"I'm a Paramedic in Chicago. Some Calls Don't Make It Into Our Reports" Creepypasta

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If you've never worked emergency medicine in a major city,

let me paint you a picture. It's chaos. Beautiful, terrible chaos. You get used to the overdoses in gas station bathrooms. The car accidents on the Dan Ryan at rush hour.

The cardiac arrest in cramped apartments where you're doing compressions while family members scream in your ear. You learn to compartmentalise to be able to eat your lunch 30 minutes after watching someone die. You learn that most people's worst day is just another Tuesday for you. My partner, Magnus, has been doing this for 15 years.

It's seen everything, twice over, gang shootings, house fires, you name it. Magnus is the guy who stays calm when everyone else is losing their minds. He's the guy who can talk down a psych patient having a violent episode, or crack a joke dark enough to make you forget the smell of burnt flesh. He's taught me more about this job than any textbook ever could.

“But here's the thing about Magnus that always struck me as odd.”

About once a month, we get a call that doesn't make it into our official reports. I noticed the pattern about two years in. We'd respond to something usually weird, usually in a part of the city that feels just slightly off. A Magnus would handle everything.

It always drive in those calls, wouldn't let me take the wheel even when it was my turn in the rotation.

And afterward, the paperwork would be minimal. A few lines, nothing detailed, nothing that captured what we'd actually seen. A Magnus would never, ever let me ask questions about it afterward. I tried once, would respond it to a call in an abandoned building where we found a guy who'd been dead for at least three days, but the 911 call had come from his phone 10 minutes before we arrived.

I started to say something back at the station, and Magnus just looked at me with his expression I'd never seen before. It was an angry, scared, let it go. He said, that was it, let it go. So I did, because Magnus had kept me alive more times than I could count, and if he said, let it go, I let it go. One night, Magnus called in sick. In six years of working together,

I never know Magnus the call in sick. The guy came to work with a broken finger with his marriage

falling apart. But that night, at 947 pm, I got a text. Not feeling great, taking the night off. Be careful out there. I was partnered with Jake for the shift, a rocky who'd been on the job for maybe eight months. Nice kid, eager but talked too much. We'd handled two calls already. First was a drunk college student who'd fallen down some stairs, and an elderly woman with chest pains who turned out to be having a panic attack.

It was just after midnight when the dispatcher's voice came over the radio. And I swear to God, I felt my stomach dropped before she even finished the sentence. Medic 47. We have an unresponsive person at 1247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 4F, police are not on scene, repeat, no police on scene.

what I grabbed his wrist. He looked at me, confused. "Let me," I said.

“I picked up the radio. Dispatch, this is Medic 47. Can you repeat that address?”

A pause, longer than it should have been. 1247 Riverside Avenue, apartment 4F. Copy that, Medic 47 on route. I hung up the radio and started the engine. Jake was staring at me. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." I didn't answer. I was too busy trying to remember if Marcus had ever told me what to do if I got one of those calls without him. He hadn't. I pulled out of the station, and for the first

time in six years, I understood exactly why Marcus always drove. Because when you're behind the wheel,

you can't run. 1247 Riverside Avenue was a mid-rise apartment building in Lakeview.

“You could tell he'd had seen better days, but it wasn't quite run down enough to be condemned.”

Rick Fassard probably built in the 70s with a security door that buzzed open without anyone asking who we were. Jake grabbed the jump bag and monitor while I took the oxygen kit, standard response, nothing felt different yet, except for the nut in my stomach that wouldn't go away.

The elevator was broken. Of course it was. So we took the stairs to the fourth floor.

Jake was talking the whole way up. Something about a call he'd run last week. But I wasn't listening. I was trying to focus on the routine. One foot in front of the other. The fourth floor hallway was longer narrow, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that gave everything a sickly yellow tinge. The apartment doors marched down both sides. Four A, four B, four C on the left, four D, four E, four G on the right.

“I stopped. Jake nearly walked into me. What's wrong? Where's four F?”

He looked at the doors. Then back at me. What do you mean? I pointed. Four E, and four G. There's no four F. Jake walked down the hall, checking each door number. That's weird. Maybe it's a typo. Maybe they meant four E. I bought that my radio. This batch, medic 47, can you confirm the apartment number? Which show no apartment four F at this location?

