Flashing Lights - SCP Foundation

Part 1: Wiped Clean

“Alex, it’s Anna. I’m sorry to bother you, but… something’s wrong with Carl. I—maybe I’m just imagining things again, but I don’t know. I thought maybe… you’d understand. Please call me back."

Karson replayed the voicemail on his phone as the rain pounded on his windshield. Anna’s voice was trembling, hesitant.

Karson sighed, pocketing the phone. Rain smeared across his windows as the sweep of his wipers revealed the crime scene up ahead. The street was blocked off, red and blue lights slicing through the downpour. The house was a single-story, modern build with large glass sunroofs, an aspirational home for a middle-class family. Now it was a crime scene.

Lincoln was already there, standing near the taped-off front door. His oversized jacket was soaked, his expression tense and uneasy. Karson parked, stepped out, and immediately felt the cold rain soak into his collar.

“You’re late,” Lincoln muttered, coughing softly.

“Traffic,” Karson replied, brushing past him to duck under the tape. The scene inside hit him like a punch to the gut.

A family of four. The father, slumped in a chair with a shotgun on his lap. The mother and two kids on the couch, their bodies contorted as if caught mid-flight. Blood soaked the carpet and walls.

Lincoln looked pale, uneasy. “Gruesome, huh? Even for this city.”

Karson nodded, keeping his face neutral. “Yeah. Let’s get to it.”

The forensics team was already moving, cameras flashing, evidence bags rustling. Karson directed them calmly, his voice steady, but his mind churned for answers.

“No signs of forced entry,” he said to Lincoln. “Neighbors say they were a happy family. No fights, no arguments. Guy doesn’t have a history of violence. Doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe something pushed him over the edge,” Lincoln offered, though his voice lacked conviction.

Karson studied the sunlit living room. Even in the rain, the skylights above cast an almost serene glow. It felt wrong, the way peace clashed with the horror below.

He leaned in close to one of the forensic techs. “Hey, hand me one of those extra kits,” he said casually. “Gotta check something later.”

The tech handed him a small collection kit without question. Karson slid it into his jacket, keeping it out of sight.

Outside, Karson leaned against his car, trying to shake off the weight of the scene. Lincoln joined him, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands.

Malone walked over, her boots splashing through the rain-soaked driveway. “Any theories?”

Lincoln exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. “Guy’s clean. No history of violence. No priors. Neighbors say he was a nice guy. Family seemed happy. Nothing makes sense.”

Karson nodded. “The house, too. It doesn’t scream dysfunction. Everything’s neat, no signs of a struggle before it happened. It’s like…” He paused, searching for the right words. “… like it just came out of nowhere.”

“None that make sense,” Karson continued. “We’ll wait on the forensics, but so far, nothing adds up. No history, no motive, no trigger. Just a guy who snapped. Happens sometimes.”

Lincoln looked at him skeptically, but Karson ignored it.

Karson made his way to Anna and Lincoln’s house later that evening. She looked anxious when she opened the door, her face pale and drawn.

"Thanks for coming," she said, leading him into the living room.

On the TV, a news anchor droned on about the "mini rainbows" that had appeared in the sky after last week’s storm. They played footage of shimmering, pulsating lights weaving through dark clouds. Scientists speculated about rare atmospheric phenomena. Karson tuned it out as Anna started talking.

"It’s Carl," she said, twisting her hands nervously. "He’s… I don’t know. His clothes don’t fit right anymore. His pants are too short. His shoes… too big. He says it’s nothing, but I can see it." She looked at him, her eyes wide and desperate.

Karson kept his face composed. “Could it be the laundry? Maybe things shrank in the wash?”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s not just the clothes. It’s… him. He’s different. He’s quieter. Doesn’t laugh like he used to. I—I feel like I’m going crazy. I don’t want to go back to that place, Alex. You know… when my mind wasn’t right.”

“You won’t. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. But you’re not alone. We’ll figure this out,” he said.

She nodded reluctantly. Karson reassured her with a small smile, but his mind was racing.

