Speaker 1: I've been a paramedic in Chicago for six years now.
If you've never worked emergency medicine in a major city,
let me paint you a picture. It's chaos, beautiful, terrible chaos.
You get used to the overdoses in gas station bathrooms,
the car accidents on the Dan Ryan at rush hour,
the cardiac arrests in cramped apartments where you're doing compressions
while family members scream in your ear. You learn to
compartmentalize to be able to eat your lunch thirty minutes
after watching someone die. You learn that most people's worst day,
it's just another Tuesday for you. My partner, Magnus, has
been doing this for fifteen years. He's seen everything twice over,
gang shootings, house fires, you name it. Magnus is the
guy who stays calm when everyone else is losing their minds.
He's the guy who can talk down a site patient
having a violent episode, or crack a joke dark enough
to make you forget the smell of burnt flesh. He's
taught me more about this job than any textbook ever could.
But here's the thing about Magnus that always struck me
as odd. About once a month we get a call
that doesn't make it into our official reports. I noticed
the pattern about two years in. We'd respond to something,
usually weird, usually in a part of the city that
feels just slightly off, and Magnus would handle everything. He'd
always drive on those calls, wouldn't let me take the wheel,
even when it was my turn in the rotation, and
afterward the paperwork would be minimal, a few lines, nothing detailed,
nothing that captured what we'd actually seen, and Magnus would
never ever let me ask questions about it afterward. I
tried once. We'd responded to a call in an abandoned
building where we found a guy who'd been dead for
at least three days, but the nine one one call
had come from his phone ten minutes before we arrived.
I started to say something back at the station, and
Magnus just looked at me with this expression I'd never
seen before. It was an angry, scared let it go.
He said, that was it. Let it go. So I did,
because Magnus had kept me alive more times than I
could count, and if he said let it go, I
let it go. One night, Magnus called in sick. In
six years of working together. I never know Magnus to
call in sick. The guy came to work with a
broken finger with his marriage falling apart. But that night,
at nine forty seven pm, I got a text not
feeling great. Taken the night off, be careful out there.
I was partnered with Jake for the shift, a rookie
who'd been on the job for maybe eight months. Nice kid, eager,
but talk too much. We'd handle two calls already. First
was a drunk college student who'd fallen down some stairs,
and an elderly woman with chest pains who turned out
to be having a panic attack. It was just after
midnight when the dispatcher's voice came over the radio, and
I swear to God, I felt my stomach drop before
she even finished the sentence. Meddic forty seven, we have
an unresponsive person at twelve forty seven Riverside Avenue, Apartment
four F. Police are not unseen, repeat no unseen. It
was the tone, flat and emotionless. Jake reached for the
radio to confirm, but I grabbed his wrist. He looked
at me, confused. Let me, I said, I picked up
the radio dispatch. This is Medic forty seven. Can you
repeat that address a pause longer than it should have been.
Twell forty seven Riverside Avenue, Apartment four F copy that
Medic forty seven en route, I hung up the radio
and started the engine. Jake was staring at me. You okay,
you look like you've seen a ghost. I didn't answer.
I was too busy trying to remember if Marcus had
ever told me what to do if I got one
of those calls without him. He hadn't. I pulled out
of the station, and for the first time in six years,
I understood exactly why Marcus always drove, because when you're
behind the wheel, you can't run. Twelve forty seven Riverside
Avenue was a midrise apartment building in Lakeview. You could
tell he had seen better days, but it wasn't quite
run down enough to be condemned. Break facade, probably built
in the seventies, with a security door that buzzed open
without anyone asking who we were. Jake grabbed the jump
bag and monitor while I took the oxygen kit standard response.
Nothing felt different yet, except for the knot in my
stomach that wouldn't go away. The elevator was broken, of course,
it was so we took the stairs to the fourth floor.
Jake was torn looking the hallway up, something about a
call he'd run last week. But I wasn't listening. I
was trying to focus on the routine, one foot in
front of the other. The fourth floor hallway was long
and narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that gave everything
a sickly yellow tinge. Apartment doors marched down both sides,
four A, four B, four C on the left, four D,
four E, four G on the right. I stopped. Jake
nearly walked into me. What's wrong? Where's four F? He
looked at the doors, then back at me. What do
you mean? I pointed four E, then four G. There's
no four F. Jake walked down the hall, checking each
door number. That's weird. Maybe it's a typo. Maybe they
meant four E. I pulled out my radio dispatch Medic
forty seven, can you confirm the apartment number, which showing
no apartment four F at this location? Static? Then twelve
forty seven Riverside Avenue, Apartment four F, fourth floor dispatch.
There is no apartment four F. The hallway goes from
four E to four G. Another pause, longer this time,
I could hear keyboard clicking in the background. Medic forty seven.
Our system shows apartment four F, fourth floor. The call
came from inside that unit. I looked at Jake. He shrugged,
already moving back toward the stairs. Maybe it's on a
different wing. These all buildings can be weird, Yeah, I said, weird.
We checked the other side of the hallway, same thing.
No for F. Jake suggested we try for E. Maybe
the caller got confused. I was about to agree when
I decided to walk the hallway one more time, just
to be sure. Four A, four B, four C, four
D four E. And there it was four F. I
stopped so abruptly. Jake walked into me this time. Dude,
what he saw it too? The door was there, brass
number screwed into dark wood for F. The paint was
older than the other doors, more worn, and it was
open slightly a jar, maybe an inch enough to see
darkness inside. I wasn't there before, Jake whispered, I know, Jake.
My hand was on my radio. I should call this in.
I should tell dispatch that something is very wrong here.
But what would I even say? That a door appeared
out of nowhere. They'd think I was on something. I
thought about Magnus, and by the way he looked at
me when he said, let it go about his text
this morning, be careful out there. I pushed the door open.
The apartment was dark except for the light spilling in
from the hallway. I found a light switch and flipped it.
A single overhead bulb flickered on, revealing a small studio apartment,
old furniture, floral wallpaper that might have been pretty in
nineteen eighty two, and on the floor, between a warm
couch and a coffee ta covered in prescription bottles was
an elderly woman. She was lying motionless on her back,
arms at her side, staring at the ceiling. Training took over.