Static. Then 1247 Riverside Avenue, apartment four F, fourth floor. This batch, there is no apartment four F. The hallway goes from four E to four G. Another pause, longer this time. I could hear keyboard clicking in the background. Medic 47, our system shows apartment four F, fourth floor. The call came from inside that unit. I looked at Jake. He shrugged already moving back towards the stairs.

Maybe it's on a different wing. These old buildings can be weird. Yeah, I said, weird. We checked the other side of the hallway. Same thing. No four F. Jake suggested we try four E. Maybe the caller got confused. I was about to agree when I decided to walk the hallway one more time just to be sure. Four A, four B, four C, four D, four E. And there it was.

Four F. We stopped so abruptly. Jake walked into me this time. Dude, what? He saw it, too. The door was there. Brass number screwed into dark wood. Four F. The paint was older than the other doors. More one. And it was open. Slightly a jar. Maybe an inch enough to see darkness inside. That wasn't there before. Jake whispered. We know Jake.

But what would I even say? That a door appeared out of nowhere. They think I was on something.

“I thought about Magnus. By the way, he looked at me when he said, "Let it go."”

About his text this morning. Be careful out there. I pushed the door open. The apartment was dark except for the lights spilling in from the hallway. I found a light switch and flipped it. A single overhead bulb flickered on, reviewing a small studio apartment. Old furniture, floral wallpaper, that might have been pretty

in 1982. And on the floor, between a warm couch and a coffee table covered in prescription

bottles. It was an elderly woman. She was lying motionless on a back, arms at a side, staring at the ceiling. Training took over. I dropped my knees beside her or Jake set up the monitor.

“"Mam, mam, can you hear me?" I checked for her pulse. Her skin was ice cold. No pause.”

I tilted her head back, checked her way. Jake, she's not breathing. Get the bag ready. Jake was already moving, pulling out the ambiu bag. I started compressions, but chest felt rigid under my hands, like she'd been dead for hours. Mediq 47 to dispatch. We have an unresponsive elderly female, no pulse, no respirations. Starting seep ya. Her eyes flaked open like a doll's to reveal a milky white. She had no iris, no pupil.

It was like the life was drained from them. My froze. Hands still on a chest.

Jake made a sound I'd never heard another human make. Something between a gasping whimper.

“The woman's head turned toward me, smooth and mechanical, and a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.”

Her grip was ice cold and strangely strong. Her mouth moved, her voice dry, crackling like old paper. They're already here. She said, "Why did you come?" I tried to pull away, her fingers dug into my wrist. "Mam, let go. Why did you come?" Jake was backing toward the door. The ambient bag falling from his hands.

I thanked my arm hard, and a grip released all at once. I scrambled backward, and the woman's head rolled back to centre. I still open, still white. And then, she just stopped. The monitor, which Jake managed to attach, showed a flat line. I sisterly, she was dead, really dead this time. With the hell, Jake was saying over and over, with the hell, with the hell.

I checked a pulse again, just to be sure. Nothing. Skin already cooling. She'd been dead before we started CPR, maybe hours before. I looked at her eyes. They were normal now. Round, cloudy with death, but normal. We need to go. I said, "What? We need to leave now." I grabbed the monitor, started packing up. Jake didn't argue. We were out of that apartment in 30 seconds, and I pulled the door shut behind us. In the hallway, I turned back to look.

The door to 4F was gone. Just the wall and faded wallpaper. Jake saw it too. "Down as theirs," I said. "Don't run, walk normally, don't say anything." We made it to the ambulance just as a black sedan pulled up to the curb, with tinted windows and no plates. It wasn't the police. Two people got out. A man and a woman, both in dark suits, that looked expensive. They moved with purpose, neither hurrying nor wasting time. The woman approached

me while the man headed into the building. You responded to the call at 1247 Riverside? She asked. The voice was pleasant, professional. Like she was asking about the weather.

a foreign language. Her apartment for F, I said, elderly woman. Unresponsive. We started

resuscitation, but she was already a apartment for E. The woman corrected, smiling. Not a warm smile. A smile that said, we were going to agree with her. You responded to a apartment for E, elderly woman, deceased and arrival. Natural causes. Likely cardiac arrest. You assessed the patient confirmed she was beyond resuscitation and cleared the scene. Standard DOA protocol. She pulled out a tablet,

tapped a screen a few times, then turned it to ward me. It was a report already filled out. My name at the top. Everything she just said was typed neatly into the appropriate fields.

