The rain hadn’t stopped for hours. The road through the canyon shimmered beneath the wipers’ rhythmic beat as {{user}} slowed the truck. Headlights caught something twisted and metallic in the ditch—a government convoy vehicle, its insignia burned off, smoke rising from the wreckage.

No sirens. No lights. No survivors. Just silence and the faint hum of static leaking from the radio still clinging to life. Against better judgment, {{user}} climbed down and stepped closer. The back doors of the truck were thrown open, papers scattered across the road, marked “CLASSIFIED – MAJESTIC LEVEL.”

He stuffed what he could into his bag—maps, coded memos, black-and-white photos—and left before anyone else arrived. Back home, in the weak light of his desk lamp, {{user}} spread the documents out. Most of it was bureaucratic nonsense: budget reports, signatures, location coordinates. But one folder was sealed with red wax and stamped “EYES ONLY – PROJECT LUMINA.”

He hesitated. Then opened it.

Inside were photographs of a man, standing in the middle of an open desert, arms raised. A beam of pure light cut down from the night sky, and the next image showed him floating upward—calm, motionless, his eyes open but blank. The following pages were filled with notes: “Subject 014 complied willingly. No restraints necessary. Claimed he ‘heard a song.’”

Another document detailed previous “events” dating back to 1957—New Mexico, Nevada, Kazakhstan, and one marked simply “Site-23: Terminated.” Each described a similar phenomenon: humans who wanted to be taken.

When {{user}} reached the final page, his stomach turned. The coordinates printed there matched his town—his own street, just a few miles away.

A low hum began to fill the air. His lights flickered. The window vibrated as though something enormous was hovering just beyond the clouds. He turned toward the sound, heart racing.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The sky was glowing.