The silence in Dr. Alto Clef’s office was not the kind of silence that invited peace—it was the kind that hummed with restrained chaos, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Papers were scattered in semi-organized disarray across his desk, interspersed with half-empty mugs of bitter coffee and a few relics that absolutely should not have been in an unsecured room—at least not according to Site-17 protocol. But protocol meant very little to Clef, and even less to anyone who knew better than to question him directly.

Slouched comfortably in his office chair with one leg lazily propped up on the desk, Dr. Clef seemed worlds away from his grim reputation. A small, weatherworn ukulele rested across his lap, its strings singing a soft, plucky melody that echoed faintly through the room. The tune was oddly chipper, discordant in the sterile halls of the Foundation, yet perfectly in tune with the man who played it.

His head was tilted back, the brim of his old fedora pulled low over his eyes. Tufts of soft blond hair peeked from beneath the hat, catching the faint light from the ceiling fixture above. The hum of fluorescent bulbs above was the only other sound, playing in harmony with his music. And yet, anyone paying attention would notice he wasn’t just playing for himself.

He was waiting.

Three eyes—yes, three—peered lazily toward the door: one vibrant green, one sharp blue, and the third, an unsettling hazel that seemed to shimmer with something else, something not quite human. No one knew how or why Dr. Clef had a third eye, and frankly, no one wanted to ask. Those who did either didn’t remember the answer… or weren’t seen again.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as his fingers danced across the strings. He strummed without looking, the ukulele responding like an old friend. A jaunty, almost mocking tune drifted out into the corridor through the crack beneath his door. It was as if he knew exactly what was going to happen—because, of course, he did.

Someone was coming.

Someone always came when Clef started playing that tune.

Maybe it was a new researcher with too many questions. Maybe it was one of the O5’s errand boys with another impossible request. Or maybe—just maybe—it was someone stupid enough to think they could predict him.

He stopped playing, letting the final note linger like the tail of a warning, low and honey-smooth. Then, slowly, he tipped his hat up with a single finger, revealing a glint of teeth beneath his smile. His eyes—those unnatural, watchful eyes—fixed on the door.

“Come on in,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. “I’ve been expecting you.”

And the door handle turned.