 04

A clinical silence, broken only by the distant whisper of ventilation ducts, enveloped the fifth floor of the medical center.

It was a sterile calm, heavy with the faint smell of antiseptic and recycled air, making any unfamiliar sound echo with uncomfortable clarity.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Firm, measured footsteps shattered the stillness, moving along the gray-tiled corridor under the cold glow of LED strips.

They were not the hurried steps of a doctor, nor the dragging pace of a convalescent. They were confident—deliberate.

"Yes, I found it," said a female voice, low but clear, speaking into a discreet earpiece.

The footsteps stopped before a particular door, where the air itself seemed to grow denser. A white plastic sign beside the doorframe read:

ROOM 504

"He's still unconscious, it seems," the woman continued, her gaze scrutinizing the closed door as if she could see through it.

Inside the room, Seth Harper lay motionless on the bed, connected to silent monitors whose green lines danced in rhythm with his vital signs. Bandages covered part of his torso, and a cast immobilized his left foot. The evening light, filtered through a blind, painted stripes of light and shadow across his pale, calm face—completely unaware of the outside world and the conversation taking place only meters away.

"Minor injuries, bruising, and a fracture… nothing out of the ordinary for an encounter at that level," the voice reported, reciting the data with professional coldness.

She paused briefly, calculating.

"No. I don't believe additional measures are necessary. He was never a target; he was simply in the wrong place."

Her voice hardened slightly.

"Understood. I'll follow up as soon as he wakes."

A final instruction came through the line, laden with a sinister intent that required no volume to convey its weight. The woman listened, her eyes fixed on the door to Room 504.

"As for Mercer… he survived without complications.

Only superficial wounds and, I suppose, a blow to his pride." A nearly imperceptible trace of something resembling disdain tightened her lips for a moment.

She turned slowly, diverting her gaze from the door to look through a long window at the urban sprawl of Hibūra. Skyscrapers rose like metallic scars against the sky—a reminder of the world in which all of this was unfolding.

"Cornering him with his own arrogance will always be the best option," she murmured, more to herself than to her interlocutor, as if recalling a fundamental principle of a larger strategy.

FWOOSH.

The sudden sound of a service door opening at the far end of the corridor cut her thoughts short.

"Ah…"

She turned her head to see who had entered the hallway.

It was a cleaning cart, pushed by a maintenance staff member in a worn blue uniform, one of its stubborn wheels squeaking as it marked its progress down the corridor.

The woman sighed—a restrained breath of irritation.

"I have to go now. Goodbye," she said with final brusqueness before cutting the connection.

She slid the device into the pocket of her coat—an elegant, understated model that clashed with the hospital environment—and began walking decisively toward the elevators. Her heels echoed sharply against the floor, their rhythm betraying a desire to put distance between herself and the place as quickly as possible.

"Good afternoon, miss," the cleaning lady greeted her with a kind, tired smile, stopping her cart for a moment.

The woman turned just enough to offer a brief nod, her reply as cold as the corridor's light.

"Good afternoon," she said, without slowing her stride.

Without looking back, she disappeared around the next corner, leaving behind the silent hallway, Room 504, and the mystery of her report—now lingering in the sterile air.

16:28, that same day — Hibūra, Floor 41, Station, Lipent Train Line

The station was packed with people waiting for the train.

"Ugh… when is he going to get here…?"

Grant pulled out his phone and checked the time. When the screen went dark, the reflection staring back at him was empty.

Then, a memory struck him without warning.

"Just… give him this, please. It's important."

Harper…

"Hey, Grant! I'm here!"

The call yanked him out of his thoughts. It was Wes.

"Twenty minutes late. You outdo yourself every day," Grant said, clearly used to it by now.

Wes glanced up at the station clock.

"Heh… sorry, Sergeant. You know how my parents are when it comes to going down floors in the city."

Beep. Beep. Beep.
The train doors slid open.

"Doesn't matter. Let's get on."

The doors closed, and the train began to move.
Neither of them found a seat, so they stood shoulder to shoulder near one of the doors.

Grant turned toward Wes.

"Just yesterday, we were on a mission way below this floor. I'm surprised your parents are worried about you being around here."

"Same here… but it makes sense after how badly that mission turned out."

"If it weren't for the version we gave of what happened at the remote outpost, we'd be dead," Grant said with a sigh.

"Expelled from the academy at the very least… though honestly, I can't imagine you outside it," he added with a laugh.

"You can laugh all you want. You're at the academy because you want to be."

"Hey! It's not by choice. I couldn't stand being a rich kid locked in an office, inheriting the family business."

Grant elbowed him.

"Idiot, lower your voice! You can't say things like that out loud."

"Uh—right…!" Wes lowered his voice abruptly and glanced around. "Anyway, Grant, getting out of my house is a breath of fresh air. I'm glad my equipment got damaged."

"But couldn't you have just taken it to a nearby stand to get it repaired?"

"I could've, yeah—but I told my parents I had to deliver the mission report with you, and that I'd take the chance to leave my damaged gear at that same stand."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Attention. Floor 58. Floor 58," the announcement echoed through the train.

"This is our stop," Grant said.

They stepped off and headed toward the North post of the Elite Rem division on the 58th floor.

"Hey, Grant."

"Yeah?"

"So… what exactly are we going to say? I don't remember much of what we said that day…"

Grant brought a hand to his forehead, frustration evident.

"Wes… we're not going to say anything. Everything is in the written report we sent by email. We're just bringing a physical copy as protocol requires."

Wes's eyes widened, as if he had suddenly grasped the inner workings of the universe itself.

"Oooh… I did think it was weird that we had to bring something we already emailed. Haha! That's why I thought they were going to interrogate us or something…"

"Trust me," Grant replied, "if we were being interrogated, you'd be the last person I'd bring with me."

The mission report was delivered that day.
And somewhere else, it was already being read.