I dropped my knees beside her while Jake set up
the monitor. Ma'am, ma'am, can you hear me? I checked
for a pulse. Her skin was ice cold. No paws.
I tilted her head back, checked the railway, Jake, she's
not breathing. Get the bag ready. Jake was already moving,
pulling out the ambu bag. I started compressions. Her chest
felt rigid under my hands, like she'd been dead for hours.
Made forty seven to dispatch. We have an unresponsive elderly female.
No pulse, no respirations starting CBR. Her eyes flicked open
like a doll's to reveal a milky white. She had
no iris, no pupil It was like the life was
strained from them. I froze, hands still on her chest.
Jake made a sound I'd never heard another human make,
something between a gasp and a whimper. The woman's head
turned toward me, smooth and mechanical, and her hands shot
out and grabbed my wrist. Her grip was ice cold
and strangely strong. Her mouth moved, her voice dry, crackling
like old paper. They're already here, she said, why did
you come? I tried to pull away. Her fingers dug
into my wrist. Ma'am, let go. Why did you come?
Jake was backing toward the door, the ambi bag falling
from his hands. I yanked my arm hard and a
grip released. All at once. I scrambled backward, and the
woman's head lolled back to center, eyes still open, still white,
and then she just stopped. The monitor, which Jake managed
to attach, showed a flat line. My sisterly she was dead,
really dead this time? What the hell? Jake was saying,
over and over, what the hell? What the hell? I
checked a pulse again, just to be sure nothing. Skin
already cooling. She'd been dead before we started CPR, maybe
hours before. I looked at her eyes. They were normal,
now brown clouded with death, but normal. We need to go,
I said, what we need to leave now. I grabbed
the monitor started packing up. Jake didn't argue. We were
out of that apartment in thirty seconds, and I pulled
the door shut behind us. In the hallway, I turned
back to lock The door to Fort f was gone,
just wall and faded wallpaper. Jake saw it too, down
the stairs. I said, don't run, walk normally, don't say anything.
We made it to the ambulance just as a black
sedan pulled up to the curb with tinted windows and
no plates. It wasn't the police. Two people got out,
a man and a woman, both in dark suits that
looked expensive. They moved with purpose, neither hurrying nor wasting time.
The woman approached me while the man headed into the building.
Responded to the call at twelve forty seven Riverside. She asked.
Her voice was pleasant, professional, like she was asking about
the weather. Yes, what did you find? I looked at Jake.
He was staring at the woman like she was speaking
a foreign language. An apartment for F I said, elderly
woman unresponsive. We started resuscitation, but she was already apartment
for e. The woman corrected, smiling, not a warm smile,
a smile that said we were going to agree with her.
You responded to apartment for e elderly woman deceased and
arrival natural causes likely cardiac arrest. You assessed the patient,
confirmed she was beyond resuscitation, and cleared the scene standard
d u A protocol. She pulled out a tablet, tapped
the screen a few times, then turned it toward me.
There was a report already filled out, my name at
the top. Everything she just said was typed neatly into
the appropriate fields. That's what happened, she said. It wasn't
a question. I looked at the report, looked at her.
She was still smiling. Sign here, she said, offering me
a stylus. My hand was shaking. I could feel Jake
staring at me, waiting to see what I'd do. I
thought about magnus again. I took the stylus and signed
it excellent, the woman said, taking the tablet back, You
did good work tonight. The familyppreciates your professionalism during a
difficult time. What family, Jake blurted out. The woman looked
at him for the first time, really looked at him.
Jake went pale. The family of the deceased, she said, slowly,
like she was explaining something to a child in apartment.
For e. You should go back to your station now.
I'm sure you have other calls waiting. She walked back
to the sedan. The man emerged from the building a
moment later, carrying a black bag I hadn't seen him
take in. They got in the car and drove away.
Jake and I stood there for a long moment, and
we drove back to the station in complete silence. Jake
kept opening his mouth like he was going to say something,
then closing it again. My wrist still hurt where the woman,
the dead woman, the woman with white eyes, had grabbed me.
I found a bruise there, five finger shaped marks, dark
purple against my skin. They didn't fade for two weeks.
Magnus was at the station when we got back. I
saw him through the bay doors as I pulled in,
sitting at the table in the common room with a
cup of coffee, looking completely fine, like he'd been waiting.
Jake practically ran inside, mumbling something about needing to use
the bathroom. I heard him lock himself in and turn
on the fawcet I walked in. Magnus looked up at me,
and I saw it in his eyes immediately. He knew
you got a type seven call, didn't you, he said quietly.
I sat down across from him. What the hell was that, Magnus?
He glanced toward the hallway, making sure we were alone.
A system for like certain calls, type sevens, they get
rooted to experience crews, people who can handle irregularities. Irregularities
things that don't fit in normal reports, heart attacks that
aren't medical, accidents that aren't accidental, calls from addresses that
shouldn't exist. He leaned forward. There are things in this
city that don't belong in the daylight. Most people never
see them, but sometimes something breaks through. Someone calls nine
to one one and someone has to respond, So they
send us. They send paramedics who can handle it, who
can see something impossible, do their job anyway, and then
let it go. He looked at me hard. You did
good tonight. You signed the report. That's exactly what you're
supposed to do. What happens if I hadn't signed it.
Magnus went very quiet. He stared into his coffee. Magnus,
don't ask questions you don't want to answered, he said. Finally,
just do the job, file the paperwork, go home to
your family. The people in the suits, I said, they're
the ones who clean it up, quality assurance. They handled everything,
make sure he doesn't get into the news, doesn't cause panic.
They have protocols, procedures and prefard reports, he paused. They've
been doing this for decades, maybe longer. How many paramedics
have work Type sevens doesn't over the years, Most handle
it like you did see something wrong, do their job,
sign the paperwork, go home. They get hazard pay and
don't ask questions. His jaw tightened. The ones who do
ask questions transfer to other departments, or take early retirement,
or have accidents the way, he said, accidents made my
blood run cold. I've been doing this for fifteen years.
Magnus continued, stopped counting the Type sevens at one hundred.
I was told to call in sick tonight. I hope
they'd reassigned your call to someone with more experience, but
they sent you anyway. He stood up and put a
hand on my shoulder. Because you're good at your job.
