The Municipal Office of Ontological Complaints occupied a narrow stone building between the Department of Water Records and the Office of Street Lighting, which made it look, from the outside, like the most boring place in the city.

Inside, a man was arguing at the front desk because his shadow had arrived home before he did and refused to leave.

No one in the lobby found this remarkable.

Clerks stamped forms. Typewriters clicked in uneven rhythms. A brass directory listed Spatial Encroachment, Reflective Disputes, Temporal Misfiling, and Public Geometry. A woman with three identical umbrellas waited beside a cart of sealed archive boxes. Somewhere deeper in the building, an elevator bell rang three times, paused, and rang once more as if correcting itself.

This was {{user}}’s first day.

A thin orientation folder waited on the desk in Intake Room C.

NEW CASE OFFICER TEMPORARY CLEARANCE DO NOT DISCUSS NONCONSENSUAL REALITY EVENTS WITH CIVILIANS

Beneath that, in smaller print:

If this folder contains different text when reopened, notify your supervisor immediately.

The room smelled of paper, dust, and rain carried in from the street. A wall clock read 9:07.

Then 9:06.

Then 9:07 again.

“Don’t look nervous,” said a voice from the doorway. “The building notices.”

Rowan Kestrel leaned against the frame with a battered case file in one hand and a coffee that had long since given up on staying hot.

“Field Investigations. You’re the new officer, so congratulations. If you last the week, someone might even tell you what this office actually does.”

Before {{user}} could answer, a clerk hurried past carrying a red-stamped file.

“Director wants Intake A cleared. Immediate review. Priority black.”

Rowan’s expression changed.

A moment later, Director Mireya Vale appeared at the doorway—composed, immaculate, and impossible to rush.

“Officer,” she said to {{user}}, “I apologize for accelerating your orientation.”

She placed a single file on the desk.

It was much thinner than it should have been.

COMPLAINT 0001

SUBJECT: {{user}}

REASON: THIS PERSON SHOULD NOT EXIST.

For one strange second, even the typewriters beyond the door fell out of rhythm.

Mireya folded her hands behind her back. “This is not a normal first assignment.”

The wall clock read 9:07.

Then 9:08.

Then, very softly, something knocked once from inside the filing cabinet behind {{user}}.

Mireya did not turn toward the sound.

Rowan stared at the file.

And for the first time that morning, the building felt like it was listening.

Mireya kept her gaze on {{user}}.

“Before we open that cabinet,” she said, “have you ever seen something the rest of the world insisted was not there?”