The underground archive room of the Bureau headquarters was like a giant tin can stuffed with moldy papers and half-dead fluorescent lights. When Ethan opened the file marked "Top Sensitive", he felt something bizarre: as if he were peeling rotten meat while simultaneously unwrapping a birthday cake. The only difference—one makes you vomit, the other suffocates you.
The first page was blunt and neat:
"Thirty years ago, the Bureau and the government reached a formal agreement: to wield nightmares as weapons in exchange for national stability and prosperity."
Ethan froze for a moment, then let out a sharp laugh. Prosperity? If prosperity meant nationwide insomnia, collective anxiety, and an average life expectancy cut by three years, then yes—the government had nailed it.
He kept reading, and the details sent his blood pressure skyrocketing.
The file explained:
The government was responsible for mass-producing social anxiety—things like college entrance exams, sky-high housing prices, endless performance evaluations.
The Bureau's job was to harvest that anxiety, refine it into nightmare energy, and feed it to the Ancient Gods and a series of mysterious energy projects.
The entire process was wrapped in the holy cloak of "safeguarding national security," while conveniently suppressing dissent.
In short, human fear had become the nation's second-largest source of revenue—right after taxes.
An absurd image popped into Ethan's head: the finance minister standing before Congress, solemnly announcing, "According to the latest data, our citizens' anxiety GDP has risen 12% year-on-year. Especially among young people—their contribution is outstanding!" Then the chamber erupts in applause, congratulating each other as if this wasn't a mass harvest of sanity, but an economic miracle.
The dossier even came with a helpful "workflow chart." Ethan stared at the arrows, thinking it looked like the darkest corporate training material ever produced:
Government manufactures pressure.
Citizens grow anxious and sleepless.
Bureau harvests nightmares.
Energy transferred to Ancient Gods.
Ancient Gods grant "illusions of stability."
Government declares prosperity.
A seamless cycle, more polished than any ad agency's marketing chain.
The "illusions of stability" part was especially cruel. The file clarified: it was that nagging feeling of "life is hard, but at least the country is strong." That placebo-like comfort was nothing more than a cosmic-level sleep-aid commercial, courtesy of the Gods.
Ethan tossed the file onto the desk, laughing so hard he nearly choked.—He finally understood: he wasn't investigating the truth. He was the audience to a grand con.
But the laughter didn't last. In the corner of the room, the red light of a security camera flicked on—an indifferent eye.
"Agent Ethan," the Director's voice crackled through the intercom, dry as an old radio, "what you're seeing is the very foundation of this nation. You should feel honored, not suspicious."
Ethan looked up and sneered: "Honored? If my nightmares could offset my taxes, maybe then I'd feel honored."
The Director paused, then spoke in a lower tone: "Don't forget—your salary is part of this system too."
The words cut like a dull knife across his nerves. Ethan suddenly realized: every dollar he earned came from that vast nightmare machine. In other words, he was both feeding on others' insomnia and being fed to it himself.
That irony made him laugh even harder. The ultimate stage of black humor was realizing you were both executioner and victim.
A cough came through the speaker, as if to smother his hysteria. "Ethan, you know too much. Don't forget—those who know, on average, live half as long as ordinary agents."
The lights flickered. Filing cabinets slammed shut, eager to bury the truth once again.
Ethan rubbed his eyes and muttered, "So the entire nation is just a giant mental hospital… the only problem is, doctors and patients are all scribbling on the same medical chart."