You stay calm, you can handle it, and you've proved
them right. He headed for the door. Then stop, go home,
get some rest, Nick Shift, we'll be back to normal
chaos overdoses and car accidents, regular stuff. He looked back
at me. Don't upset the balance, Just do your job,
sign the paperwork, and go home. Then he was gone.
Jake emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, pale
but composed. Are we going to talk about what happened?
He asked. I thought about Magnus's warning about the woman
in the suit and a pleasant smile. No, and I said,
we're not. Jake nodded and left without another word. I
sat alone in the common room, staring at the bruises
on my wrist, five finger shaped marks, dark purple against
my skin. Somewhere in this city, right now, there were
things that didn't belong, Things up broke the rules of reality,
and there was an entire system designed to make sure
no one ever knew about them. I was part of
that system now, whether I wanted to be or not.
A week past seven shifts of normal calls, a stabbing
in Englewood, a three car pile up on Lake Shore Drive,
an elderly man with pneumonia, two overdoses, a diabetic emergency.
Jake and I didn't talk about the apartment. Magnus acted
like nothing had happened. The bruises on my wrist faded
to yellow, then disappeared. I almost convinced myself that it
would be a one time thing. Then on a Tuesday night,
at eleven thirty four p m. The dispatcher's voice came
over the radio with that same careful, flat tone, Medic
forty seven, we have multiple casualties at Downtown Station, Redline
platform Track three. Fire and police are en route. Magnus
was driving. He let out a deep breath, but he
didn't say anything, just flipped on the lights and sirens.
Multiple casualties, I said, trained derailment dispatcher didn't say, they
always say. Magnus didn't respond. We arrived before fire or police.
The station entrance was still open and a few late
night commuters were heading down the stairs, completely oblivious Magnus
grabbed the jump bag and traumak it. I took the
monitor and oxygen. Were descended into the station, risingly empty
for a Tuesday night, just the CTA worker at the
booth reading something on his phone. He didn't look up
as we passed. The platform was deserted. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead,
Somewhere water dripped. The electric sign said the next train
would arrive in four minutes. And on the tracks, five
people were lying motionless. They were arranged almost neatly, parallel
to each other, like they'd lay down deliberately. Two men,
three women, ranging in age from maybe twenty to sixty,
different races, different clothing, nothing connecting them that I could see. Jeez,
I muttered. Moving toward the edge of the platform, we
climbed down onto the tracks. I checked for the sound
of an approaching train. Nothing in both directions was dark
and silent. I knelt beside the first body, a woman
in a business suit. Her eyes were open, staring upward.
Her mouth was open to frozen in what looked like
a scream. The expression on her face was pure terror
and look I'd only seen a few times in my
career on people who died violently, no pulse, skin already cooling.
This one's gone, I said, moving to the next. Magnus
was checking the others, moving quickly from one body to
the next. I heard him mutter something under his breath. Magnus,
they were all dead. He sat back on his heels.
And they've been gone for hours. Riga mortis is already
setting in. I looked at my watch. Dispatch called this
in ten minutes ago, I know. I examined the man
in front of me more closely, middle aged, wearing jeans
and a cup's jacket. No visible injuries, nothing to indicate
the cause of death, just that same expression of absolute terror,
mouth open, eyes wide. And then I saw it on
his neck, just below his left ear, A small circular burn,
perfectly round, maybe the size of a dime. The skin
was blackened at the center, red around the edges. Magnus,
I pointed, look at this. I checked the woman in
the business suit, same mark, same location, left side of
the neck, just below the ear. They all have it,
I said, moving to the third body. All of them
have the same. Magnus moved fast, pulling a sheet from
the trauma bag and draping it over the nearest body.
Don't look too close. What, Magnus, This is evidence we
need to document. We need to wait for quality assurance.
He was covering the other bodies. Now, his movements quick
and efficient. That's all we need to do. Five people
are dead, Magnus. They have identical marks on their necks.
That's not coincidence. That's not our job. He finished covering
the last body and stud of pulling me back toward
the platform. Our job is to confirm their deceased and
secure the scene. That's it. I heard footsteps from the
platform above us, multiple people moving with purpose. Two CTA
supervisors appeared first, both in Transit Authority uniforms. Behind them
four people in suits, three men and one woman. Not
the same woman from the apartment, but she had the
same professional, detached expression. Paramedics one of the suits said,
not quite a question, what's the situation. Magnus climbed back
onto the platform, pulling me up after him. Five deceased
individuals on the tracks, no visible cause of death, no
train involvement. The woman in the suit nodded like this
was exactly what she'd expected to hear. She gestured to
the others and they climbed down onto the tracks, pulling
back the sheets Magnus had just placed. One of them
had a device. I didn't recognize something that looked like
a Geiger counter, but wasn't. He waved it over each body,
checking her read out confirmed, he said, uietly. All five.
The woman turned back to us. Thank you for responding.
We'll take it from here. What about the police, I asked,
Fire department, this is a crime scene. There's been a
malfunction with the emergency call system, she said smoothly. A
false alarm triggered multiple dispatch codes. Fire and police have
been notified and the response is not needed. There are
five dead people. There are no casualties, she interrupted, still
smiling that same professional smile. You responded to a false
alarm at Downtown station equipment malfunction. You found the platform empty.
That's what happened. Magnus put a hand on my shoulder
a warning. I looked back at the tracks. The suits
were already moving the par working with practiced efficiency. One
of them was taking photographs with a camera that I
had no flash. Another was collecting samples from something on
the platform. Equipment malfunction. The woman repeated, you can follow
your report back at the station. We were dismissed. Marcus
led me back through the station, past the CTA worker
who still hadn't looked up from his phone, up the stairs,
the street level. The ambulance was where we'd left it.
Get in, Magnus said, I got in. We drove three
blocks in silence before I finally spoke. What killed them?
I don't know, Magnus, I don't know, he repeated, harder
this time, and I don't want to know, neither should you.
They had burns on their necks, all of them, same location,
same size. I know, So what does that? What kills
five people with no visible trauma except a small burn.
Magnus's jaw was tight. Something we're not equipped to handle,
something that quality assurance will figure out and contain and
make sure never happens again. He glanced at me. That's
how this works. We respond, we confirm, we report, They
handle the rest. They're covering it up. They're preventing panic.
