“Pull every box labeled *Incident Night*," Joseph ordered.
The archivist blinked. “Sir, that's classified pack record—"
“I'm the Alpha. And I'm reopening the file."
With a reluctant nod, the older man disappeared into the back vault.
Joseph's fingers tapped against the mahogany table. He hadn't slept. The library encounter replayed in his head like a cracked recording.
She'd said *yes.*
And for the first time in five years, he believed it wasn't a weaponized answer.
---
Hours later, boxes stacked high around him, Joseph combed through faded reports, smudged witness logs, and dry official statements.
Then—something.
A coroner's log.
Time of Death: 9:32 p.m.
But the official incident file recorded 9:47 p.m.
His breath caught.
Fifteen minutes.
Someone had altered the timeline.
