A few weeks had gone by since the graduation ceremony and my conversation with Paul, but thinking back on it, everything since then was a blur.

  The first thing I remembered was seeing Omar off to the airport just a few days after the ceremony, as his flight left the day before mine. The morning of, we talked and joked around as we normally did, grabbed a bite of breakfast at the local diner, and walked around Brunswick one last time to see the sights before his Uber showed up.

  "Roomies for life, man," he had grinned, his bag slung over his shoulder. "I mean it, you know that?"

  "Same here, man," I smiled in reply. "You stay out of trouble, you hear?"

  That final mental image of him, his neatly cut black hair, his green eyes, his gleaming smile, the crappy old AC/DC T-shirt he always wore in his off time; all that stayed with me long after he had waved goodbye from the fading Uber car that spirited him to Jacksonville International.

  I was alone here now, well and truly alone once more. I hadn't invited my own family to the ceremony, as my "official" graduation would be after my training concluded at Quantico, and most of the guys I knew at FLETC had already flown out back to their families or to their new postings as well.

  The barracks felt a lot more empty when I got back. Aside from the custodian staff, some instructors, and a few other remaining trainees, it felt like a ghost town, where once the place had been bursting at the seams with trainees.

  I returned to my room, where Omar's bed now sat empty and neatly folded. It was a tiny room to be sure, no more than 10x10 in total, but without my roommate it felt cavernous.

  The sun was beginning to set as I sat down on my bed, the room bathed in a warm orange glow cast from the lone window between the beds.

  I'd only need to spend one more night here, but it felt like an eternity having the place to myself.

  The evening was still young, and I wanted to spend it out and about rather than being depressed in here. Maybe I could hang with any of the other guys left, or -

  A gleam caught my eye as I had stood up to leave. It was coming from my suit jacket's pocket, the same one that Omar had shoved Paul's card into.

  I ambled over, retrieving the card from the pocket. The card was matte on one side, but the sun must have caught the other side, where it was glossy.

  PAUL WISSENHOFF, SUPERVISORY SPECIAL AGENT.

  The text leapt out at me, as if it were an ambush. The agent's number was right below his name, with an area code I was unfamiliar with.

  His words from the other day reverberated in my head. You wouldn't just be a cog in the machine.

  What was his agency again... Department 11? 15?

  As if on cue, the sun caught the card again, and I saw the extremely faint text printed at a color just ever-so-slightly darker than the card: DEPARTMENT 13.

  That was it. I sat back on my bed, my thoughts racing.

  Sure, I was already on track with the FBI; the pay wasn't top tier, but it's an almost guaranteed position with agency. I'd be starting a lifelong career, a profession that would define who I am: I'd be Jason Howe, the FBI agent!

  I felt the card in my hand, noting the different textures between the matte and glossy sides.

  Then again, this Department 13... the pay was good. Very good. I'd still be an agent, just not one from a well-known agency.

  I frowned to myself. Come to think of it, what kind of agency was Department 13? Omar's words from graduation day echoed in my head: I don't like it.

  I wasn't sure what to make of it. I stared at the card, weighing my options.

  My phone was on my nightstand right beside me. I found myself almost involuntarily grabbing it, my body moving before my mind did. Almost as if I were entranced, my fingers slowly dialed the number on the card.

  Was I really doing this? My head throbbed as my heart raced. Was I really going to make the jump?

  I shook my head. No. I had questions, just questions for now. I needed to know more before I made a decision.

  Gritting my teeth, I made the call and placed the phone to my ear.

  The tone rang once or twice before it clicked to silence. "This is Agent Wissenhoff."

  "Agent Wissenhoff," I said breathlessly. "This is Jason Howe. We spoke the other day at the ceremony."

  The other end was silent for a second. "Ah yes, of course. I was expecting you to call, Mr. Howe, but to call so soon is an unexpected but welcome surprise."

  "I'm still thinking about it," I replied. "But I just wanted to know more. I would like to ask some questions."

  I could hear him faintly let out a breath, likely one of amusement. "Of course. Ask, and I will answer if I can."

