Chapter 1

Nathan Summers’s first thought upon entering the FBI’s New York Field Office was that he had, tragically, dressed as the concept of Anxiety for Halloween. His suit—purchased in a panic the night before from a store that smelled of despair and weak coffee—had all the structural integrity of a wet paper bag. It creaked when he breathed.

The security desk was manned by a man who looked like he’d been carved from a single block of skepticism. His nametag read ‘Officer Briggs.’ His aura read ‘I Dare You.’

“Nathan Summers. First day,” Nathan announced, trying to sound like someone who had, at any point in his life, known what he was doing.

Briggs took his credentials without looking, scanning them with the enthusiasm of a sloth evaluating tax forms. “Fifth floor. Don’t touch anything that looks expensive, don’t make eye contact with the statues—they’re moody—and if you feel a sudden urge to confess to a crime you didn’t commit, that’s normal. It’s the air conditioning. Fight it.”

“Is that… a joke?” Nathan asked, clutching his temporary badge.

Briggs finally looked at him. His eyes were the color of a closed casket. “On your salary? Nothing’s a joke. Move along, Summers. The elevator eats the slow.”

The elevator music was a smooth jazz rendition of what Nathan could only assume was the sound of souls leaving a body. He got out on five, half-expecting to see a river and a ferryman.

The receptionist didn’t speak. She pointed a pen that looked sharp enough to perform surgery toward a large oak door. Her expression suggested Nathan was a mildly offensive odor she was contractually obliged to acknowledge.

Nathan knocked.

“It’s a door, Summers, not a riddle! Get in here before I lose my will to live!” boomed a voice that could curdle milk.

Special Agent in Charge Marcus Copeland’s office was less a room and more a testament to controlled fury. The desk was a vast, empty plain, as if any paperwork foolish enough to land there had been vaporized by sheer force of disapproval. Copeland himself was a broad-shouldered man with a glare that could probably stop a clock. He was currently using it on a tablet, which seemed to be pissing him off immensely.

“Sir. Nathan Summers, reporting for—”

“I know who you are,” Copeland interrupted, not looking up. “Top of your class at Quantico. Cyber wizard. Pattern recognition scores off the charts. You probably think in binary.” He finally set the tablet down and leaned back, the leather of his chair shrieking in protest. “Congratulations. Your brain is currently about as useful to me as a chocolate teapot.”

Nathan’s mouth opened. No sound came out. This seemed to satisfy Copeland.

“They sent me your file. ‘Promising.’ ‘Brilliant.’ ‘A unique perspective.’ Know what that usually means? ‘Prone to weeping under pressure.’ Or ‘has an unusual relationship with their cat.’ Which is it?”

“I… don’t have a cat, sir.”

“A dog person. Even worse. Untrustworthy.” Copeland steepled his fingers. “They say you’re observant. So observe this.” He gestured vaguely at the office. “What do you see?”

Nathan’s eyes darted around. “A… desk, sir. A chair. Some… intimidating atmosphere.”

“Wrong. I see a headache. A persistent, low-grade headache that just got a new, shiny source.” Copeland fixed Nathan with a stare that felt like being x-rayed by a cranky machine. “You are now part of that headache. Welcome. Don’t make it worse.”

“I’ll try not to, sir.”

“Trying is for people who buy extended warranties. Here, you either succeed or you become a cautionary tale told to the next bright-eyed idiot who walks through that door.” He leaned forward. “Your record is clean. Too clean. It makes me suspicious. What are you hiding, Summers? A secret love for competitive knitting? An unhealthy knowledge of 18th-century pottery?”

“No, sir.”

“We’ll see. We have ways.” Copeland stood up abruptly, signaling the audience was over. “Your probation starts now. You will go to the mission briefing department on the third floor. Ask for a room with a sign that says ‘The Quiet Room.’ It is neither quiet, nor a room. It’s where we send new headaches to get their first migraine.”

Nathan blinked. “The mission briefing department? Am I… assigned to something, sir?”

“Everyone is assigned to something. Usually their own demise.” Copeland waved a dismissive hand. “Go. Before I change my mind and assign you to inventory the lost-and-found. Which, for the record, contains three left shoes, a theremin, and what we strongly suspect is a cursed amulet. Don’t touch the amulet.”

Nathan stood, his legs feeling like they were made of the same material as his suit. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t done anything yet. The thanking—or the weeping—comes later.” Copeland was already looking back at his tablet, his expression suggesting it had personally offended his ancestors. “Third floor, Summers. Try not to get lost. The building has a sense of humor, and it finds new agents hilarious.”

Nathan stumbled out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound of finality. The silent receptionist was now using her surgical pen to stab a stack of forms with what looked like personal relish.

His brain was a jumble of insulted pride, sheer terror, and a bizarre curiosity about the cursed amulet. Mission briefing department. The words echoed in his head. No details, no objective, just a location. It felt like being handed a ticket to a show without being told the genre.

He made his way back to the elevator, the smooth jazz now feeling like a taunt. As he pressed the button for the third floor, he adjusted his creaky jacket.

Nathan Summers, FBI, he thought. Headache, probationary grade. His career was beginning with a mystery, a vague threat, and the distinct possibility of theremin-related hazards. He took a deep breath. The air conditioning did, indeed, make him want to confess to something.

He stepped into the elevator, the doors closing on the fifth floor’s aura of grim judgment. Down to the third. Down to the not-quiet, not-room. Down to whatever came next.