The archive room's air was cold and dry, like an unwashed refrigerator. Ethan eyed a file labeled "Classified Discards."
A "discarded" case should have been useless. But when he opened it, a foul smell hit him—half mildew, half greasy midnight fried chicken. Decay with a pinch of temptation.
The first page was blunt: Nightmare energy originates from the Ancient God.
"Ancient God?" Ethan frowned. Sounded like bad horror fiction—or a TV gimmick. But as he read on, the details grew stranger.
—Millennia ago, collective human nightmares produced negative brainwaves that condensed into It. At first, a shapeless mass of sleepless faces; later, priests "contained" it, turning it into a tool of social stability.
In short: people sacrificed sleep, converting fear into energy—to light palaces, boil porridge, even roast meat.
Ethan's scalp prickled. But he couldn't help thinking:—If that's true, maybe today's electricity bills should come cheaper.
The file continued: a bored monk in the Middle Ages once tried contracting with the god. The result? His monastery dreamed the same dream for a century—copying scripture endlessly, never finishing the last letter. The earliest "infinite overtime policy."
Flipping to an illustration, Ethan saw a crude ink drawing of a giant eye, drooping like it hadn't slept in years. Note: "Its gaze induces nightmares, fueling the supply."
Then it hit him—If the Bureau's labs studied nightmares, weren't they basically unpaid interns for this god?
Sweat trickled down his back. He slammed the file shut—only for it to spring open on its own. Papers lifted into the air, morphing into nightmare invoices.
Case A47: Agent dreamed of losing teeth. Energy yield 0.3 kJ.Case C12: Civilian dreamed of being late for exams. Yield 0.6 kJ.Case E99: Ethan dreamed of reading files in the archive and being laughed at. Yield 1.5 kJ.
"…What the hell? Even my dreams are on the meter?" Ethan almost cursed.
The lights cut out. Total darkness. Only the file glowed, letters twisting into a sentence:
"The louder you laugh, the fuller I feed."
The voice was low, like from the theater's depths. Ethan recalled the colleagues in that dream theater, chomping popcorn.
—They weren't just the audience. They were livestock.
The light flicked back on. An old armchair now sat in the room. In it slouched a tall shadow, face lost in black haze, only those half-shut giant eyes showing—forever drowsy.
"So, you're the Ancient God?" Ethan asked cautiously.
The eyes blinked slowly. The voice was slurred: "Mm… more or less. I wanted to retire, honestly. But you humans keep stressing yourselves out. Endless nightmares, served up like buffet trays. Did you know? Anxiety is the most stable energy source in the universe."
Ethan's throat tightened, but one absurd thought crossed his mind:—If that's true, then the Director's basically your star preacher. Whole Bureau's job is manufacturing anxiety.
The god chuckled, as if reading him. "Exactly. The Director is my accountant. He ensures every nightmare is delivered on time. As for you agents—you're just ants on the production line."
"…And me?" Ethan blurted. "What am I?"
The giant eyes drooped, amusement flickering: "You? You're the best ad campaign. A man endlessly questioning, clawing for exits but never finding one. When others see you, they feel their nightmares aren't so bad. So they relax… and keep feeding me."
Ethan was speechless. The black humor cut deep—he wasn't a key player, just the propaganda poster for fear.
The file snapped shut, punctuation on the absurd revelation. Silence returned to the archive, broken only by Ethan's ragged breathing. But he knew—from now on, whenever he closed his eyes, laughter would echo in the dark:
"Welcome to the Ancient God's buffet—today's special: your breakdown."