Before leaving, he excused himself to the restroom and swiped one of Lincoln’s combs. Carefully, he sealed a strand of hair in a plastic evidence bag from the kit he’d pocketed earlier.

Back in his car, the rain was still pouring with rainbow-like light dancing in the sky. He exhaled deeply, resting his head against the steering wheel.

“Maybe I’m losing it,” he muttered to himself.

He cranked his neck and his eyes drifted to the passenger seat, where Lincoln had left a bottle of cough syrup in the door pocket last week. He hesitated, then grabbed a cotton swab from the evidence kit and dipped it inside.

If he was losing his mind, he wanted proof.

"Hey, Karson. Got a heads-up for you. There’s a new test the department wants us to take. Standard stuff, but they’re making a big deal out of it. Thought you should know. Anyway, I’ll fill you in later."

The message ended abruptly, leaving Karson staring out at the rain-slicked streets of LA. Something about Lincoln’s tone felt… off. Routine, but forced.

Karson shook the thought off as he pulled into the morgue parking lot.

Inside, the usual sharp tang of disinfectant filled the air. Karson walked through the familiar hallways, but when he stepped into the examination room, he was greeted not by old Dr. Goldberg’s familiar scowl but by a younger, unfamiliar face.

“Detective Karson, right?” the woman said, glancing up from a tablet. She had sharp green eyes behind rectangular glasses and a no-nonsense expression. She wore the standard lab coat, but her movements were quick and precise, like she was used to being three steps ahead.

“Dr. Hargreaves,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m filling in while Dr. Goldberg is on vacation.”

“Vacation?” Karson said, surprised. “Didn’t think Goldberg took vacations.”

“Everyone needs a break eventually.” Hargreaves smiled faintly. She gestured to the table behind her. “I assume you’re here about the murder-suicide?”

“Yeah,” Karson said, stepping closer. The sight of the body on the steel slab made his stomach tighten. “What do you have for me?”

Hargreaves tapped the tablet. “Forensics confirm the father pulled the trigger. Gunshot residue on his hands and clothing, blood spatter patterns match him as the shooter. No evidence of outside interference.”

“No chance someone else set it up?” Karson asked, crossing his arms.

She shook her head. “None. The angle of the wounds, the distribution of residue—it’s all consistent with him doing it.”

Karson’s jaw tightened. “What about tox screens? Anything unusual?”

“Still processing,” she replied. “But nothing obvious in the initial scans.”

Karson paused, considering his next words carefully. “Doctor, I need a favor.”

She looked at him curiously, but not dismissively. “What kind of favor?”

“I need a few DNA tests run. Quietly.”

Hargreaves raised an eyebrow. “That’s not exactly standard procedure.”

“It’s part of another case I’m working,” Karson said. “Connected to this one. Might help us piece things together.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But if Goldberg finds out, you’re taking the heat.”

Karson gave her a tight smile. “Appreciate it. I’ll owe you one.” He slid the evidence bag with Lincoln’s hair and the swabbed sample from the cough syrup across the counter.

Hargreaves looked at him curiously but didn’t ask questions. “I’ll let you know when I have results.”

Back at the precinct, Karson stepped into the bullpen to find Malone sorting through case files.

“Hey, Malone,” Karson said, leaning on her desk. “You hear about this new test detectives have to take? Lincoln mentioned it.”

Malone looked up, confused. “New test? No, I haven’t heard anything about that.”

Karson’s brow furrowed. “Weird. He made it sound like it was department-wide.”

Malone sighed. “Lincoln’s been acting strange lately. You notice it too?”

Karson hesitated, then nodded. “What do you mean?”

Malone flipped a page in her file. “He botched evidence at that murder-suicide. Misfiled some of the bags, mislabeled others. That’s not like him. He’s a seasoned detective.”

“Where is he now?” Karson asked.

Malone shook her head. “I don’t know. Was supposed to check in with me an hour ago. Maybe you should talk to him, see what’s going on.”

Karson nodded, but unease coiled in his chest.

Karson made his way to the tech department, a dimly lit corner of the precinct where the IT guys worked their magic. He slipped past the distracted staff, logging into the GPS tracking system used for department-issued phones.

