Your mission this time...
Oh, that woman... After ▆▅▄▇ died, she...
Why... did it have to be you?
Tangled whispers and fractured visions tear through the quiet of her M.I.N.D.
Huh... The deviation level is rising?
The young woman jolts awake, fragments of her irretrievable dream still lingering in her mind.
Time to drag myself to work...
Crime Investigation Bureau
Elysium Central Building
25F
...
...
...
An awkward tension hangs over the trio as they meet again—a lingering residue from their decidedly unsuccessful dinner the night before.
I was planning to stop by Jack's restaurant today, but that psychologist's got me worried.
So, here's my thought...
You go check on the psychologist. We'll handle the restaurant. We'll all meet back here afterward. Sorted.
After Moore leaves, Teddy turns to Moineau.
What's got you so tense?
I'm thinking about those rioting machines...
...
You're getting a little obsessed with them, you know that?
I'm just concerned about Elysium's safety.
Then let's stop worrying and start finding the culprit. We'll begin at the restaurant.
John's clinic occupies the top floor of an unremarkable high-rise—one of the hundreds of identical buildings that form Elysium's generic skyline.
As Moore steps into the reception area, a woman dressed in corporate attire emerges from the inner office.
Her eyes briefly meet Moore's before she brushes past him.
Following closely behind her is John.
According to my schedule, I don't have any more appointments today.
I'm Inspector Moore with the Crime Investigation Bureau, badge number ED26. This is my ID.
Moore presents his badge, which bears the bureau's emblem.
I need to ask you some questions about one of your patients.
...
Please, come in. We can talk inside.
John opens the door and steps aside, granting Moore entry.
The office is a study in minimalist elegance: black, white, and gray, with a hint of deep emerald. A wooden desk anchors the room before towering windows, while two low-profile leather sofas sit across the dark green striped wool carpet. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase, complete with a sliding ladder, dominates one wall.
The faint, refreshing scent of a desk-side candle permeates the air, completing the curated atmosphere.
This is a nice office.
Thank you. The environment is designed to help my patients maintain a comfortable state of mind.
That fragrance is quite special. Is it citrus?
I made it myself. It's a personal hobby, but it also integrates with my professional practice.
That counts as part of your work?
As I said, it helps my patients maintain a comfortable state of mind.
They move to the room's center. Moore's gaze sweeps the bookshelf, cataloging the titles in a single, practiced glance:
"Cognitive Behavioral Therapy", "Existential Psychotherapy", "An Introduction to Self-Reconstruction"...
The entire collection is psychology-related. As expected in a psychologist's office.
Please, have a seat.
He gestures toward a sofa clearly meant for visitors, the kind where patients typically wait.
Moore studies it, his brow knitting in a faint frown.
I'm not your patient.
I am aware. But it makes little difference.
"But it makes little difference"?
You must be aware that there are many schools of thought in psychology. Jung, Maslow, Piaget, Freud, constructivism, behaviorism, gestaltism...
...
And I adhere to certain principles of my own. One is my belief that every person in society—even the most "normal"—suffers from some degree of mental illness.
Then I guess no one is truly healthy.
John gives a slight smile, neither confirming nor denying.
Let's get back to why I'm here.
As you wish.
Do you know a man named Jack?
34 years old, male, owner of The Timeless Feast.
Yes, I know him. There is only one Jack among my patients. However, I cannot disclose his details; both my professional ethics and the law prohibit it.
Jack is dead.
...
He doesn't seem particularly surprised.
Now, both professionally and legally, you have an obligation to give me that information.
Have a seat, Inspector. I will retrieve his file for you.
He makes it two steps toward his desk before stopping short, turning back to Moore.
I expect you will need some time to review it.
Moore complies, settling into the sofa.
John unlocks the password-protected cabinet and, with practiced efficiency, extracts Jack's file from the rows of records. He hands it over and takes a seat on the opposite sofa.
The file is surprisingly thin, containing records for only five consultations.
Is this all of it?
That's all.
What's your take on this?
On what, specifically?
On Jack.
He was unwell. That is the entirety of it.
That's it?
John's eyebrows lift, a flicker of surprise giving way to a slow, knowing smile. He chuckles softly, the sound low and unruffled.
