The room is an aquarium of white light.

  Screens everywhere.

  Maps, charts, call logs.

  The server hum is constant—like a breath that never stops.

  On the door, a matte metal plaque:

  DIVISION HEAD — GENETIC ANOMALY MONITORING / OPOM

  Thomas Massetti sits upright, wearing the face of a polite man.

  Polite…

  in the way a scalpel is polite.

  Thirty-five.

  Sharp eyes.

  No rush.

  No wasted movement.

  He’s not someone who looks for answers—he forces them out.

  On the central monitor: a map.

  Ten-kilometer radius.

  Anomalous events over the last few months.

  Red dots.

  Massetti studies them like a constellation that shouldn’t exist.

  An analyst stands beside him, tablet in hand.

  “We narrowed it down to eight events compatible with anomalous air pressure.”

  Pause.

  “Four are noise. Two are industrial accidents. That leaves… two.”

  Massetti doesn’t comment.

  He just scrolls.

  Click.

  He opens the first: ALLEY — critical event.

  Images. Reconstruction. Notes: compact shockwave, no conventional explosive signature, bone fragments embedded, cooked blood.

  Then the second: PARK — correlated event.

  Alarms.

  Shattered glass.

  Bent metal.

  A clean impact point on a tree, like an invisible cannon shot.

  Massetti removes his glasses, just to look better.

  “Immortal Mafia?” he asks softly.

  The analyst hesitates—just a fraction.

  “We cross-checked their operational windows.”

  Scroll.

  “No claim. No coherent logistics movement. And…” he swallows,

  “…no signature from their devices. When they test, they don’t leave messes in the street. They erase.”

  Massetti nods slowly.

  “So it’s not their test.”

  Pause.

  “But someone is behaving like they’re testing.”

  He shifts the map.

  Zoom out.

  And now the web becomes visible.

  Smaller dots appear like shadows:

  “bangs with no fire,”

  “shattered glass,”

  fire department calls that went nowhere.

  Stuff no one would take seriously.

  Stuff that, alone, is noise.

  Stuff that, in a network, becomes a trail.

  Massetti clicks a minor event.

  Old.

  Almost ridiculous.

  PRIVATE RESIDENCE — “BANG / SUSPECTED SYSTEM ANOMALY / NO FIRE”

  Fire department report: system check, structure check, zero flames.

  No evident anomalies.

  Note: shockwave perceived by neighbors.

  Massetti scrolls.

  An eyebrow lifts slightly.

  “This…” he murmurs.

  The analyst shrugs.

  “It was dumped as a false alarm.”

  Pause.

  “And honestly… it looks like one.”

  Massetti opens the linked registry.

  Two parents: dormant codes, common stuff.

  One child: Jason Raden.

  Old genetic registration: Crustacean / Shrimp

  (non-manifesting / dormant).

  Massetti goes still.

  Two seconds.

  Then he leans back and rubs the bridge of his nose like he just read a sentence that doesn’t work.

  A shrimp.

  A bang.

  No fire.

  No cracks.

  “This gives me a headache…” he whispers, almost voiceless.

  The analyst looks at him.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  “Why? It’s irrelevant.”

  Massetti turns slowly.

  “No.”

  Pause.

  “It’s inconsistent.”

  He returns to the map and overlays layers: dates, distances, vectors.

  The house is just a few kilometers from the park.

  Before the park.

  Before the alley.

  Like a cough…

  before pneumonia.

  Massetti stands.

  “I want to understand what I’m looking at.”

  He grabs his jacket.

  “Unofficial visit.”

  He stops at the door, voice flat.

  “And keep it low priority. Archive only. If it never resurfaces… it dies in here.”

  ---

  EXT. JASON’S HOUSE — AFTERNOON

  The duplex looks normal.

  Neat garden.

  Normal door.

  No external signs.

  No sirens.

  No drones.

  Which is exactly why it looks like a place no one should be looking for.

  Massetti rings the bell.

  Waiting.

  The door opens.

  Jason’s father appears.

  The eyes of a man who works, pays bills, and has no time for OPOM.