There's a difference. I thought about those faces that terror.
Whatever those five people had seen before they died, it
had been bad enough to literally freeze the fear in
their faces. How many calls like this have you worked?
I asked, Magnus was quiet for a long time enough
to know that asking questions doesn't change anything. It just
makes it harder to sleep at night. We got back
to the station at twelve forty seven am. There was
a report already waiting in my inbox, refilled just like
last time, false alarm equipment malfunction, so that form was empty,
cleared seen at twelve fifteen. I signed it, but when
I got home that morning, I couldn't sleep. I kept
seeing those five bodies lined up on the tracks, those
open mouths, those wide eyes, that perfect circular burn, and
I kept thinking, somewhere in this city something had killed
five people in a way that left almost no evidence,
something that made experienced paramedics look away and suits with
strange equipment show up with a minute, something that Quality
Assurance wanted to make sure no one ever knew about.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to
the distant sound of the L train rumbling past. I
wondered how many other people had died like that, Wondering
how many more would I started looking through old reports
during my downtime at the station, not trying to draw attention,
just pulling up calls from the database while Magnus was
out on runs, but during slow nights when no one
was paying attention. The pattern emerged quickly once I knew
what I was looking for. Calls with minimal documentation, a
few lines, barely any detail, no follow ups, and no
patient transport, just cleared scene or unfounded or referred to
other agency. And they were always handled by the names
veteran paramedics, people who'd been on the job for ten, fifteen,
or twenty years. I started tracking the names. Richards fourteen
years on the job, transferred to fire Prevention in twenty nineteen,
Kleine eighteen years, early retirement in twenty twenty one, Peters
eleven years, transferred to Training division in twenty twenty. The
pattern was consistent. Worked the job for years, handled dozens
or hundreds of these minimal documentation calls, then suddenly leave
field work. One name kept appearing more than others, Sophie Wu.
She worked as a paramedic for twelve years from two
thousand and nine to twenty twenty one. Her name was
on over two hundred reports with minimal documentation, more than
anyone else I'd found. Then, in March twenty twenty one,
she took early retirement. After that nothing, Her name just
disappeared from the system entirely. I found her obituary on
the third page of Google results. Sophie Wu, thirty eight,
died in a single vehicle accident and I two ninety
on June fifteenth, twenty twenty one. She is survived by
a sister, Michel Wou, of Portland, Oregon, three months after
early retirement car accident. I stared at the obituary photo.
She looked tired, older than thirty eight. I closed the
browser and sat in the quiet station, listening to the
hum of the fluorescent light. How many Type seven calls
at Sophie Wu worked two hundred documented, probably more that
weren't in the system, twelve years of responding to things
that shouldn't exist, of signing pre filled reports and not
asking questions. And then she tried to leave. I looked
at the clock three forty two am. Magnus was due
back from a call any minute. I cleared my browser
history and went back to scrolling through my phone, pretending
I'd just been killing time. But I couldn't stop thinking
about that photo, about the look in Sophie Woo's eyes.
She'd known something and knowing had gotten her killed. The
question was how much could I learn before I ended
up the same way. The call came in six fifteen pm,
right at shift change, structural fire, Westmont Towers, eighteen forty
North Clark twenty, third floor, multiple units responding. We could
see the smoke from six blocks away, dark clouds billowing
from the upper floors of a luxury high rise in
Lincoln Park. By the time we arrived, it was a
full response, four fire trucks, two ladder companies, police blocking
off the street. An ambulance is staged in a line chaos,
residents streaming out of the building in their expensive athlesire,
where some carrying pets, others on their phones recording everything.
Magnus parked at the staging area. We were the third
ambulance un scene. A man in a suit appeared at
my window. Before I could even open the door, Medic
forty seven. He said, here, come with me side entrance.
Magnus and I exchanged the glance. He grabbed a jump bag.
Without a word. The suit led us from the chaos
around the corner to a service entrance. A service elevator
was waiting, doors open. We got in the suit pressed
twenty three what's the situation? I asked, single occupant unresponsive,
twenty third floor, What about the fire? He didn't answer.
The elevator rose in silence and watched the numbers climb.
The doors open on the twenty third floor, no smoke, fire,
or heat. The hallway was pristine, cream colored walls, expensive
light fixtures, the faint smell of whatever cleaning product rich
people use. The suit led us to apartment twenty three
oh four. The door was open. Inside the apartment was immaculate,
floor to ceiling windows with a view of the lake.
Modern furniture, the kind you scene magazines. Everything clean and
perfectly arranged, except for the walls. Scorch marks covered every surface,
not random, but imperfect geometric patterns, circles within circles, lines
intersecting at precise angles, symbols I didn't recognize. The marks
were burned into the paint, the dry wall beneath blackened
and cracked. And in the center of the living room,
sitting in a leather armchair facing the windows, was a man.
He was maybe forty, wearing a dress shirt and slacks.
His hands were on the armrests, his head tilted back
slightly His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. He
wasn't breathing. Magnus moved forward, checking for a pulse. I
set up the monitor and attached the leads flat line.
How long has he been down? I asked the suit unknown.
I checked the man's skin, normal temperature, no rigor mortis.
He looked like he died minutes ago, not hours. But
something was wrong. His expression was blank, completely empty, like
someone had raised everything behind his eyes. Magnus pulled out
up pen light and checked the man's pupils, fixed and dilated.
I looked around the apartment again. Those geometric patterns burned
into every wall, the precision of them, nothing else was damaged.
My eyes landed on the coffee table. The man's phone
was there, screen still lit. A text message was open.
Don't tell them what you saw, Magnus, I said, quietly,
look at this. He glanced at the phone, then quickly
looked away. But I saw his jaw tighten. What did
he see? I asked. Magnus didn't answer. He was checking
the man's vitals again, but his hands were shaking. Magnus,
what did he we confirm death and clear the scene,
Magnus said, his voice tight. That's all footsteps in the hallway.
Three more suits entered, along with two people in hasmaic
gear carrying equipment. I didn't recognize the lead suit, a
different one, older with gray at his temples. Looked at us.
