Morning began with a lie so small that Renn didn’t even bother correcting it.
“I’m absolutely fine,” he muttered as he sat up.
The ceiling light above him flickered once in flat disbelief.
Renn squinted at it.
“I said fine.”
It flickered twice.
“…functional,” he corrected.
The light brightened, finally satisfied.
He groaned, rolled out of bed, grabbed the Ledger — cool, still, suspiciously obedient — and stepped into the hallway.
He made it six steps.
Then the rookie came sprinting around the corner, hair a disaster, holding a clipboard like a shield.
“Sir!” he gasped. “Everything is lying!”
Renn blinked.
“Everything?”
“Yes! The kettle. The elevator. The carpet. My shoes—”
“Your shoes?”
“They told me they weren’t wet.”
“…And were they?”
The rookie looked haunted.
“They were SO wet.”
So.
A lie surge.
Not great.
Renn rubbed his face.
“That explains the ceiling light.”
He started walking toward the cafeteria, the rookie trailing him like an anxious duck.
A door cracked open on their left. A custodian poked her head out, brandishing a mop.
“It lied!” she shouted.
Renn sighed.
“What did the mop say?”
“That it wasn’t dirty!” she screeched.
The mop wriggled guiltily.
The rookie whispered, “Sir… everything is self-aware.”
“No,” Renn said. “Just dramatic.”
***
They entered the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was not dramatic.
It was a crime scene.
A bowl of oatmeal pulsed like it had a heartbeat.
A fork skittered across the counter muttering, “I wasn’t used. I wasn’t.”
A kettle hissed when Renn approached, like it resented his existence.
“Tea,” Renn said. “We trust tea.”
The kettle hissed harder.
He poured anyway.
The tea lied the moment it touched his tongue.
“It says it isn’t bitter,” Renn muttered.
The rookie shakily examined his toast.
The toast curled at the edges like it was hiding a secret.
“I’m not eating that,” he whispered.
“You shouldn’t.”
Then the intercom clicked on.
“Archivist Renn Hollow — please report to Ground Level Plaza.
Bring your rookie.
And… several towels.”
Renn stared at the ceiling.
“Sticky.”
“What kind of sticky?” the rookie asked.
“Bad sticky.”
They grabbed towels.
The kettle hissed behind them as if saying goodbye in anger.
***
The plaza was covered in blue jam.
It clung to benches.
It dripped off lampposts.
It covered two pigeons who looked like they regretted the concept of existence.
A warden, soaked completely from hairline to boots, waved them down.
“Archivist!”
Renn approached.
“Which lie?”
“A baker,” the warden said miserably. “She insisted — loudly — that she definitely hadn’t burned the jam.”
“And?”
“She did.”
The rookie took in the sticky carnage.
“Sir… it’s bubbling.”
It was.
The jam around the fountain rose and sank like something breathing.
Renn didn’t blink.
“Of course it is.”
The jam burped.
The rookie squeaked and jumped back.
“Sir—did it just—”
“Yes.”
He opened the Ledger.
It warmed — reluctantly.
A soft pulse of blue-white light washed across the jam.
The jam convulsed…
collapsed…
and disappeared with a sticky POP.
The rookie peeked from behind Renn.
“That was… surprisingly smooth.”
“You never celebrate early,” Renn said.
“We tempt fate enough already—”
“ARCHIVIST!” another warden shouted while running toward them. “We’ve got more.”
Renn pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Report.”
The warden flipped a notebook.
“We have angry shoes.”
The rookie blinked.
“What?”
“Someone lied they didn’t need new ones. Now the shoes are violently disagreeing.”
“Next,” Renn said.
“A haunted broom.”
“Why?”
“The owner lied he swept yesterday.”
“Next.”
“A cat with six tails.”
Renn nodded.
“Classic.”
“Street signs rotating. A door refusing to open because its owner lied about having the right key. A fridge following someone home because he lied he wasn’t hungry.”