  Massetti smiles—polite.

  Badge barely visible.

  No show.

  “Good afternoon. Thomas Massetti.”

  A brief pause, clean voice.

  “Routine follow-up on an old report. Two minutes and I’m gone.”

  The father sizes him up.

  He doesn’t look scared.

  Just… annoyed.

  Then he steps aside halfway.

  “Go ahead.”

  Inside, the air smells like a real home.

  Food.

  Detergent.

  Normal life.

  Massetti enters and records everything without showing it.

  In the kitchen, he doesn’t look around like a tourist.

  He looks at the right places.

  Walls.

  Ceiling.

  Corners.

  Edges.

  No cracks.

  No repairs.

  No marks.

  And for him, that’s an answer…

  that doesn’t answer.

  “Can you confirm the episode from a few months ago?” he asks softly.

  “The bang. The fire department call.”

  The father sighs.

  “Oh yeah. A nothing thing.”

  He shakes his head like brushing off a useless bad memory.

  “We thought it was the storage unit… a home battery. The new ones. They act up sometimes.”

  Massetti nods like it’s plausible.

  And it is.

  Almost.

  “Did you have it serviced?”

  “Yes.”

  The reply is quick—but not too quick.

  Not fake.

  Just defensive.

  “They replaced the faulty module.”

  Massetti doesn’t push.

  He does worse.

  He asks a small question.

  “If you remember—what time did it happen?”

  The father actually thinks.

  “Uh… evening. Late.”

  A vague gesture.

  “We were home.”

  Massetti nods.

  “Your partner—was she with you?”

  “No… she’s abroad now. Work.”

  “And Jason?”

  The father blinks.

  A microsecond of blank space.

  Not panic.

  Instinct.

  “In his room.”

  Pause.

  “Jason was in his room. Like always.”

  Massetti smiles politely.

  “I see.”

  He steps closer to the kitchen counter and notices the new induction stove.

  He doesn’t point at it.

  Doesn’t make an issue of it.

  He just says:

  “You’ve modernized.”

  The father grabs the cue.

  “Yes. We did some upgrades.”

  A half-smile.

  “Better that way.”

  Massetti pulls out a tablet.

  “Perfect. Two lines and we’ll archive it.”

  “Just to close the report properly.”

  The father signs.

  Massetti watches his hands while he does—

  steady.

  Normal-man hands.

  When the tablet is back with him, Massetti folds it carefully and puts it away.

  He heads for the door.

  Then stops on the threshold, like he just remembered something.

  Turns with a friendly smile.

  “Jason… still lives here?”

  The father answers immediately.

  Too immediately.

  “No. He’s away for a while.”

  Pause, then the excuse.

  “Athletic retreat. Wants to improve.”

  Massetti nods.

  A moment of silence.

  “Athletic retreat, then.”

  Polite smile.

  “Good for the mind and the body.”

  The father relaxes just a bit, like he passed an inspection.

  Massetti takes a half-step outside.

  Then stops again, like he’s closing a mental checklist.

  “Alright.”

  Pause.

  “Then I’d say we can archive this.”

  He leaves.

  The door closes.

  Outside, the air feels cooler.

  Emptier.

  Massetti stands still for a second in the driveway, looking at the house without suspicion—

  with the face of a man simply filing a detail into a drawer.

  He takes out his phone.

  No urgent call.

  He types.

  A short reminder.

  HOUSE — “FALSE ALARM” BANG / CRUSTACEAN (SHRIMP) / NORMAL FAMILY / NEGATIVE RESULT

  NOTE: MINOR INCONSISTENCY. KEEP ON FILE.

  Pause.

  He glances one last time at Jason’s bedroom window, then looks away like it’s not worth the time.

  Slips the phone back into his pocket.

  Sighs softly, almost annoyed with himself.

  “Something doesn’t add up…”

  But he doesn’t delete the note.

  And he walks away.

  Unhurried.

  Like someone who isn’t chasing anyone…

  but doesn’t want to forget either.

  Pistol Boy.