Status male, approximately forty years old, deceased. Magnus said, no
obvious cause of death. The suit nodded gas leak. Explosion,
single fatality, standard procedure. He gestured toward the door. We'll
take it from here. Gas leak. I said, there's no
damage except gas leak. The suit repeated, harder this time,
you can clear the scene. Magnus was already packing up.
I followed him out, glancing back once. The people in
hasmat suits were spraying something on the walls. The scorch
marks were disappearing, the geometric patterns fading like they'd never existed. Outside,
the fire trucks were already leaving. The smoke or whatever
it had been, was gone. Residents were being led back
into the building by police officers who were explaining that
there'd been a small gas leak on the twenty third floor,
quickly contained, no danger, Everything was fine, and they believed it.
I watched them nod, relieved, already pulling out their phones.
The text friends and family that everything was okay. We
got back in the ambulance. Magnus drove three blocks from
the scene. He pulled a flask from under his seat
and took a long drink. I'd worked with Magnus for
six years. I'd never seen him drink and shift. Magnus, don't,
he said, just don't. He took another drink, then put
the flask away and kept driving. I locked at my hands.
They were shaking too. That text message kept playing in
my mind. Don't tell them what you saw. Whatever that
man had seen, it had killed him, killed him and
burned impossible patterns into his walls, and now it was
like it had never happened at all. I found Magnus
in the station locker room at the end of the shift,
sitting on the bench with his head in his hands.
I need to know what we're dealing with, I said.
He didn't look up. No you don't, Yes, I do.
I sat down next to him. That man in the apartment,
those five people on the tracks, the woman in four
f I need to know what's killing them. It doesn't
matter what it matters to me. Magnus finally He looked
at me. He looked exhausted, older than I'd ever seen him.
You think this city runs on laws and logic, he
said quietly, Traffic laws and building codes and the natural
order of things. He laughed, But there was no humor
in it. It doesn't. There are things that live here
alongside us, old things, wrong things, things that don't care
about our rules because they operate on different ones. I waited.
He was finally talking. Quality assurance. Isn't a department, he continued.
It's a protocol when reality breaks, when something that shouldn't
exist does exist, When the rules stop working, someone has
to clean it up, contain it, make sure it doesn't spread.
The people in suits we call them adjusters. They modify records, memories,
and sometimes evidence. They make the impossible possible to ignore.
He rubbed his face. Paramedics like us, with the first responders,
We show up when reality is still broken, when the
scene is still fresh. We confirm what we can. We
document what really happened, not in the official reports, but
somewhere someone keeps track, and then we let the adjustice
bury it. Why the word came out harder than I intended?
Why cover it up? Five people died on those tracks.
That man in the apartment saw something that killed him.
Don't they deserve, deserve what the truth? Marcus stood up pacing. Okay,
say we tell the truth. Say we put it in
the official record. Five people killed by an unknown entity,
the geometric burn patterns of unknown origin, an apartment that
appears and disappears. What happens? Then? I didn't answer. I'll
tell you what happens. News picks it up. Social media explodes.
People start asking questions, demanding answers, and when they don't
get answers that make sense, they panic. They stop taking
the train, they stop going to work. They start seeing
threats everywhere because now they know, really know, that there
are things out there that can kill them in ways
that they can't understand or prevent. He turned to face me.
The city collapses, not in a bang, but slowly, fierce
spreads faster than any disease. Trust in institutions evaporates, and
there's things out there, those old wrong things on that fear.
They get stronger, more bold, and more people die. I
felt cold. So we just pretend it's not happening. We
contain it, We respond, We document for the people who
need to know, and we let everyone else believe in
gas leaks and equipment malfunctions and natural causes. His voice softened.
This way life goes on. People go to work, raise
their families, and live their lives. They're safe because they
don't know they're in danger. Ignorance isn't just bliss here,
it's survival. I thought about those residents at Westmont Towers,
nodding along as police explain the gas leak, relieved, already
moving on with their lives. How long has this been
going on in Chicago? Since before there was a Chicago.
Every city has it, has always had it, London, Tokyo,
New York, Mexico City, anywhere where humans gather in large numbers,
the things that live in the cracks gather too, and
every city as people like us first responders who see
what's really there, and adjustice, who make sure no one
else has to the weight of it settled on me
every call we'd run, every PREFID report i'd signed. I
wasn't just a paramedic anymore. I was part of a
massive cover up. I found Sophie Woo's obituary, I said quietly.
Magnus went very still. She worked type sevens for twelve years.
Then she retired. Then she died in a car accident
three months later. I know, was it really an accident?
Magnus was quiet for a long time. I don't know.
Maybe maybe she just got unlucky, he looked at me.
Or maybe she started asking too many questions, started digging
too deep, started thinking she could do something about it,
and they killed her for it. I don't know, he repeated,
But I know she's dead. And I know a dozen
other paramedics who worked Type sevens and left the job early,
and most of them are fine. They're teaching EMT classes,
working desk jobs, or retired to Florida. They moved on.
They let it go. He sat back down next to me.
You're a good paramedic. You stay calm, you've I think fast.
You save lives. That's worth something that matters. His voice
was almost pleading. Now, don't throw that away, trying to
fight something you can't beat. Just do the job, sign
the reports, go home. I looked at my hands steady now,
but I could still feel the ghost of that dead
woman's grip on my wrist. What if I can't let
it go, I asked. Magnus closed his eyes. Then you
end up like Sophie Woo, one way or another. We
sat in silence outside. I could hear the day shift arriving,
voices in the hallway, someone laughing at a joke. I
couldn't hear normal life going on like it always did.
Built and a foundation of lies and cover ups and
things that shouldn't exist, and I was part of it. Now.
The question was could I live with that? Or were
trying to expose it? Kill me? First A text came
three days after my conversation with Magnus, unknown number, meeting
to morrow, two p m. Fifteen fifteen, West Monroe, Sweet
eight hundred, come alone, no signature and no explanation. I
showed it to Magnus during our shift. He read it,
his face going pale. Don't go, he said, what is it?
