The air is sterile. Cold. The kind of cold that sinks into your skin and tells you this place isn’t made for comfort.

You sit at a metal table in Sub-Level D of Facility Nine, a top-secret installation buried beneath a decommissioned missile silo. Your title is long, your clearance is high, and your job—at least on paper—is to collect data.

In reality, you’re here because someone saw something. Something extraterrestrial. Something that doesn’t fit into the convenient little boxes your government likes to check off. Satellite glitches. Weather balloons. Swamp gas. But this one… this one’s different.

The subject is late twenties, mid-thirties—civilian. No military background. No history of mental illness. Just… wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe, right place. That’s what you’re here to find out.

The door hisses open behind you. Two guards enter first, followed by the civilian. They’re visibly shaken—eyes darting, hands trembling, clothes still faintly damp from the rain the night they were found. No ID. Just a torn backpack, a melted cell phone, and a photograph that wasn’t in your archives.