Alex arrived at the quiet building that looked as though it had been forgotten. Like it had no business existing at this time. Alex walked through the gates as they clicked open on their own, no guards, no locks, just permission. Or surveillance.
The white walls hadn't changed. Neither had the stillness around it. Not even the birdsong made it this far in.
Raymond was where he always was, behind the desk that looked too bare to belong to a man who knew too much. The notepad in front of him was blank, a black fountain pen rested in his fingers like it hadn't moved in hours.
He didn't look up.
"Well?" he asked, with a calm voice.
Alex stood for a moment, unsure. He wanted to talk. But what part of what he saw could even be explained? The market had felt like a stage, and he was the only one who hadn't seen the script.
Still, he said nothing about the man with the strange riddles. The beggar. Something about that encounter felt… off-limits. Not because Raymond couldn't be trusted. But because Alex didn't fully understand it himself. Not yet.
"I didn't speak to anyone," Alex finally said. "I just observed."
Raymond looked up at that. "Observed what?"
Alex stepped forward and pulled a folded note from his pocket but didn't hand it over.
"Patterns. Prices are rising and dropping for no reason. Some stalls looked more like checkpoints than businesses. Like they were logging movement, not sales."
Raymond's eyes flickered, but his face stayed still.
"Good," he said softly. "You're learning to see."
Alex didn't smile. "I didn't come here for praise."
"No. You came here because something rattled you."
Alex sighed, dragged a hand through his hair, and sat down slowly.
"There's this man," He continued, "one of the sellers, or maybe not. He watched everyone, and when he saw me watching him, he vanished into the crowd. I've seen someone like him before. In Brixton Market. He had that same air. Like he knew something. Like he knew me."
Raymond raised an eyebrow but said nothing yet.
"And again, there was a van."
"Black. Tinted. It didn't block me. Didn't follow me. It just... stopped. Like it knew exactly where I'd be. Like it didn't have to search."
Raymond leaned forward slightly, pen still between his fingers. "Go on."
"The man in the front passenger seat stared at me. He didn't look curious or even confused. He looked… sure. Like he knew me already."
A pause.
Raymond's pen tapped once on the notepad.
Alex watched him, carefully. "You know something about that van."
Raymond stared at him a moment longer, then murmured under his breath, "They're moving already…"
"Who's 'they'?" Alex asked.
Raymond didn't answer. Instead, he stood, walking away, while backing Alex.
Alex didn't move. "You keep doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Dodging."
Raymond stopped mid-step. "Alex"
"No," Alex cut in. "You can't keep treating me like this. I walked into that market and walked out feeling like someone had rewritten reality under my feet. And now there's a van, a man who looked at me like I was already listed somewhere. And you? You're just waiting. Watching me like I'm some experiment."
Silence.
Then, Raymond said quietly, "You think I'm not telling you everything?"
Alex didn't blink. "I know you're not."
Raymond studied him for a long moment.
Then: "Fine. You want to know what all this really is?"
He turned fully to the cabinet, reached into it, and pulled on what looked like the handle of an old refrigerator.
Raymond reached for the handle, then paused, while hovering his fingers.
"Before you follow me down," he said, "ask yourself something."
Alex frowned. "What?"
"Are you here to find answers... or to lose the ones you already believe?"
He didn't wait for a response. The door creaked open, revealing the dark stairwell.
Alex hesitated at the top step. The air drifting up smelled like dust and metal.
Something in him said to go back.
He went anyway.
The entire panel swung open like a hidden door.
Stairs descended beneath.
Raymond looked back at him. "Then follow me. And understand this, the second half of the truth costs more than the first."
They reached the bottom. Raymond turned a key in the wall. With a sharp flick, the room came to life.
Lights flickered on. Alex's eyes widened.
He was standing in a secret basement room, almost like a war room or a vault of secrets.
The room wasn't large, but it was dense, filled with metal filing cabinets, computers mounted on the walls, papers that looked over 50 years old, and photographs that were pinned across a giant corkboard.
Some black and white. Some colored.
Faces. Names. Timelines. Markets. Cities.
Some people in the photos were smiling.
Others were circled in red ink.
A few had a red line slashed across their eyes.
Alex stood frozen. "What is this?"
Raymond stepped forward, now speaking in a low voice.
"This is the real Gatehouse. The one that was built to protect minds, and data, not walls. Every generation, someone watches. Observe the patterns. Stores them here. We aren't just market analysts, Alex. We're pattern keepers. Memory holders of a system that pretends to forget."
He pulled out a drawer.
Inside were reports. Entire dossiers on people who'd disappeared. Journalists. Activists. Former insiders. Bankers.
Alex's eyes landed on one old photo in the corner. It was the beggar.
Same face. Younger. Wearing a suit.
He said to himself, "That man really did know something"
Alex took a step back. His mind was spinning.
"So what am I doing here?"
Raymond looked him in the eye.
"You saw things they never trained you to see. You felt it before you had proof. You ask questions. And you still showed up."
He turned toward a screen and tapped a few keys. A live feed from the Brixton Market flickered on.
"They're watching you now, Alex.
Alex didn't respond immediately.
His breathing slowed, but not in a calm way. His body was still, yet inside, it felt like something was thrashing against a cage. Panic? No. Something deeper, like he'd just stepped into someone else's memory and it had decided to keep him.
What if I'm not just seeing the pattern? What if I'm already part of it?
A tremor passed through his fingertips.
I wanted to train you in pieces. In safety. But the clock just ticked faster. Whatever game has started, you're not outside it anymore."
Alex's voice dropped. "You never told me what this job really was."
"No one ever does," Raymond said. "Because the job changes. The moment you start seeing the world for what it really is, not a system, but a stage, you stop being an analyst. You become a threat."
"You said you were going to train me in pieces," Alex said. "To keep me safe."
Raymond gave a slow nod.
"But now?"
"The pieces are moving on their own," Raymond said. "Whatever game is being played, your name just landed on the board."
Alex swallowed hard.
"I don't remember signing up for this."
Raymond turned to face him fully. "You didn't. The right ones never do."
"What happens now?"
Raymond returned to the drawer, pulled out a different file, and placed it on the table.
"Now," he said, "you choose. You either walk back upstairs, pretend none of this exists… or you stay. And learn why you were really brought here."
Alex stared at the folder. On it, typed in sharp block letters…
File Label: ALEXANDER STONE — OBSERVATION INITIATED
His own name.
His hand hovered over it.
Then landed.