They want to talk to you, the adjusters. He handed
my phone back. If you don't go, they'll come to
you if you do go, he trailed off. What just
be careful what you agree to? Fifteen fifteen West Monroe
was a generic office building in the West Loop glass
and steel, the kind of place that housed insurance companies
and consulting firms. Nothing remarkable, Sweet eight hundred had no
name on the door, just the number. I knocked. The
door opened immediately. A woman stood there, mid forties, wearing
a charcoal suit, professional put together. She smiled like we
were old friends. Thank you for coming. I'm direct to read,
she gestured inside. Please. The office was small, a desk,
two chairs, no windows, completely anonymous. She sat behind the desk.
I took the chair across from her. You've been doing
excellent work, she began. Your reports are thorough, your discretion
is noted, you respond well under pressure, you don't panic,
and you understand the importance of protocol. Thank you, I said,
because I didn't know what else to say. We'd like
to offer you a position. She slid a folder across
the desk, Specialized Response Unit. You'd be responding exclusively to
type seven calls, full clearance, significant pay increase. We're talking
double your current salary, better benefits, hazard pay, pension. I
opened the folder. The numbers were real, so was the
benefits package. This wasn't a token offer. You'd be part
of the whole picture, read continued. No more signing reports.
You don't understand. You'd be part of the team that
handles these situations from start to finish. I looked up
at her. What is the whole picture? She smiled. That's
what the clearance is for. But understand, this isn't a
job you do for a few years then move on.
Once you're in, you don't leave. Early retirement isn't an option.
You work until we say you're done, and then you
transition to a consulting role. You stay in the system
for how long as long as necessary. She pulled out
a tablet, tapped the screen, then turned it toward me.
Let me show you something. The screen displayed a file directory, names, dates, photographs.
I recognize some of them. Paramedics I'd found in my research, Peter's, Klein's, Richard's,
and Sophie Wu. These are people who tried to walk away,
read said quietly. People who worked Type seven calls, who
gained knowledge, who then decided they didn't want to be
part of the system anymore. She swiped through the files,
each one showing a different outcome. Richard's transferred to fire Prevention,
still alive, still working clin early retirement, moved to Arizona alive,
Peter's Training Division alive. Then Sophie Wu deceased car accident,
then some others. I didn't recognize missing persons reports, unsolved deaths,
suicides that look suspicious. We take care of our people,
read said, We really do. Good salary, good benefits, protection,
you work with us, We make sure you're safe, We
make sure your family is safe. We make sure you
have a long, comfortable career and a peaceful retirement. She
closed the files and looked at me directly. But only
if you stay in line, only if you follow a protocol,
Only if you understand that this knowledge comes with responsibility,
she paused. People who try to expose what they've seen,
who try to go public, who think they can walk
away and live a normal life. They don't understand how
deep this goes, how many people are invested in keeping
things quiet. Are you threatening me? I'm offering you a choice.
She slid the folder closer the position. Join the specialized unit,
see the whole picture, make real money, be part of
something important. Or stay where you are, keep running regular
calls with magnus, sign the occasional Type seven report, and
eventually transfer to a nice desk job when you're ready.
And if I don't want either option, if I want
out completely, Reed's smile didn't change but something shifted in
her eyes. Then you'd be making a mistake because you've
already know too much. You've worked multiple Type seven calls,
You've done research, You've found Sophie Woo's obituary. She leaned
forward slightly. You're already in the system. The only question
is whether you're an asset or a liability. The room
felt small suddenly, think about it, Reid said, standing, you
don't have to decide today, but don't take too long.
We're starting a new training cycle next month. I'd like
you in it. She walked me to the door, handed
me a business card, just a phone number, nothing else.
Call when you're ready, and remember we're not the enemy.
We're the people keeping the city running, keeping people safe.
That's worth something. The door closed behind me. I stood
in the hallway, staring at the business card, an opportunity
a threat both at once. I thought about Sophie Woo,
about whether her accident was really an accident, about whether
I'd have a choice at all if I said no.
My phone buzzed, Magnus, how did it go? I didn't
know how to answer, because I was starting to realize
that the moment I'd signed that first report, the moment
I'd walked into Apartment four F, I'd stopped having choices.
I was in the system now. The only question was
how deep was I willing to go. I called the
number and reader's card three days later. I appreciate the offer,
I told her, but I'm going to stay where I am.
Silence on the other end, Then, are you sure this
is a significant opportunity. I'm sure. I'm a paramedic. I
want to keep doing that job. Another pause. All right,
the offer stands if you've change your mind, but remember
what we discussed. She hung up. Magnus seemed relieved when
I told him, good He said, smart choice. Keep your
head down, do the work, don't ask questions. For a
few weeks, everything was normal, overdoses, chest pain, car accidents,
regular calls, no Type sevens. Then, on a Wednesday night,
at ten forty eight pm, Medic forty seven, officer down,
Industrial District, per nineteen police en route. Officer down. Marcus's
brow furrowed. Officer down. Calls don't go through our dispatch.
We drove in Silence. Per nineteen was in the abandoned
industrial district along the river, empty warehouses, broken windows and
trailing fences with holes cut through them, no police cars
or lights, just the black sedan parked near the warehouse entrance,
and a justice stood beside it, a younger man, expressionless inside.
He said, second floor. We followed him through the warehouse.
Our flashlights cut through the darkness, illuminating rusted machinery, broken pallets,
graffiti on the walls. The air smelled like mold and
rust and something chemical. The second floor was one large
open space, empty except for what was in the center,
a perfect circle of salt, maybe six feet in diameter,
and inside it her body. A police officer uniform still visit,
lying on his back. But something was wrong. His skin
was gray, sunken, tight against his bones. His eyes were sunken,
his mouth open. He looked mummified, desiccated, like he'd been
dead for years. Magnus checked his watch. Call came in
twenty minutes ago. I knelt at the edge of the
salt circle, not crossing it now, Paul, sobviously. The body
was completely dried out, like something had sucked every drop
of moisture from it. Magnus moved closer, shining his light
on the officer's face. Then he went very still. I
know him, he said quietly, Jack Hargrave. He was a
beatcop in the twelfth District. You know him. He worked
with Sophie Woo. Marcus's voice was tight. They responded to
scenes together before she retired. I looked at the adjuster.
What happened here? He didn't answer. Magnus stood up his flashlight,
sweeping the rest of the warehouse floor. Then he stopped,
the beam fixed on something in the darkness. Geez, he whispered.