  Everything else leading up to my current situation was a blur. After flying out from Georgia and spending a few days back with my folks, I was back on another plane headed to Colorado.

  Against my better judgement, I had decided to accept Paul's offer to sign up with his agency after our phone call, and after bombarding him with all manner of questions relating to the job and the agency. He answered as best as he could, but I could tell he was playing everything by the script, rather than answering honestly.

  Finally, one of my questions seemed to elicit a different response in him. "How impactful is this agency's work on the nation and the world as a whole?" I had asked.

  He remained silent for a few moments; before, he had answered my questions swiftly and succinctly, but now, he seemed like he was actually thinking on it rather than giving me a rehearsed response.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was different. "The work we do," he had said, "is vital to not just the United States nor its government, but can impact the entire world."

  I froze, silently contemplating his words. He said nothing for a moment as well, before continuing.

  "I told you before that you wouldn't just be a cog in the machine. I meant it, truthfully. Our agency is less than 2,000 personnel in total, with no more than 100 special agents. You would be one of those 100, Mr. Howe. And the work you will do will be felt much more keenly than any work you'd do for the FBI."

  That response left me dumbfounded. Even after our call had ended, I stayed awake through most of the night, replaying those words through my head again and again.

  I mulled it over in my head, chewing through the options laid before me. Stay with the FBI, relegate myself to a stable and cushy career that would most likely be veiled in obscurity and mediocrity; or, sign up with this agency, get paid triple what I would normally, and take the chance that Paul was telling me the truth.

  Nighttime came and went, and as the sun finally began to peek back over the horizon, I had made up my mind. Sitting up in my bed, I had grabbed my phone and re-dialed Paul's number.

  In Colorado, in the city of Aurora, I was subjected to two more weeks of additional questions and testing. They were the tests I had come to expect as a federal agent candidate, with polygraph tests, psychological evaluations, and more being conducted on me. These also flew by without any issue, but one segment did stand out as odd in my mind.

  During the polygraph exam, the interviewer moved on to an odd set of questions.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "Do you consider yourself a superstitious man, Jason?" he had asked.

  I answered in the negative, slightly puzzled.

  "Does the concept of an afterlife frighten or dismay you?"

  Again, I answered no, but my confusion grew more steadily.

  "Do concepts such as ghosts, monsters, and extraterrestrials strike you as outlandish notions?"

  Now this was a barrel of a question. Even from where I was sitting, I could see the polygraph needle jumping around like crazy; the interviewer said nothing, but looked intently at me, awaiting my answer.

  "I... don't know," I replied. "I don't believe in them, per se. But I am open to the possibility, with concrete evidence."

  The interviewer nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. "Thank you, Jason. That concludes that set of questions."

  A few days after my final round of testing, I was instructed to report to a government building downtown, presumably for clearance and ID purposes.

  Upon arrival there, however, I was only issued a simple ID card: all it had on it was my name and a serial number, without any agency markings, logos, or any other identifiers on it. Not even my picture was on this card.

  As if I weren't confused enough, I was then guided down the hallway and to a minimally furnished classroom, where only 3 other people, other candidates I had assumed, were sitting amongst the 6 provided desks.

  I took my own seat, a little cowed by my experiences thus far. Here I was, sitting in a barebones room with 3 other people whom I have no idea about, taking a gamble on my future for the prospect of working for an agency I knew next to nothing about, but for an absurdly high salary.

  I wasn't sure what exactly what I was thinking, trading in a safe and stable FBI career for whatever... this was.

  As I sat there contending with my thoughts, the classroom door opened again. Instinctively, I looked up at the door, and saw a familiar face.

  Paul ambled into the room, dressed this time only in gray slacks and a navy-blue dress shirt and black tie. A pair of leather suspenders was woven around his shoulders, but I could also see that he had switched his weapon placement from his right hip to an appendix holster.

  "Morning, everyone," he greeted us, as if he were about to give a lecture. "I hope the past few weeks haven't been too harsh on you. We wanted to make sure you were properly vetted before you sat in those chairs today."