It took a few seconds, but Lincoln’s location popped up. Karson’s stomach jumped as he saw the pin on the map: the precinct parking lot.

He walked to the window and peered down. Amid the rows of patrol cars, a white van caught his eye. The words Sophisticated Cutting and Polishing were painted on the side, complete with a diamond-shaped logo.

The van idled there, its headlights off but faint lights flashing from inside the cabin. Karson squinted, trying to see through the rain-slicked glass.

Suddenly, a faint glow lit up the sky. Pulsing patterns of light—colors shifting like miniature rainbows—flickered through the clouds. Karson blinked and the lights faded as quickly as they appeared, leaving the sky dark once more.

“Lincoln, it’s Karson. Malone’s on your case about the evidence handling at the murder-suicide scene. She’s pissed. Call me when you can, man—let’s figure this out."

Lincoln turned off the recording and leaned back in the cramped van’s rear seat. His knee bounced, a nervous tick he couldn’t suppress, as he glanced at the other two men in the vehicle.

Across from him sat Dr. Pataki, the epitome of calm professionalism. His silver-framed glasses perched on a patrician nose, his gray hair neatly combed. Next to Pataki was Walker, a large, bald man whose bulk seemed to make the van feel even smaller.

“You look worried,” Pataki said, his tone even but pointed.

Lincoln rubbed his temple. “Worried? Of course I’m worried. In one day, Anna and Karson are both on to me. Karson’s calling me out on evidence mistakes, and Anna’s noticing… changes.” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“Relax,” Pataki replied, steepling his fingers. “You’ve been doing well enough. Maintain surveillance. That’s all we need.”

“Maintain surveillance,” Lincoln repeated, his tone tense. “I didn’t sign up for this. I’m a researcher, not a field operative. I didn’t even get through the entire LAPD handbook. This whole detective act? It’s falling apart!”

Walker snorted. “Kid, you don’t need to win an Oscar for this. Just don’t screw it up. Do the basics—ask questions, look concerned, file your reports. No one’s asking for a full method-acting routine.”

Lincoln ignored him and looked back at Pataki. “The original plan was simple—drop me in, then fake an aneurysm or some other convenient ‘death.’ Now I’m stuck pretending to be a cop and winging it?”

Walker grinned, the expression unsettling. “Plans change. We decided Karson could do well joining the Foundation and needed closer observation. Congrats—you’re the babysitter.”

“This isn’t babysitting. It’s a disaster,” Lincoln snapped.

Pataki folded his hands and leaned forward slightly. “It’s true, the parameters shifted. But let me remind you of one thing: Karson is exceptional. He’s picked up on every clue we’ve left, even the ones we thought would slip by him. He’s persistent, resourceful, and observant. Exactly the kind of individual we need.”

Walker added, “By now, we’d usually wipe him clean—start over, reset the game board. But this time? We’re letting him follow the trail. Let him think he’s piecing it all together. Makes it easier to bring him in when the time’s right.”

Lincoln leaned back, rubbing his face. “And what happens when he gets too close? When he figures out what’s really going on?”

Pataki didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. Finally, he said, “That depends on Karson.”

Lincoln shifted uncomfortably, still stewing in his frustration. He opened his mouth to argue again when a sudden noise cut through the tension.

Gunshots.

Three sharp cracks, muffled by the rain, but unmistakable.

Walker’s eyes narrowed. “That came from the precinct.”

“All units, all units. Shots fired in the precinct. Officers down. I repeat, shots fired. Respond immediately. Code 3.”

Karson’s heart skipped a beat. The message echoed in his mind, but the words didn’t quite land. He’d heard gunshots earlier, the kind that rattle your nerves and make your pulse quicken. But this? This felt different.

He was exiting the tech department when the order came through. His instincts took over. He pulled his sidearm, the cold steel of it steady in his palm. Rain had started coming down harder now, blurring the edges of everything. The overhead lights flickered as he moved toward the source of the chaos.

He reached the hallway, a sense of unease creeping up his spine. The air was thick with tension, and the distant sound of muffled gunfire only made things worse.