I followed his light. More circles, dozens of them, scattered
across the warehouse floor in no particular pattern, all of
them perfect, made of salt, but empty. Magnus turned to
the adjuster. He was asking questions. Wasn't he about Sophie,
About what really happened to her? These justice expression didn't change.
Magnus I said, what are these? They're for people who
know too much. His voice was shaking. Now he grabbed
my arm. We need to leave now. We haven't finished
the assessment. There's nothing to assess. He's dead, he's been processed.
We need to go. I looked at the empty circles again,
dozens of them waiting Magnus. Now he walked back through
the warehouse faster this time. The adjuster didn't follow. I
could feel his eyes on my back until we reached
the exit. Magnes didn't speak until we're in the ambulance, doors,
locked engine, running those circles, he said, staring straight ahead.
They're not just for containment, they're for disposal, for people
who've become problems. He had just as did that. I
don't know. Maybe maybe they're just cleaning up after something
else does it. Either way, He finally looked at me,
and I saw the real fear in his eyes. Jack
was a good cop. He and Sophie were close. After
she died, he started asking questions, talked to her sister,
looked into her accident. And now he's dead in a
warehouse full of empty circles. You think they killed him.
I think he knew too much and didn't stop asking questions,
and they just showed you what happens when you crossed
that line. He put the ambulance in gear and drove.
His hands were shaking on the wheel. I looked back
at the warehouse and the black sedan still parked outside.
Somewhere in there, Jack Hargrave's body was being processed, documented
and raised and dozens of empty salt circles were waiting
for the next person who asked too many questions. I
thought about the folder in my apartment, the research I've
been doing, the names I've been tracking. I thought about
Reader's offer, once you're in, you don't leave. And I
thought about those empty circles. Magnus was right, we needed
to leave. All I could think was had I already
crossed the line? Were they just waiting for me to
take one more step? My day off, I was at home,
halfway through a load of laundry when my phone buzzed
with an emergency page Type seven. All available units respond immediately.
The address made my stomach drop Chicago Memorial Hospital, our
hospital where we brought patients every shift. I grabbed my
keys and drove. The scene was chaos. Police had carded
off three blocks. Fire trucks lined the street. At least
six ambulances were staged in the parking lot, and more
were arriving, but no one was going inside. The entire
east wing was sealed, plastic sheeting over the doors adjust
as in hazmat suits. Moving in and out through a
decontamination tent. I found Magnus near the ambulance staging area.
His face was gray. What's happening, I asked, I don't know.
They called everyone in, every paramedic whose work type SEVENS.
He looked at the hospital. Something's wrong, really wrong. An
adjuster approached someone I didn't recognize. You two with me.
We were led through a decontamination tent, given masks and gloves,
then through the sealed doors into the east wing. The
hallway was empty, emergency lighting cast everything in red. The
air smelled like ozone and something rotting. We were taken
down two flights of stairs to the basement level, to
the morgue. The doors were propped open. Inside, at least
a dozen adjusters were working frantically setting up equipment, taking readings,
speaking urgently into radios. And the bodies were moving, not
all of them, but enough. Five maybe six corpses on
gurneys covered with sheets that were now sliding off as
the bodies beneath them jerked and twitched. Their movements were wrong,
spastic and uncoordinated, like puppets with tangled strings. One sat
up as I watched a woman maybe sixty, with a
white incisions soured across her chest. Her eyes were open,
but filmed over milky white. Her mouth open and closed,
open and closed, but no sound came out. My god,
Magnus whispered. An adjuster was near us, shouting into a radio.
Containment is failing. Repeat, containment is failing. We need black
protical authorization now. Another corpse rolled off its gurney and
hit the floor with a wet thud. It began crawling,
dragging itself forward with jerking mechanical movements toward us. Stay back,
and adjust the warned, pulling us away from the door,
but I couldn't look away. The crawling corpse was a man, young,
maybe thirty, hospital gown hanging off his gray skin. His
mouth was moving too, forming shapes words. I stepped closer,
trying to read his lips. Don't magna started. The corpse's
hands shot out and grabbed my ankle. The grip was cold,
impossibly strong. I tried to pull away but couldn't. Its
mouth kept moving, and suddenly I could hear it, something
directly in my head, like a voice made of static.
It's spreading. You can't contain it anymore, and adjuster pulled
me back, breaking the corpse's grip. Two others moved in
with some kind of device, pressing it against the body.
There was a flash of light and the corpse went still,
But the others were still moving, still jerking and twitching,
still mouthing silent words. The doors burst behind us. Director
Reads strode in, flanked by four more adjusters. She took
one look at the scene, and a professional composer cracked
for just the second. How many she demanded? Seven? Animated
more showing early signs, hits accelerating, initiate protocol black, Clear
the building. Every one out now, Director, We haven't contained,
I said. Now. She turned to the adjusters around the room,
full lockdown, no one in or out. With sealing this
entire wing. Magnus grobbed my arm and pulled me toward
the exit. We were swept along with a tide of adjusters,
evacuating the morgue, up the stairs, through the decontamination tent,
out into the parking lot. Alarms were blaring. Now the
entire hospital was being evacuated. Patients, staff, visitors, everyone streaming
out of the exits, confused, frightened, and demanding answers. The
justics were already moving through the crowd with practice deficiency,
herding people away from the east wing, explaining in calm
voices that there had been a gas leak, that it
was a precautionary evacuation, that everything was under control. Magnus
pulled me away from the crowd behind one of the ambulances.
This is it, he said, his voice shaking. Whatever they've
been covering up, whatever they've been containing all these years,
it's breaking through. It's getting stronger. What's that down there?
I don't know, but I know it's never happened before.
Did you see their faces? They were panicking, The adjusters
were panicking. We watched as more hazmat suited figures entered
the east wing. Through the windows, I could see flashes
of light. He muffled sounds that might have been screams
or might have been something else. By four am, the
evacuation was complete. The official story was already spreading gas
leak no injuries. Hospital would reopen in the morning after
safety checks, and by eight am it did. The East
wing was unsealed, patients were moved back in, staff returned
to work. The morgue reopened like nothing had happened. I
was put on mandatory leave the next day, stress related.