  I glanced at the other 3 people in the room.

  2 of them were younger guys, like me; one was an Asian guy with a short, smart haircut, the other was an African-American whom, were he to stand, I was sure would tower over me.

  The other was a lady, also on the younger side and admittedly easy on the eyes. She had short, ginger hair in a bob cut, with a sharp jawline to boot. I turned my eyes away from her to stop myself from gawking and refocused on Paul at the front of the room.

  "Before we begin, I would like to offer you one last opportunity," Paul said, eyeing each us with his piercing gaze. As he swept his eyes over to me, I managed to hold his stare for a moment, before he looked over at the others.

  Oddly enough, nobody else turned away from him, like so many others had at the graduation ceremony. All 4 of us held his gaze, if only briefly, and he resumed speaking.

  "This time, I am not offering you any more rewards or benefits. This is an opportunity for you to leave. What you are about to learn will completely upend everything you've been raised and taught to believe." He fixed me with his stare again. "Everything. Your religion, your spirituality, your worldview. All of it will be challenged by what I will tell you in this room."

  I felt my heart begin to race. My stomach felt like it was doing Olympic somersaults, a gnawing pit of anxiety that threatened to overtake me.

  What could he possibly mean? We already had Top-Secret clearance; surely, nothing pertaining to national security would entail such a statement?

  The Asian guy raised his hand. "Uh, sir? Do we have the proper clearance to hear what you have to say?" He shot a quick glance at me, and I could see he was sweating from his brow. "I just want to make sure we're covered."

  Paul chuckled. "Good question. You're about to, should you choose to stay. What I will tell you goes beyond Top-Secret clearance."

  My body was trembling now. There was no way he was serious; I was sure he was pulling our leg somehow.

  The 4 of us sat in silence, saying nothing. Based on what I saw from the Asian guy, I was sure everyone else was just as nervous and anxious.

  "I'll take that as an answer, then." Paul smiled. "Very well. From here on out, everything I say is classified at the Onyx-level. This is a level of classification that fewer than 10,000 people in the entire country have, including the executive branch of the federal government."

  He leaned on the podium in front of the classroom, looking around at each of us before continuing.

  "Do you remember that one set of very odd questions you were asked during your polygraph? The one about ghosts and monsters and the like?"

  We nodded. My stomach churned as I saw where this was going.

  "What if I told you that it's all real? Very real, as real as you and I right now?" Paul's voice was low, speaking in an almost conspiratorial tone. "All those crazy stories, those spooky tales and fables you've heard as children? There's a kernel of truth to them."

  The room was silent as the grave, save for the occasional buzz from the overhead fluorescent lights. Paul stood up straight and crossed his arms, as if daring us to speak.

  My skin crawled, and my stomach was practically doing barrel rolls at Mach 7. The others were visibly shaken as well; the lady in particular was deathly pale, trembling slightly in her seat.

  "Now, now, calm down," Paul said. "Sure, they may be real, but that doesn't mean we can't do anything about it. This is where we, and you, come in."

  The door suddenly rattled open, making the 4 of us jump from our seats. A tall and heavily-built African-American man, wearing business-casual clothing not dissimilar to Paul, walked in and handed an envelope to the supervisory agent.

  "Sorry to interrupt, sir," he said, without even glancing at us. "Priority-Two call. I've got General Hawkins on line 4."

  Paul sighed, taking the envelope. "Wonderful timing as per usual, Leo." He nodded his head in our direction. "Take over for me, will you? I was just at the part explaining what Department 13 is."

  With that, he briskly walked out of the room, leaving the man, Leo, standing at the podium.

  Leo slowly turned to us. "Sorry, everyone. Agent Wissenhoff is needed elsewhere. I'll take over your orientation from here on out."

  He pointed to the Asian guy. "We'll do quick introductions, starting with you."

  The Asian guy nodded. "I'm Kevin Ngo. I was with Fish and Wildlife before I signed up here."