Ah, Inspector. I could offer you a special discount.
What are you...
"Every person in society—even the most 'normal'—suffers from some degree of mental illness."
He casually repeats his earlier statement.
Just as you are now, aren't you also questioning the authenticity of your own reality?
Is that a joke?!
A question for you: How did you arrive in Elysium?
By boat. With my wife.
How long have you been here?
Three years.
And what was your occupation before you came?
I was stationed at...
...?
John's face still bears the same, composed smile.
...
The pieces refuse to fit.
A cold, formless dread begins to bloom.
You claw through your memories, desperate for an "answer."
Soldier... I was a soldier.
Next question. Why did you choose to become an inspector?
...That's irrelevant to the case. I'm here to investigate.
Did Jack behave unusually before his death?
...Very well. If you insist.
There was one thing. During our fifth session, he mentioned he'd recently met someone who exhibited symptoms similar to his own.
The name... let me see.
I believe it was a girl called "Norman"?
?!
Is she someone you know, Inspector?
I need more details.
John shrugs, unbothered that Moore didn't answer his question.
According to Jack, he encountered the girl near Mirage Street.
That is all I know about the matter. A pity. I had intended to ask him for more details in our next session.
I've told you everything I know regarding Jack. You may take that document. And now, I'm afraid I must attend to other clients.
I was under the impression your schedule was clear for the day.
No more office appointments, but some clients prefer house calls.
John pushes himself up from the sofa and walks to his desk, packing his briefcase with an air of finality.
Moore, reading the clear signal, rises as well and starts for the door.
If the investigation requires it, I'll be back with more questions.
John freezes for a second.
Of course. That is my obligation.
One moment, Inspector. You never answered my question. Why did you choose to become an inspector?
Moore turns the doorknob without looking back.
To pursue the truth.
The door closes, leaving John alone in the room.
You should have been a journalist.
A faint, derisive breath escapes him, more a shift in the air than a sound.
Elysium, The Timeless Feast.
The restaurant sits at the end of Oak Street. A palette of deep black, softened only by orange ambient light, creates intimate pockets for conversation. Handwritten signage and the gentle flow of classical music are the final, deliberate touches in an environment designed for those who wish to remain unseen.
"Come, Sweet Death", BWV 478, Bach.
Such a highborn lady's remark...
Teddy ignores Moineau.
Using that piece here is just... ironic.
As the two enter, a server at the door approaches to greet them.
Good day, ladies. Do you have a reservation?
Inspector Moineau, Elysium Crime Investigation Bureau. ID ED03.
The Timeless Feast, Office.
A plump man bustles in, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
I'm the manager here. How may I assist you?
His eyes dart nervously toward Teddy, again and again, as he speaks.
?
Jack is the owner of this restaurant, correct?
He's been missing for days. Why wasn't a report filed?
We were just as confused, but... he is the owner, you know.
The restaurant runs quite smoothly on its own. Even when he's here, he only drops in for inspections; he rarely handles the day-to-day.
At first, we thought he was just taking a break. He's the boss, after all... it's not that unusual.
It wasn't until today that we started to worry. We were actually discussing filing a report right before you arrived.
What's your relationship with Jack? You don't talk?
Well... I wouldn't say it's bad. It's quite good, actually, but strictly professional. We hardly ever interact outside of work. It's the same for all the staff.
Jack treats everyone well—good pay and all. But he's careful about boundaries. Outside the restaurant, there's barely any contact.
If I may ask... what happened to Jack?
He's dead.
What?!
He flinches back as if struck, his cheeks trembling. A slick sheen of sweat instantly coats his brow.
What am I going to do... What am I going to do...
Next month's paychecks... No, wait. What happens to the restaurant now...
Get a grip.
Ah... right. Okay.
Did he meet with anyone before he disappeared? Anything unusual?
Yes...
Didn't he meet with you, Inspector?
The manager stares at Teddy.
What...
...
The pieces refuse to fit.
A cold, formless uncertainty begins to bloom.
When and where?
The afternoon before he disappeared. I saw him meeting you here...
Give me an exact time.
It should be... around four in the afternoon.