Karson rounded the corner and came face to face with a scene of carnage. Officers—some he recognized—lay sprawled across the floor in unnatural positions. Their blood stained the linoleum, their faces twisted in confusion or horror. The scent of gunpowder still hung in the air. The staccato sound of rapid gunfire echoed from an office at the far end of the hallway.

He didn’t hesitate.

Karson pushed through the office door, his gun raised, eyes scanning the room. The air was thick with smoke, the stench of spent rounds still lingering in the air. And then he saw her.

Malone.

She was standing behind a desk, rifle in hand, her body rigid with fury. Her uniform was torn, her face twisted in anger as she continued firing into the air, her eyes wide and unfocused.

“Malone!” Karson shouted, his voice a mix of confusion and authority. “What the fuck are you doing?”

She didn’t respond, only continued firing the rifle, oblivious to his presence. The gun’s muzzle flashed bright with each shot, but Karson could see her hands trembling slightly, the rage that filled her eyes entirely at odds with the desperation now creeping into her movements.

Karson gritted his teeth and stepped forward, cautiously. He ducked behind a desk, the sound of bullets ricocheting off metal filling the room. He couldn’t get a clear shot.

“Malone!” he shouted again, peeking over the edge of the desk. “It’s Karson! Stop! Put the gun down!”

Her head turned slowly toward him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, their eyes met. Karson thought he saw a flicker of recognition, a brief moment of clarity.

“Karson…” she murmured, almost inaudibly.

He seized the moment. “That’s right, it’s me. You’re not yourself. Put the gun down, Malone. Whatever this is, we can fix it.”

But the flicker was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Her grip on the rifle tightened, and she raised it again. Karson dove as she fired, the bullet grazing his left arm. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but he forced himself to focus.

He tried again. “Stop! This isn’t you!”

She didn’t listen.

With a cry of frustration, Malone let the rifle drop to the floor with a heavy thud. She pulled her sidearm, her movements jerky and erratic.

Malone raised the gun to her temple. Her eyes locked onto him, a look of defiance and anguish all at once. And then, she squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

The sound of the shot echoed through the room, deafening in the confined space. Her body collapsed to the floor, lifeless, her weapon slipping from her hand.

His heart pounded in his chest as he moved forward cautiously. He knelt beside her body, checking for any sign of life—there was none.

In a daze, he pulled out his phone, dialing the number for dispatch. His voice was tight, shaken. "This is Detective Karson. I need immediate backup. Multiple casualties. Shooter down."

“Detective Karson, it’s Dr. Hargreaves. I’m so sorry to hear about what happened at the precinct. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. The results you asked for—they’re back. Call me when you can.”

Karson sat up, the words sinking in. His left arm throbbed, wrapped tightly in the bandage the paramedics had applied. It wasn’t severe, just a graze, but the physical pain wasn’t what weighed on him.

It was Malone. The way she’d raged, the desperation in her eyes before she pulled the trigger.

And the nagging question he couldn’t escape: Why?

He stood and moved to the window, looking out at the rain-slicked streets below. The rain was relentless, hammering against the glass in an unbroken rhythm. Flashes of light appeared in the sky—vivid, shifting patterns that almost seemed alive. He frowned, rubbing his temple.

The thought hit him suddenly. What if this is happening to me too?

He shook it off, grabbed his coat, and headed out.

The morgue was cold, clinical, and quiet. Karson walked through the halls with purpose, pushing down his own doubts. He needed answers.

Dr. Hargreaves greeted him with a tight smile, her expression a mix of professionalism and concern. “Detective,” she said, “I ran the tests you asked for.”

Karson leaned against the counter, his good hand resting on its edge. “And?”

She held up a folder, flipping it open to a page with stark numbers and markers. “The two DNA samples you gave me…they don’t match.”

Karson stared at her. “What?”

“Not only do they not match,” she continued, “but neither of them is in the database. Not in the criminal system. Not in the police records. It’s like they don’t exist.”

Karson’s chest tightened. He felt like he’d been punched, but deep down, he knew. He’d known.