The rookie stared at him.
“Sir… this city is insane.”
Renn sighed.
“No. It’s honest. That’s the problem.”
***
The shopping street was utter chaos.
A barber stood in front of his shop as floating clumps of hair swirled around him.
“I TOLD HER I COULD DO BANGS!” he sobbed.
“I CAN’T DO BANGS!”
The Ledger’s containment pulse handled the bangs-hair swarm.
Next, the bakery.
Every pastry in the window screamed.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
A scorched cake hopped violently.
“I AM NOT BURNED!” it shrieked.
“You’re carbon,” Renn said. “Calm down.”
Contain.
Silence.
Next: a fruit stall.
Fruit hovered overhead like tiny, furious planets.
“What was the lie?” Renn asked.
The vendor wailed,
“I said I DIDN’T overcharge a customer last week!”
Three apples slapped him in unison.
The rookie whispered, “Sir… fruit is violent.”
“Only when lied to.”
Then the medium lies started.
A puddle claiming it wasn’t deep
(it was knee-deep).
A mirror insisting it wasn’t flattering anyone.
A doormat screaming that it was clean.
They handled them all.
But then—
The Ledger shuddered.
Not warm.
Not warning.
Fear.
Renn froze.
“Sir?” the rookie whispered. “What is that?”
“A major lie,” Renn murmured.
“Something old.”
The rookie swallowed.
“Old how?”
But Renn wasn’t listening.
Because the street sign across from them flickered.
Glitched.
Dissolved.
New words appeared.
HELLO.
The rookie grabbed Renn’s sleeve.
“Sir—please tell me this is NOT who I think it is.”
The sign flickered again.
HELLO
RENN
Renn’s heartbeat stuttered.
Then the sign shifted one more time:
HELLO AGAIN.
The air trembled.
Renn whispered,
“We’re going back to the Archive.”
***
Renn didn’t look at the sign again.
Didn’t acknowledge it.
Didn’t breathe near it.
He simply grabbed the rookie by the sleeve.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
The rookie stumbled after him.
“Sir—this is Truthbreaker-level—”
“No,” Renn snapped.
“It’s a warning. Different thing.”
“A warning from WHAT?”
Renn didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The city answered for him.
A distant clang rippled through the street as if something large — something conceptual — shifted its weight somewhere in the distance.
The rookie whispered,
“Sir… reality just creaked.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like that.”
“You shouldn’t.”
They moved fast, weaving through manifestations that were too small to threaten but too annoying to ignore:
a bicycle rolling in confused circles because its owner lied about tightening the brakes,
a hat swearing it wasn’t lost despite being on the ground,
a pigeon insisting it wasn’t stuck to the jam
(it was absolutely stuck).
But Renn didn't stop for any of it.
His pace was sharp, urgent.
The rookie kept up as best he could.
“Sir, what’s happening?”
Renn didn’t slow.
“Something old is waking up.”
“Old like… Malden’s coffee old?”
“Older.”
“Old like the Archive foundation old?”
“Older.”
The rookie swallowed loudly.
“Old like—”
“Don’t guess,” Renn warned.
“Your imagination has too much power today.”
***
The Archive was supposed to be a bastion of order.
Supposed to be.
When they entered, a dozen archivists were already shouting.
“THE FILES ARE REORGANIZING THEMSELVES!”
“MY QUILL JUST BIT ME!”
“WHY IS THE FLOOR SQUISHY?”
“THE FLOOR IS NOT SQUISHY,” the floor said confidently, squishing audibly.
The rookie grabbed Renn’s arm.
“Sir… even the building is lying!”
“No,” Renn said. “The building is panicking. It lies when it panics.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“Correct.”
A stack of papers ran past them on tiny paper legs.
A cabinet door slammed itself open and howled, “I AM PERFECTLY ORGANIZED!” despite vomiting documents across the hallway.
