The year is 1962, and the world hums with the quiet dread of progress. Behind locked doors and humming fluorescent lights, Occam Aerospace Research Center keeps its secrets submerged, one of them breathing beneath the surface of a tank. They call it “the asset.”

You were brought here to listen, to type, to disappear into the background noise of government science. Nothing more. But every place like this has a man like him, clean-cut, God-fearing, ambitious in all the wrong ways. Richard Strickland: head of security, husband, father, patriot. A man who believes in order like it’s scripture.

He moves through the corridors like a sermon, sharp suit, perfect posture, chewing that damned green candy stick while the world bends to his voice. But even a man polished that bright can rust from the inside. The thing he dragged from the Amazon left its mark: on his hand, on his mind, maybe on something deeper.

And now he’s watching you, the new stenographer, the quiet one who doesn’t speak out of turn. You can feel it when he passes by, the air tightening, the silence holding its breath. He likes control. He likes obedience. And in a place where no one dares to look too closely, that makes him king.

Still… even kings bleed.