Hargreaves watched him carefully. “What do you want me to do with this, Detective?”

“Run a tox screen,” he said after a long pause.

She looked confused. “On the DNA?”

“No,” he said, his voice low. “On me.”

Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t argue.

“It’s a theory,” he said. “I just need to rule it out. The gang shootout last week. Maybe some drugs got into the system. Malone’s system and mine. Something we missed.”

Hargreaves studied him for a moment. “Alright, I’ll run the test, but you’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Karson said, forcing a tight smile.

He lingered for a moment, then turned to leave. The department was in disarray, a mess of debris and chaos. There were bullet holes in the walls, overturned desks, and officers milling around in a stunned daze. Another precinct had been called in to investigate. Everyone was still reeling from the attack, trying to piece together what had happened.

Karson was no different. He had to find the truth.

His thoughts drifted as he made his way toward the psych eval. Maybe this was the moment where everything fell apart. Maybe his mind was breaking—maybe he was losing his grip.

Karson stepped into the small office where the psych eval was being held. It felt more like a temporary setup than anything official—a desk with mismatched chairs, a small stack of papers on one side, and a window that looked out onto the rain-soaked precinct parking lot.

Behind the desk sat a man with an air of calm authority. His glasses perched neatly on his nose, catching the faint light. There was nothing imposing about him—tall but not towering, gray-haired but well-kept, his suit tailored but understated. He exuded the quiet confidence of someone who had seen everything and was still willing to listen.

“Detective Karson, I am Dr Pataki,” Pataki greeted with a slight nod, gesturing to the chair opposite him. His voice was smooth, warm. “Thank you for coming in.”

Karson sat down, feeling the tension in his shoulders. “I didn’t think I had much of a choice.”

Pataki smiled faintly, folding his hands on the desk. “Mandatory evaluations aren’t always popular, I’ll admit. But they’re necessary. Especially after an incident like this. Shall we get started?”

Karson gave a curt nod, his jaw tight.

Pataki leaned back slightly, studying him with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world. “Why don’t we begin with what happened? Walk me through it in your own words.”

Karson exhaled slowly, staring at a spot on the desk. “There was gunfire. I heard it while I was leaving the tech department. I pulled my sidearm and went toward the noise.”

“Brave,” Pataki interjected. “Some might run in the opposite direction.”

Karson ignored the comment. “When I got there, I saw Malone. She was armed with a rifle. There were officers down, blood everywhere. I tried to stop her, but… she was furious. Angry about something I couldn’t figure out. She just kept firing. She wouldn’t stop until she ran out of ammo.”

“And then?” Pataki prompted.

Karson’s voice grew quieter. “She pulled her sidearm and… killed herself.”

Silence hung between them. Pataki let it linger, his sharp eyes fixed on Karson. “You knew her well, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Karson said, his tone stiff. “We worked together for years. She was a good sergeant. Fair, sharp, always had my back.”

“Did you see any signs?” Pataki asked, leaning forward slightly. “Anything that might suggest she was capable of this?”

“No,” Karson said firmly. “Nothing. She was fine—normal. I spoke with her just before the incident. There’s no way she’d do something like this.”

Pataki nodded, appearing to take it in stride. “What do you think happened, then?”

Karson shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t have an answer. It doesn’t make sense.”

Pataki tapped his pen lightly against the desk, his gaze unwavering. “Do you ever feel like that, Detective? Like something doesn’t make sense in your own life?”

Karson stiffened, feeling the question like a jab. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m just asking,” Pataki said gently. “Do you ever feel anger, regret? Like things aren’t adding up the way they should?”

Karson’s instinct was to brush it off, but the question lingered, tugging at something deep inside him. “No,” he said eventually. “I mean, sure, sometimes I get angry—everyone does. But nothing like this. Nothing that would make me… snap.”

Pataki studied him for a moment, then asked, “What about memory gaps? Do you ever feel like you’ve lost time or forgotten something important?”

Karson froze, his breath catching for a split second. It was the one question he’d been dreading.