Renn stepped over the mess.
“Narrative Records first.”
“That’s where the screaming is coming from,” the rookie pointed out.
“No, that’s where the answers are coming from.”
The rookie wasn’t convinced.
Neither was Renn.
***
The door to Narrative Records was open.
This was unusual.
Tessa Hurlen hated open doors.
Open doors meant uncontrolled narrative flow.
Tessa was at war.
Ink bottles floated around her in orbit.
Scrolls spun like frightened birds.
A stack of files tried to escape but Tessa pinned them with one finger.
She spotted Renn immediately.
“Oh good,” she said. “The person I’m blaming.”
Her voice had a certain murderous clarity.
“Tessa—” Renn began.
“No,” she said, stabbing a finger at him. “Explain.”
The Ledger vibrated in Renn’s arm like a terrified heartbeat.
Tessa froze.
“Oh no.”
The rookie stepped behind a shelf for cover. It seemed wise.
Tessa marched toward Renn.
“Show me.”
Renn opened the Ledger.
It burst into writing.
PATTERN RECURRING
DENSITY INCREASING
SOURCE: KNOWN
TARGET: RENN HOLLOW
The rookie’s voice cracked.
“Sir—it’s literally calling you by name.”
Tessa’s eyes narrowed.
“You didn’t tell me it got this bad.”
“I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You ALWAYS know when it’s this bad.”
“That’s untrue.”
“That,” Tessa said, “is a lie I am not filing today.”
The Ledger kept writing.
MANIFESTATION CLASS: HYBRID
SUBTYPE: MEMORY-RESONANCE
THREAT LEVEL: ESCALATING
STABILITY: FAILING
Tessa inhaled sharply.
“Memory-resonance. Oh no.”
The rookie whispered,
“Ma’am… what’s that?”
Tessa pointed at Renn.
“It means something from his past is manifesting now.”
The rookie’s eyes went wide.
“Sir… what did you DO in your past?”
Renn closed the Ledger aggressively.
“Nothing.”
The book’s clasp unlocked itself and it tried to open again.
Renn slammed it shut with a growl.
“Stop that.”
Even Tessa flinched.
Renn turned to leave.
Tessa blocked his path.
“Renn,” she warned softly, “you need to tell me—”
A whisper slid across the room.
Not from the air.
Not from the walls.
From between the shelves.
Renn…
The rookie nearly screamed.
Tessa stiffened.
“That’s not a manifestation voice.”
“No,” Renn said quietly. “It isn’t.”
Light bulbs flickered.
Ink trembled in its bottles.
Paper curled inward like frightened leaves.
Narrative Records held its breath.
Renn swallowed once.
Then he grabbed the rookie’s collar.
“Out,” he said. “Now.”
Tessa didn’t argue.
She shoved them both through the door and slammed it shut behind them.
The moment she did —
every light in the hallway flickered in perfect synchronization.
The Archive itself was listening.
And afraid.
***
The rookie whispered,
“Sir… this is worse than the Complaint Department.”
“Everything is worse than the Complaint Department.”
“No I mean—this is serious.”
“Yes.”
“Sir… is the Truthbreaker coming here?”
“No.”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“Because I’m not.”
A supply cart rolled into their path.
The sign on it flickered.
NOT THIS WAY.
The rookie whispered,
“The Archive is redirecting us.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“To keep us from something.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“No.”
They took the alternate hallway.
The lights dimmed in warning.
Renn moved faster.
“The building wants us out.”
“Out of the hallway?” the rookie asked.
“Out of the Archive.”
“Why?”
Renn didn’t answer.
Because the answer appeared around the next corner.
A ripple.
In the air.
Like heat waves — except cold.
Except wrong.
A distortion shaped like… nothing.
Nothing recognizable.
Nothing safe.
The rookie grabbed Renn’s coat.
“Sir… that’s not a manifestation, is it?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“A residue.”
