Processing has already begun.

My ride comes to a halt.

“Get out.”

“You can’t just leave me—” I stop myself. “Where am I?”

The frosted glass offers nothing back but my own wilted reflection, stretched and pale.

“Up the stairs. Announce yourself to reception. They’re expecting you.”

The door unlocks. I lean into it with my shoulder and step out into the night.

Cold bites immediately. The kind that doesn’t sting so much as cling. It settles into exposed skin and stays there. I’m standing on a footpath beside a narrow road. High-rises climb upward in every direction, their lights staggered and uneven. Traffic crawls. Engines sigh. Voices drift without owners.

It could be any city in the world.

Almost.

The building entrance glows faintly ahead of me. Inside, the reception area is washed in a salmon-coloured palette that feels both intentional and punitive. Someone chose it. Someone signed off on it.

The receptionist looks up.

I gesture vaguely around the room. “Interesting colour.”

She doesn’t smile. “Got somethin’ against blacks?”

“What? No. I didn’t even— I was talking about— look, my name’s Donald. I was just dropped off outside and told to—”

She’s already looking down at her desk, answering a ringing phone. “Good mornin’, how may I direct your call? Hold the line.”

She covers the receiver with one finger and looks back at me.

“Donald McDonaldson. Level two. Third door on your right. Take a seat and wait until you’re called. Stairs to your left. Elevators behind your white ass.”

She presses a button. “Thank you for holding, now—”

“Who’s the appointment with?”

She makes eye contact. She does not answer.

I take the stairs.

The third door on the right opens into an office that smells faintly of stale cologne and old carpet. The furniture is cheap in a way that suggests it’s been replaced many times. Nothing personal. Nothing permanent.

A desk. A chair. A box of tissues. A pen and pad. Something small and metallic that looks like a charm for the confused.

A nameplate sits at the front of the desk.

THE CURATOR.

I pick it up and spin it idly between my fingers.

“Put that down.”

The voice is close. Too close.

Something large passes behind me. I don’t turn fully, just enough to register mass and movement. He settles into the chair with a sound like leather giving up.

I feel his attention before I see it. It presses in. Exploratory. Uninvited.

He snaps his fingers once. The sound is sharp enough to make my eyes water. He lights a cigar and draws on it slowly. Hickory. Wine. Smoke pools low in the room.

He’s wearing a yarmulke.

For a moment, I feel a stupid rush of relief. If he’s Jewish, this is a mistake. Clerical. Administrative. I can leave. I can go anywhere. Paris crosses my mind again, uninvited.

Then the thought curdles.

What if this is a stopover? What if this is where mistakes are corrected?

“Excuse me, sir,” I say, and my voice betrays me immediately. “I’m not Jewish, so I think there’s been some kind of—”

He smiles.

It’s genuine. And it’s wrong.

“You will not speak unless spoken to,” he says. “Unless I ask you a question. Or unless I point at you.”

He pauses, then adds, “Understood?”

I nod.

The room feels smaller now.

The door behind me does not open.

ACCESS NOTICE

Further material related to this file is restricted.

Extended records, internal annotations, and supplemental transmissions associated with Stage 2 are not available under standard clearance.

Access has not been denied. It has simply not been granted.

Additional material may be released if clearance conditions change. No timetable is provided.