“No,” he said, the word coming out too quickly. “I’m fine. Everything’s normal.”

Pataki raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to push harder. “I see,” he said simply, jotting down a note.

Karson shifted uncomfortably, his gut telling him this wasn’t a typical psych eval. Something about Pataki felt off—not hostile, but probing in a way that didn’t feel like standard procedure.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Pataki asked, his pen poised over the paper.

Karson hesitated. He thought about Lincoln, about Malone’s inexplicable rage, about the DNA results that didn’t make sense. But he kept his mouth shut.

“No,” he said at last. “Nothing else.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Detective. If you notice anything—anything at all—don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Lincoln, it’s Pataki. There’s been a change of plans. We suspect a possible anomalous effect in play. Maintain standard cognitohazard protective equipment. Do not deviate from protocol.”

Rain dotted the windshield in uneven streaks, refracting the streetlights into a kaleidoscope of fractured colors. Karson gripped the steering wheel, his eyes flicking to Lincoln in the passenger seat. Lincoln sat stiffly, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky.

“Sunglasses at night, huh? What’s next? A leather jacket and a motorcycle?” Karson teased, his tone light but probing.

Lincoln adjusted the shades without looking over. “Headache,” he muttered.

“Sure, partner,” Karson said, trying to sound casual. “Seems like you’ve had a lot of those lately. Weird, though—never seen you wear shades before. They new?”

Lincoln didn’t answer, staring out the window instead.

Karson tightened his grip on the wheel, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Lincoln wasn’t right. He decided to push.

“So,” Karson began, voice deliberately conversational. “When’s your anniversary with Anna?”

Lincoln blinked behind the dark lenses, hesitating for just a moment too long. “Uh… April.”

Karson smirked, not bothering to hide it. “Funny. You told me it was September last year.”

Lincoln shifted in his seat. “We celebrate twice. One’s the day we met. Sentimental thing.”

“Right,” Karson said, his voice edged with disbelief. “And when exactly did you join the force?”

“Five years ago,” Lincoln replied curtly.

“Uh-huh. Why’d you make that mistake with the evidence at the murder-suicide, then? You’re not a rookie.”

“I don’t know,” Lincoln said sharply, the frustration clear in his voice. “It was chaotic, okay?”

Karson let it sit there for a moment, watching as the road ahead brought them closer to the family’s house. His partner’s caginess wasn’t just frustrating—it was raising alarms.

By the time they parked, the unease between them was palpable. The house loomed against the flashing sky, its large sunroofs glinting faintly with the scattered light.

Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the lingering specter of violence. Karson and Lincoln moved through the rooms, their footsteps muffled on the carpet. They scanned every corner, every crevice, but the scene had already been picked clean by forensics.

“Nothing here,” Karson said finally, his voice low. “No links to Malone, no new leads. Just a dead end.”

Lincoln didn’t respond, still staring at the empty living room.

The drive back was silent. Karson glanced at Lincoln occasionally, his suspicions deepening.

They pulled up to the quiet house. Lincoln stepped out, and Karson followed, his hand unconsciously resting near his holster.

The door opened to darkness. Lincoln flicked on a light, but before they could step further inside, a figure lunged at them.

“YOU LIAR!” Anna screamed, brandishing a knife.

Lincoln froze, fumbling with his holstered sidearm, but Karson reacted first. He tackled Anna, his body slamming into hers with enough force to disarm her. The knife clattered to the floor.

Anna thrashed beneath him, her rage unrelenting. “You’re not my husband! You’re not him! I know what you are!”

“Lincoln!” Karson barked, looking for help, but Lincoln was frozen, his face pale and drenched in sweat.

Karson cursed under his breath and improvised, grabbed his belt, looping it around her wrists and securing her to a heavy chair. She struggled but couldn’t break free. Her eyes burned with fury as she spat at Lincoln.

“You’re a monster,” she hissed. “I can see it!”

Lincoln stood frozen, his face pale and stricken.

Karson straightened, drawing his sidearm and leveling it at Lincoln.

“Talk,” Karson demanded, his voice like steel.