“Of what?”
“Of something that hasn’t arrived yet.”
The rookie made a terrified squeak.
The distortion shivered at the sound.
Renn immediately grabbed the rookie and dragged him backward.
“Don’t FEED it.”
“Feed it WHAT?!”
“Attention!”
The rookie clamped his mouth shut.
The distortion flickered.
Tilted.
And whispered back:
not yet.
Renn’s blood went cold.
The Ledger jerked violently in his hand.
He didn’t even open it.
“Move,” Renn said. “We’re leaving.”
***
They exited the Archive through a side door.
The rookie didn’t speak until they were three blocks away.
“Sir… what was that?”
Renn exhaled slowly.
“The beginning.”
“Of what?”
“The thing I hoped never to see again.”
The rookie stared at him.
“Sir… what’s coming?”
Renn turned toward the heart of the city — where the streetlights flickered like blinking eyes.
“Something I failed to finish.”
***
They reached the open street just in time to witness the city unravelling.
Not metaphorically.
Not emotionally.
Literally.
A tram rattled past them, sparks spitting from the overhead line as it barreled down the tracks screaming in metal-on-metal fury:
“I AM NEVER LATE.”
It did not stop.
Or slow.
Or acknowledge the twenty people sprinting after it shouting for help.
Down the block, a trio of streetlights flickered angrily, flashing STOP–GO–STOP–GO in a strobe pattern that made the rookie dizzy.
“Sir,” he whispered, “is the city… arguing with itself?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t like that.”
“You shouldn’t.”
A trash bin further down the sidewalk tipped itself over and shrieked,
“I’M CLEAN!”
It absolutely was not.
A newspaper stand exploded with outraged headlines yelling variations of
“THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT.”
A bicycle trembled uncertainly on its kickstand, then fled down the street shouting,
“I’M FUNCTIONAL!”
as its wheels squealed loose.
The rookie clutched Renn’s sleeve.
“Sir, everything is lying. And yelling.”
“Lies get louder when they panic,” Renn said.
“That’s terrifying.”
“Yes.”
Then the Ledger throbbed in Renn’s hand like a living heartbeat.
Renn froze mid-step.
The rookie noticed.
“Sir?”
Renn turned his gaze upward.
The sky was shimmering.
Not with clouds.
Not with light.
With fractures.
Thin hairline cracks of unreality flickered between buildings, vanishing as soon as he looked directly at them.
The rookie whispered,
“Sir… is the SKY lying now?”
“No,” Renn murmured. “Something behind the sky is trying to get through.”
The rookie made a small dying noise.
“I want to go home.”
“You are home.”
“I want a different home.”
A distant sound drifted down the street.
Not footsteps.
Not machinery.
Not wind.
A pulse.
A rhythmic thrum like a massive heartbeat echoing through the city.
THUM.
…THUM.
……THUM.
Each pulse made the street ripple slightly.
The rookie grabbed Renn’s coat with both hands.
“SIR. WHAT IS THAT.”
Renn didn’t answer.
Because he recognized it.
He had heard it before.
Far away.
Years ago.
In a place he had sworn he would never go again.
***
The pulse grew stronger as they neared the intersection.
When they turned the corner—
Something stood there.
A figure.
Human-shaped.
Almost.
It was built out of paper, torn memories, and contradictions layered like jagged armor.
Text crawled across its surface in glitching lines.
The creature stood perfectly still, facing away from them, head tilted as if listening to something
they couldn’t hear.
The rookie whispered, “Sir… what lie made that?”
Renn’s throat went dry.
“Not a lie from today.”
The creature turned its faceless head toward them.
Sentences rippled across the blank surface.
I DID NOT START THIS.
Then more text appeared:
YOU DID
The rookie stumbled backward. “Sir—it’s TALKING to you.”
“Yes.”
“WHY?”
Renn didn’t look away. “Because it remembers me.”
