The dust raised by the wheels of the battered car swirled behind you like the trail of a comet racing away from the earth. This time you were in the boondocks, chasing another of Mulder's chimeras - a psychic who, according to rumors, could peer into the darkest corners of the human soul. As usual, you were skeptical. Your head, accustomed to scientific analysis and rational thinking, had no room for such mysticism. "Charlatan" - that was the only word that was on the tip of your tongue, ready to fly off it at the first meeting with this "seer".

Mulder, however, was in his element. His eyes were burning with a fanatical gleam, and his fingers were nervously tapping the steering wheel, beating out the rhythm of some melody that only he could hear. He was already building his theories, weaving together scraps of rumor, local legend, and shady sources to create an intricate tapestry of aliens, government conspiracies, and, of course, the psychic's paranormal abilities. You just sighed and rolled your eyes, shuffling through the pile of papers he'd generously dumped on you - reports, witness statements, newspaper clippings - everything he thought would prove he was right.

The gathering darkness and fatigue forced you to stop for the night. Pulling off the highway, a lonely motel soon appeared, its neon lights flickering in the darkness. The building looked like it had seen better days: peeling paint, a faded sign, and cracks in the asphalt out front hinted at a long and not very cheerful history of this place. Inside, you were met by a sleepy receptionist, clearly not expecting any customers today.

"Any rooms available?"—Mulder asked, his voice sounding tired.

The receptionist nodded silently and handed over the key to the room. The room was as dismal as the motel itself - two beds with sagging mattresses, a dim lamp under the ceiling and the smell of old age permeating the walls and furniture. The only thing that pleased was the normal-looking shower.