Lincoln’s hands went up slowly, his lips trembling. “Karson—”

“Don’t,” Karson interrupted. “No more excuses, no more half-truths. Who are you? What the hell is going on?”

Lincoln took a shaky step back, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. His eyes, bloodshot and tired, met Karson’s. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Karson barked, his finger hovering near the trigger. “Because if you don’t, I swear I’ll find out the hard way.”

Anna’s muffled sobs filled the room, her words echoing in Karson’s mind: You’re not him.

“Detective Karson, your toxicology screen is negative for drugs, but it’s positive for amnestics. Confused? Don’t worry. My colleagues will explain everything to you soon.”

The voicemail played as Karson paced the living room, gun still trained on Lincoln. The hell did amnestics mean?

“You better start talking, Lincoln or whatever your name is,” Karson growled. “Because my patience is wearing thin, and so is my grip.”

“I—I can’t,” Lincoln stammered, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, his eyes darting to the restrained Anna and the barrel of Karson’s gun.

“You can’t or you won’t?” Karson barked, taking a step closer.

A sudden knock at the door made them both flinch. Karson’s aim wavered for a split second before locking back on Lincoln.

“Who the hell is that?” Karson demanded.

“Probably the people who will explain everything,” Lincoln said, his voice shaking.

Karson motioned for Lincoln to stay seated and edged toward the door. He opened it a crack, his gun ready.

Two men entered slowly, their hands raised. One was large and bald, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Behind him was Dr. Pataki, carrying a small black case. Pataki looked exactly as he had during the psych eval—sharp, composed, and entirely unbothered.

“Evening, Detective Karson,” Pataki said calmly.

Karson’s mind raced, piecing fragments together. “You. From the psych eval.”

“We’re here to help. No need to escalate.”

“Who the hell are you people?” Karson demanded, his gun still raised, bouncing between Walker, Lincoln and Pataki.

“As I said in your psych eval, I am Dr Pataki. This is Walker,” he said, nodding toward the larger man. “We’re… colleagues of Lincoln.”

Karson’s mind raced. He glanced back at Lincoln, then at the two newcomers. “Colleagues? This some kind of government thing? Some experimental drug test?”

Pataki smiled faintly. “Not quite. But I understand why you’d think that.”

Lincoln seized the moment, shouting, “He’s under a cognitohazard! Stop him!”

Pataki raised a hand, silencing Lincoln. “That’s quite impossible,” he said, his voice smooth. “What we’re seeing is the reaction of a man pushed to the brink. But you’re not hallucinating, and this isn’t a breakdown. We’ll explain.”

Karson’s eyes narrowed. “Start talking.”

Pataki set the case on the table and opened it with a practiced motion. Inside was a small cage containing a white rat, scurrying nervously. “Detective, I’ll cut to the chase. The lights you’ve been seeing in the storms—they’re not normal. They’re an anomaly.”

“An anomaly?” Karson’s voice dripped with skepticism.

Pataki met his gaze. “Things that defy the laws of nature. The world is full of them, and our organization exists to secure these anomalies from the public, contain them, and protect humanity from their effects. We’re called the SCP Foundation.”

Karson snorted, his disbelief palpable. “Protect humanity? You sound like a bad science-fiction plot.”

Walker spoke for the first time, his deep voice resonating. “We get that a lot. But this isn’t fiction, Detective. Let us show you.”

Pataki turned on a tablet. The screen displayed a video of the lights in question—swirling, pulsating patterns in a stormy sky. The rat in the cage froze, its small body trembling. Its squeaks turned frantic as it flung itself against the walls of the cage, over and over, until it slumped, its skull cracked.

Karson’s stomach turned. He lowered his gun slightly, his mind reeling. “What the hell?”

Pataki closed the case gently. “That’s the cognitohazardous effect of the lights. Prolonged exposure causes hallucinations, paranoia, violent behavior and eventual self termination. Just like the father in the family-of-four, Sergeant Malone and several other cases in LA.”

Karson’s thoughts flew to Anna, tied up to the chair. “Anna,” he murmured, his voice strained. “She’s been exposed, hasn’t she?”