  Leo nodded, then pointed to the other African-American guy.

  He stood up, straightening his suit jacket. "Daryl Baskins. Good to see you all here. FBI."

  My heart leapt; it looks like I wasn't completely alone, then.

  The lady was next. "Anna Powell. ATF."

  I introduced myself as well, along with my former FBI placement; hearing this, I spied Daryl raising his brow.

  Leo nodded once I finished. "Good. I'm Agent Leo Daniels. Congratulations on making it here today." He crossed his arms and stood squarely at the front. "You 4 were the only candidates to have successfully made it past vetting. 53 candidates applied, 22 were tested, and you 4 are the result of that."

  I barely managed to keep my jaw from dropping; how was that even possible? What sort of criteria did we meet to survive such an attrition rate?

  "I'm sure you have questions about your success, but that will have to wait," Leo continued. "I'll brief you on what Department 13 is, and the sort of work you'll do as special agents."

  My mind was still racing as Agent Daniels spoke, trying to grasp the reality of what was being told to me; ghosts, monsters, all of that was, apparently, real. There weren't any camera crews, no hidden audience or host to laugh at our expense; there was only the 4 of us, sitting here and listening to the agent brief us in a completely serious tone about these formerly childish concepts.

  "Department 13 was officially created in 1947, in the same National Security Act that established the CIA under President Truman," Agent Daniels was saying. "Before that, we existed as an amalgam of various other agencies and elements of the Department of Defense. After Department 13 was created, our mission was to uncover, pursue, and respond to supernatural threats within the United States." He gave us a look. "Supernatural threats which, as I'm sure Agent Wissenhoff said before, have been proven to be a very real phenomena we have had to address."

  "Sir," Daryl interjected, "Are you saying that... it's all real? Heaven, Hell, God, everything?"

  Agent Daniels smiled-no, smirked- at him. "Now that remains to be seen. As of now, all we know is that there exists a concept of an afterlife. We have had to deal with malevolent entities that have... passed on beforehand."

  He uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs to his belt, assuming a power stance. "As special agents, your job is to pursue any leads that pertain to your assigned cases, respond to high-threat callouts dealing with these entities, and thoroughly investigate any and all reports dealing with this subject matter." He turned his head slightly; under the bright fluorescent lighting, I spied a thin scar running down the side of his face and neck. "I will not lie to you. This is a demanding and high-risk occupation. Last year, we have had to endure 15 deaths in the line of duty."

  15? Out of a purported 100 agents? The odds weren't looking too hot; I admit, I seriously entertained the thought of just bolting out the door and into the street, to disappear back into the safe obscurity of a normal life and job.

  "If you are thinking of getting out now," Agent Daniels said, as if he read my thoughts, "you still may. However, the information that has been divulged to you must remain confidential. As a result, you will have to undergo conditioning to ensure your secrecy."

  "Conditioning, sir?" Kevin asked.

  Agent Daniels nodded. "Your memories of the past few weeks will be altered. You will remember nothing of this conversation or this topic, only that you tried out and failed to meet our requirements. You may return to your original assignment, but you will not remember anything about a Department 13."

  My heart leapt: a second out. I contemplated this within my head, completely torn. The sane part of me screamed for me to take this last chance, to return to my safe life of normalcy and to get away from this insanity; still, a small part of me burned with curiosity and the desire to know more, to put the pedal to the metal and see where this would take me. That, and the extremely lucrative pay, of course.

  A squeak and scraping noise beside me jerked me out of my thoughts. Daryl had stood up, his fists clenched.

  "I... I can't do it, sir," he said in a strained tone. "It's... too much for me."

  Agent Daniels nodded and the door opened, whereupon two more agents in business-casual clothing stepped inside.

  "No shame in that, Mr. Baskins," Daniels said. "I wish you all the best back at the FBI."

  As Daryl was escorted out, the remaining 3 of us sat in silence, stealing glances at one another, almost as if daring the next person to tap out.

  After a few more minutes, Daniels spoke up once more.

  "Perfect. Let's get started."