The weather. Tomorrow, expect a... Biting cold front. Mmm, how naughty. I wonder what I'll be wearing or taking off. The night will be wild and untamed. Expect heavy, lashing rain that'll soak you to the skin. By Monday, temperatures will rise slowly but surely reaching their peak in the afternoon.

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Most people don't know about the ICD, the integrated contamination division, and that's exactly how they like it. They've been around forever, quietly cleaning up the world's loose ends, the things that

don't make sense, that don't belong, they're scooped up, locked away, and forgotten.

Officially, the ICD handles biological hazards and experimental preservation.

Unofficially, they're in the business of making the impossible disappear.

I worked for them long enough to know better than to ask questions. Facility 112 wasn't my first assignment, but it was the last. Places like that aren't for the curious.

It's a simple job, a good fit for someone like me.

I was used to it.

You don't work for the ICD without learning to accept the strange.

You hear things, rumors of living shadows, creatures with too many teeth, things that vanish if you look directly at them. You don't get attached,

you don't wonder, and you definitely don't ask what's in the sealed containment pods. You

just keep your head down and follow the rules. The facility has tucked away when no one

would think to look.

It's not glamorous and it's where they send the most dangerous and valuable finds.

My job was to keep people out and things in.

I'm not a scientist or an analyst, just one of the guards who patrols the halls, checks

badges and watches security feeds.

The day they brought it in, the whole place felt wrong.

Facility 112 was usually quiet, sterile almost.

...