“The effect wears off after an hour,” Pataki said, his voice measured. Producing a syringe from his coat, “She needs to be sedated for her own safety.”

Karson hesitated, his grip tightening on his gun again, his instincts screaming against trusting these men. But he looked at Anna, her face red, thrashing against his makeshift restraints. He didn’t have a choice.

“Do it,” Karson said, his voice heavy with reluctance.

Pataki stepped forward and injected Anna with a sedative. She went still, her body relaxing as the drug took effect.

Pataki exchanged a glance with Walker. “Now that we helped you, in return, you’ll need to help us.”

“This is Detective Karson, LAPD. Listen, those lights in the sky—they are bad news. Tell everyone: the flashing lights in the sky are dangerous. They’re making people blind. Do not look directly at them. Spread the word.”

Karson ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket, his mind spinning. Anna lay sedated on the bed, her breathing steady but shallow. He barely registered the weight of his gun as he reached for it instinctively, his hand tightening around the grip.

“Easy there,” Walker said, his voice low and steady. His own weapon was already drawn, leveled at Karson’s chest with unnerving calm.

Karson froze, his heart pounding. His gaze darted between Walker’s gun and his impassive face.

Pataki stood behind him, expression unreadable. “We’re all on the same team, Karson,” he said, like they were discussing the weather. Pataki spoke with a matter-of-fact tone. “The Foundation’s plan is simple. We’ll release a heavy chemical solution over Los Angeles to form thicker clouds. The flashing lights will be obscured and combine that with your helpful PSA to the local media, we’ll reduce the risk of further exposure.”

Before Karson could respond, a familiar voice broke in.

“Walker, I swear, you’re always waving that gun around like it’s a magic wand.”

Karson turned to see Hargreaves stepping into the room, her expression a mix of sheepishness and humor. She raised a hand in mock surrender.

“Hargreaves?” Karson’s voice was incredulous.

She nodded, walking over. “Guilty. Sorry for not mentioning it sooner, Detective. Turns out I work for the Foundation, too. Part of the team.” She gestured vaguely at Pataki and Walker.

Karson shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Everyone’s in on this, huh? What’s next? My mailman works for you, too?”

“Doubtful,” Hargreaves said with a smirk. “But I wouldn’t rule it out.”

Karson looked from Hargreaves to Walker, then to Pataki. This was a set-up, a carefully orchestrated puzzle where he was the only one without all the pieces.

Pataki stepped forward, his tone businesslike. “Detective Alex Karson, you have two choices.”

Karson’s jaw tightened.

“Option one: We give you the answers to what happened last week. We show you the truth. But there’s a cost.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small white pill, holding it up for Karson to see. “This is a Class W Mnestic. It’ll counteract the amnestics used on you. You’ll get your memories back—the real ones. The ones we've been keeping from you. Your mind will clear. The fog will lift. The catch? Your memories come back, good and bad.”

Karson’s gaze locked onto the pill. He had been living in the fog for so long now. Maybe it was time to know what happened. To piece everything together.

Pataki held up another pill, a blue one. “Option two: You take this amnestic. Your memories of the last two weeks will be wiped clean. No more confusion, no more fear. You’ll go back to being the man you were before all this—before Lincoln, before the murders, before Malone, before the lights.”

Karson’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t decide. Every instinct told him that one of these choices would open the door to a truth he wasn’t prepared for. The other might strip him of everything—erase the last two weeks from his mind like it never happened.

His hand hovered over the pills, his thoughts racing. His memory had already been tampered with once—could he really trust either of these options?

“Time’s ticking, Detective,” Pataki said, his voice as calm as ever, but with a slight edge of urgency creeping in.

Karson stared at the pills. The choice was his now.

Across LA, the radio crackled to life, the DJ’s voice breaking through the static.

“This is your late-night PSA, folks. Those lights in the storm clouds? Don’t look. I repeat, don’t look at them. We’re hearing some strange reports—temporary blindness, headaches, worse. Stay indoors, keep your curtains drawn, and stay safe out there.”

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