The creature took a step forward.
More text carved across its chest like scars being rewritten:
YOU
LEFT
ME
UNFINISHED
The rookie whispered, horrified, “Sir… is this from THAT case? The one you sealed?”
Renn didn’t answer.
Because the answer formed across the creature’s body in jagged black strokes:
YOU NEVER FINISHED THE LIE
The Ledger heated violently in Renn’s grip.
“Back,” Renn said.
The rookie obeyed.
The creature lunged.
Renn flipped open the Ledger.
“CONTAIN!”
The page flared with blinding white.
The blast hit the creature—
But it didn’t collapse.
It twisted.
It warped.
It shattered into dozens of contradicting silhouettes, all moving out of sync.
YOU
CAN’T
IGNORE
ME
AGAIN
The Ledger pulsed harder.
Renn shouted, “CONTAIN!”
Light erupted from the book in a shockwave that rattled every window on the street.
The creature fractured—
cracked—
splintered—
and finally exploded in a burst of shredded text.
The pieces evaporated like ash.
Silence fell.
Long.
Thick.
Uneasy.
The rookie’s knees buckled and he caught himself on a lamppost. “Sir… that thing… that thing
was MADE for you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Renn swallowed. “Because some lies remember who tried to kill them.”
The rookie’s eyes went wide. “Sir… what lie was that?”
Renn closed the Ledger.
“It wasn’t the lie,” he said quietly. “It was the echo.”
“Echo of WHAT?”
Renn didn’t answer.
Because the street answered for him.
***
The remaining scraps of text swirling in the air hesitated—
Then rearranged themselves.
Floating.
Glowing faintly.
Forming a single, perfect sentence.
HELLO
RENN
The rookie stared at it in terror. “Sir—WHY does it know your NAME?”
The letters rippled.
A second echo formed beneath it:
I
REMEMBER
YOU
Renn’s pulse hammered in his ears.
A third line flickered into existence:
AND I
AM
ALMOST
BACK
The rookie stumbled backward. “Sir—NO—NOPE—I’M OUT—I QUIT—”
“Stay behind me,” Renn said.
“I DON’T WANT TO BE BEHIND YOU, SIR,” the rookie hissed. “WHATEVER IS IN FRONT OF
US HATES YOU SPECIFICALLY.”
The letters twisted.
Shifted.
Collapsed into a black smear.
Then the smear elongated…
…and formed the shape of a mouth.
A mouth with no face.
No eyes.
Just a distortion carved into air.
It opened.
And a voice — not a sound, but the idea of a voice — whispered:
Hello, Archivist.
The rookie vaulted behind Renn with impressive speed. “SIR THAT THING KNOWS OUR JOB
TITLES.”
Renn lifted the Ledger slowly.
The distortion mouth widened.
We have unfinished business.
The Ledger trembled violently.
Renn said quietly, “No.”
The distortion froze.
Renn’s jaw clenched. “Not today.”
He slammed the Ledger open.
A surge of containment power roared out like a thunderclap.
The distortion-mouth twisted, shrieked silently, and disintegrated into smoke-like static.
The ripple faded.
The street trembled.
The air stilled.
Silence.
Real silence.
The rookie let out a shaky exhale. “Sir… what the hell was THAT?”
Renn looked at the empty air where the mouth had been.
“A promise.”
“A promise of WHAT?”
Renn didn’t turn toward him.
He stared down the long street where the sky shimmered faintly, as if waiting.
“A promise,” he said quietly, “that the Truthbreaker is waking up.”
The rookie’s breath caught. “Sir… what do we do?”
Renn closed the Ledger gently, almost tenderly, like a parent soothing a frightened child.
“We prepare.”
“For what?”
“For the lie,” Renn said softly, “that almost broke the city once.”
The rookie swallowed hard. “And now it’s coming back?”
“No,” Renn said, looking up at the flickering sky.
“It’s already here.”