Ethan had always thought the Director was one of those fox-like veterans of the human world—cold-blooded, shrewd, his voice carrying the faint burnt-coffee tang of an office machine that had seen too many all-nighters.
But one sleepless night, Ethan caught sight of him standing alone before the glass wall of the conference room. The man looked less like a leader and more like a statue hollowed out by time.
The Director didn't bark orders, nor did he put on the facade of a fatherly mentor. He just muttered under his breath:"...They're inside my head. Flipping through pages. Tearing them out."
For the first time, Ethan felt the man wasn't cold-blooded at all—he was just a bookshelf cover that the Nightmare energy had repurposed to store its files.
Ethan tried a joke:"Don't worry, sir. If they find a blank page, maybe they'll fill it with a Sudoku puzzle for you."
The Director turned, and for a split second his eyes glinted with something inhuman—like the reflection of crawling organisms under a microscope. His voice rasped like sandpaper:"Ethan, do you know? Sometimes even I wonder... am I still myself?"
Ethan thought: Great, now even the boss is having an existential crisis. Yep, this organization is definitely on the verge of bankruptcy.
He forced a grin."Well, if even you start doubting yourself, then maybe we should all apply for a group discount at the nearest asylum. I hear their cafeteria's not half bad."
But the Director didn't laugh. He tapped his temple with one finger, again and again, as if sending Morse code to the nightmares.
Then he snapped. His palm slammed the table, splitting it in two like a stage magician's trick—except there was no applause, only flying splinters."They're ordering me!" he roared. "To sign those treaties! To send agents to their deaths! To uphold this absurd balance!"
Ethan stared, numb. His only thought: Wonderful. My boss isn't just schizophrenic—he's the dangerous kind.
He recalled what the dossier said: prolonged exposure to Nightmare energy made a mind like an old radio, hijacked by foreign signals. The Director might no longer be "a human director" at all, but "the spokesperson of Nightmare energy."
"Sir," Ethan said cautiously, "have you considered... a vacation? Maybe the Maldives? Or better yet, an ICU—full-body power outage, highly recommended."
The Director lunged, seizing Ethan by the collar. His breath was corpse-cold. Two voices tangled in his eyes: one the ruthless boss Ethan knew, the other an ancient whisper urging, Harvest... Spread... Do not stop.
Ethan froze, then managed:"Sir, the stereo effect is impressive. Ever thought of a voice-acting career? I bet you'd win an Oscar."
That absurdity broke the tension. The Director's grip slackened, as if he'd wrestled himself free for a heartbeat. Sweat dotted his pale brow."If one day," he whispered, "I'm no longer myself... remember to treat me as the enemy."
Ethan hesitated, then nodded."Understood. Don't worry, I'm always gentle—with execution shots. I'll even leave you a flattering obituary photo."
Silence coiled between them like smoke. Ethan knew it wasn't banter—it was a death contract, signed in advance.
When he left the conference room, he glanced back. The Director still stood before the glass, his silhouette torn between man and shadow.
Ethan let out a bitter laugh.So this was the truth: it wasn't humanity managing the nightmares—it was nightmares managing humanity. Even the Director was just a marionette. Which meant Ethan himself... might be next in line.