They called it two weeks full pay see the department
counselor before returning to duty. Magnus retired just like that,
sent an email to the director, turned in his badge
and gear, and disappeared. I called him six times. He
never answered. Three days into my leave, a package arrived
at my apartment. It had no return address, just my
name on a plane Manila envelope inside a new ID badge,
my photo, my name, but a different title, Specialized Response
Unit Level two clearance, and a note typed on plain paper.
You don't have a choice anymore. You were there, you
saw it. The situation is escalating and we need experienced personnel.
Report Monday six a m fifteen fifteen Westman Sweet eight hundred,
signed director read. That would have been enough, but there
was one more thing in the envelope. A photograph my
sister's house, the one she'd bought in Evanstone, her husband's car,
and the driveway my nephew's bike on the front lawn,
taken yesterday based on the date stamp in the corner.
There was no direct threat, just the photo, but the
implication was clear. I sat on my couch staring at
the ID badge, the note, the photograph. Magnus had been right.
Once you're in the system, you don't get out. And
I was in deep, now, too deep. I'd seen the
bodies wake up. I'd heard that voice in my head.
It's spreading. You can't contain it anymore. Whatever they've been
covering up for decades, maybe centuries, it was breaking through,
getting stronger, and they needed people who'd already seen it,
who already knew, to help them fight it, or contain it,
or die trying. Monday morning, six am, I didn't have
a choice. I never had. I reported to fifteen fifteen
West Monroe. The lobby was empty except for a security
guard who checked my ID and directed me to the elevator.
He pressed the button I hadn't noticed before, one with
a symbol I didn't recognize. The elevator went down and
down and down. When the doors opened, I wasn't in
Chicago anymore, not the Chicago people knew. Facility was massive,
a concrete bunker that stretched in every direction, lit by
harsh fluorescent lights. Dozens of people moved through the corridors
with purpose adjust as people in hasmat suits, others in
tactical gear. The computer stations lined the walls, displaying maps
of the city covered in red dots, so many red dots.
Director Reid was waiting. Welcome to operations. She said, this
is where the real work happens. She led me through
the facility, showed me labs where people analyze samples of
things I couldn't identify. Showed me holding cells with reinforced
doors and observation windows that looked into darkness. She showed
me an armory starked with equipment that definitely wasn't standard
medical gear. There are breaches throughout the city lane. As
we walked, places where reality is thin, where things from
the other side can push through. We've been managing them
for decades, containing them, cleaning up the aftermath. She stopped
in front of a massive display screen showing the map
of Chicago, red dots clustered in certain areas, the Industrial District,
part of the South Side, and the old subway tunnels.
Type seven calls used to be monthly, then weekly. Now
we're getting multiple calls per day. She looked at me.
We're losing ground. Whatever is on the other side, it's
pushing through, getting stronger. The incident at the hospital there
was a Category four breach, the largest we've ever had
in a populated area. What stopped it? We did barely.
She pulled up footage a tablet the hospital Morgue adjusters
with devices that pulsed with light, the bodies finally going still.
But it cost us three adjust as dead, two more
in medical, and we had to use Protocol black, which
means we burn through resources we can't easily replace. She
handed me a tablet. This is what we're dealing with.
This is why we need you. The footage showed other breaches,
an apartment where the walls were bleeding, a subway tunnel
with the tracks led into somewhere that wasn't Chicago, a
park where children's shadows moved independently of their bodies. You've
seen it, Reid said, You've been exposed. That makes you valuable.
Most people, when they see what's really there, their minds break,
They rationalize it away, forget it, or they're insane. But
some people, people like you, can see it and stay functional.
That's rare, that's necessary. She led me to a locker
room where a team was gearing up. Five people all
around my age, all with the same haunted look I'd
seen in Magnus's eyes. Your team, Reid said, they'll train
you you start today. A woman approached Asian early thirties
with a scar running down her left cheek. I'm Cho,
former paramedic, been with the unit for two years. She
handed me a vest. Put this on, we've got a call.
The vest was heavy, reinforced with something that wasn't just kevlar.
The equipment they gave me looked medical at first, glass bags, monitors,
and trauma supplies, but there were other things too, devices
I didn't recognize, containers filled with salt, iron fillings and
other substances. A weapon that looked like a cross between
a taser and something from a science fiction movie. What
is this? I asked. Tools Cho said you'll learn what
they do right now. Just stay close and follow my lead.
An alarm blared, red lights flashed a voice over the intercom.
Reality breach Category five, SECT seven, multiple entities. All available
units respond Category five worse than the hospital. The team
moved with practice deficiency, loading into an armored vehicle that
looked nothing like an ambulance. I climbed in after them.
As we pulled out of the facility through tunnels that
led god knows where, Joe handed me a helmet with
a visor. Put it on the visor filters. What you
see makes it easier to look at them directly. Look
at what she smiled, but there was no humor in it.
You'll see the vehicle accelerated. I looked at the team
around me. They were checking their equipment, loading their weapons,
preparing for something I couldn't imagine. I thought about Magnus,
about his warning, about Sophie Woo and Jack Hargrave and
all the others who tried to walk away. I thought
about my sister's house, that photograph. They were no longer
just making me part of the cover up. They were
making me part of the war. Whatever was pushing through
those breeches, whatever was made the dead wake up and
speaking voices made of static. We with a front line,
the people who responded when reality broke, the people who
fought to keep it from spreading. The vehicle burst out
of the tunnel into the pre dawn darkness of Chicago.
The city looked peaceful from here, normal people sleeping in
their homes, unaware of what moved in the spaces between.
Joe caught my eye. You okay, I just said, the
vest checked the equipment I didn't know how to use yet, No,
I said honestly. She nodded. Good. Fear keeps you sharp,
keeps you alive. The vehicle turned down a side street,
heading toward a warehouse district where reality was breaking and
things that shouldn't exist were pushing through, and I understood
finally what Magnus had been trying to tell me all along.
You can't walk away from this job, because once you've
seen what's really out there, it sees you too, and
it doesn't forget. The vehicle stopped, the team moved out,
and I followed them into the darkness, toward whatever was
waiting on the other side of reality. My first call
with the new unit, first of many, because here the
calls never stop, and now neither could I