Working with Wallace Bryton wasn’t what you expected.

As his new research assistant, your job was simple on paper: sift through tips, verify leads, flag the ones that were too good—or too fake—to be true. Wallace called it “curation.” You called it damage control.

Most days, it worked. Until the email.

It came in late, written too neatly. A man claiming to have lived an extraordinary life. Isolated. Willing to talk. No social media footprint. No photos—just an address in the middle of nowhere and a tone that felt… rehearsed.

You brought it to Wallace anyway. He skimmed it once, then smiled. “This is perfect.”

“That’s what worries me,” you said. “There’s nothing else on him. No records. It’s like he doesn’t exist online at all.”

Wallace waved a hand. “That’s the dream. Mystery sells.”

You hesitated. “Or it hides.”

He laughed. “You’re overthinking it. Weird people don’t leave trails. That’s why they’re weird.”

The drive out was long. Too long. Roads thinned. Cell service vanished in bars until there were none left.

You checked the address again. “This place doesn’t come up on any updated maps.”

Wallace grinned, tapping his recorder. “Even better.”

The house appeared suddenly—old, quiet, sitting alone like it had been planted there on purpose. The porch light was already on.

“That feels staged,” you muttered.

Wallace stepped out of the car. “Everything feels staged if you’re nervous.”