His eyes flick upward and to the left—the classic, involuntary tic of a brain accessing memory.
That day... I remember you were at the bureau.
Okay.
Teddy doesn't even glance up, her fingers a fluid blur over the holographic keyboard.
You're pulling up the surveillance footage?
A basic skill everyone should have in this day and age.
Before the final syllable leaves her lips, six surveillance feeds snap into existence from Teddy's terminal. Her fingers flick through the air, sliding the timeline forward to 3:59 PM.
The timestamp begins its slow crawl. One minute... Two... Three...
The air in the room grows dense and heavy, as if the world itself is holding its breath.
Um... Inspector...
There.
The surveillance footage shows Jack—the model citizen in his sharp black suit—walking into the restaurant. His expression is distant, preoccupied. And beside him...
...is nothing. Just a searing blur of corrupted pixels.
Tsk.
Huh, another hacker in the mix.
So what's next? Hackers: The Ultimate Showdown?
Elysium Central Building, 25th Floor, Crime Investigation Bureau.
A humorless laugh escapes Moore's lips, his eyes locked on the screen. The fire in his gaze gutters, replaced by pure, uncomprehending bewilderment.
I don't get it.
The three inspectors reconvene at the Crime Investigation Bureau, their separate leads exhausted. Now, it is time to compare notes.
Join the club.
So first it was "Christina", and now we have a "Norman".
I don't understand what's happening, but I know one thing for sure: this is all aimed at you, Teddy.
...
That psychologist said Jack met Norman near Mirage Street, right?
Whatever this Norman's real identity is, she's probably the next target.
Agreed.
On what grounds?
Grounds? Since when do you tell jokes?
Pop quiz: What's my name?
Moore flinches at her question, his weight shifting awkwardly.
Moineau and Teddy turn to him in near-unison. Their synchronized gaze—a silent, twin demand of "What is your problem?"—hangs in the air.
Moore offers no explanation, only averting his eyes. The other two dismiss it, filing the reaction away as just another one of Moore's inexplicable quirks.
The first victim was Christina, the second was Jack, and now we have this "Norman".
Jack knew Norman, and I'd bet anything this Norman also knows Christina.
...I just think maybe we should take another look at those rioting machines.
Teddy gives Moineau a skeptical look.
Didn't you already check that? You said there were no leads.
Besides, those rioting machines are just the weapons. What matters is who's wielding them.
...
The real question is how this "Norman" tracked down Jack.
...
John.
Teddy and Moore speak in perfect unison.
Were John's patient records digitized?
Yes, both digital and physical copies.
She must have pulled Jack's information from the psychologist's database.
A look of realization crosses Moore's face.
She's the one who reported Jack's case. She's the reason he went into the sewers.
So now, we just need to meet with this "Norman".
The question is, how do we find her?
Our last hacker, Christina, was a complete ghost. No resident records, bank cards, rent history, grocery purchases, surveillance footage, social connections, health insurance... On paper, she didn't exist.
If we hadn't found her body, we'd never have known she was in Elysium.
If modern society is an ocean, these hackers aren't fish; they're supernatural tentacled creatures that bend the water itself.
Wow.
The truth crashes into Moore with the force of a tidal wave. The two women beside him are the very "supernatural tentacled creatures that bend the water itself" he just so carelessly described.
Uh...
Humans are social creatures. As long as she's living in this society, she'll leave traces of contact with her surroundings.
We can't find her directly, but we can work backward from the visible to track the invisible.
?
Moore stares, utterly bewildered.
Don't tell me you're going to...
That's right. You're staying to help me.
Do I have a choice?
No.
Sorry, but I don't understand a word of what you just said.
Moineau responds with the weary voice of a woman at the end of her rope.
Simply put, she's going to analyze the social activity data of everyone near Mirage Street to find the "blank spot." By eliminating everyone else, whatever's left is our target.
Will that actually work?
It's worth a shot.
Can't we just trace her on the city cameras around the restaurant? See where she came from?
Tried it. She vanished around a corner.
Okay. What can I do to help?
Get me some black tea?
...Roger that, ma'am. What about you?
He turns to Moineau.
Latte with two sugar cubes.