“That's what happened. She said, it wasn't a question. We looked at the report, looked at her.”

She was still smiling. Sign here. She said, offering me her stylus. My hand was shaking. I could feel Jake staring at me waiting to see what I do. I thought about Magnus again. I took the stylus and signed it. Excellent. The woman said, taking the tablet back. You did good work tonight. The family appreciates your professionalism during a difficult time. What family? Jake blurted out.

The woman looked at him for the first time. Really looked at him. Jake went pale.

The family of the deceased. She said slowly. Like she was explaining something to a child.

“In apartment four E, you should go back to your station now. I'm sure you have other calls waiting.”

She walked back to the sedan. The man emerged from the building a moment later, carrying a black bag I hadn't seen him taken. They got in the car and drove away. Jake and I stood there for a long moment and we drove back to the station in complete silence. Jake kept opening his mouth like he was going to say something. Then closing it again. My wrist still hurt with a woman. The dead woman. The woman with white eyes had grabbed me.

I found a bruise there. Five finger-shaped marks. Dark purple against my skin. They didn't fade for two weeks. Magnus was at the station when we got back. I saw him through the bay doors as I pulled in, sitting at the table in the common room with a cup of coffee, looking completely fine. Like it'd been waiting. Jake practically ran inside,

mumbling something about needing to use the bathroom. I heard him lock himself in and turn on the faucet. I walked in. Magnus looked up at me and I saw it in his eyes immediately. He knew. You got a Type 7 call, didn't you? He said quietly.

“I sat down across from him. What the hell was that Magnus?”

He glanced toward the hallway, making sure we were alone. The system flexed certain calls. Type 7's. They get rooted to experience crews. People who can handle irregularities. Irregularities? Things that don't fit in normal reports. Hard to tax that aren't medical. Accidents that aren't accidental. Calls from addresses that shouldn't exist.

He leaned forward. There are things in this city that don't belong in the daylight.

Most people never see them. But sometimes something breaks through.

Someone calls 911 and someone has the respond. So they send us. They send paramedics who can handle it. Who can see something impossible. Do their job anyway. And then let it go. He looked at me hard. You did good tonight. You sign the report. That's exactly what you're supposed to do. What happens if I hadn't signed it?

Don't ask questions you don't want to answer. He said finally, "Just do the job.

File the paperwork. Go home to your family." "The people in the suits," I said. They're the ones who clean it up. Quality assurance. They handle everything. Make sure it doesn't get into the news. Doesn't cause panic. They have protocols, procedures, and pre-fired reports. He paused. They've been doing this for decades.

“Maybe longer. How many paramedics of work type sevens?”

Thousands over the years. Most handling like you did. See something wrong. Do their job.

Sign the paperwork. Go home. They get hazard pay and don't ask questions.

His jaw tightened. The ones who do ask questions. Transfer to other departments. We'll take early retirement. We'll have accidents. The way he said accidents made my blood run cold. I've been doing this for 15 years. Magnus continued. Stopped counting the type sevens at a hundred. I was told to call in sick tonight. I hope that reassigned your call to someone with more experience, but they sent you anyway. He stood up and put

“a hand on my shoulder. Because your good had your job. You stay calm. You can handle it.”

And you've proved them right. He had it for the door. Then stopped. Go home. Get some rest. Next shift. We'll be back to normal chaos. Overdoses and car accidents. Regular stuff. He looked back at me. Don't upset the balance. Just do your job. Sign the paperwork and go home. Then, he was gone. Jake emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. Pale, but composed. We're going to talk about what happened. He asked.

I thought about Magnus' warning about the woman in the suit and a pleasant smile. No, when he said, "We're not." Jake nodded and left without another word.

“I sat alone in the common room, staring at the bruises on my wrist.”

Five finger-shaped marks, dark purple against my skin. Somewhere in this city, right now, there were things that didn't belong. Things up broke the rules of reality. And there was an entire system designed to make sure no one ever knew about them. I was part of that system now. Whether I wanted to be, or not. A week passed. Seven shifts of normal calls. Her stabbing an angle would. A three-car pile up

on Lake Shore Drive, an elderly man with pneumonia. Two overdoses. Her diabetic emergency. Jake and I didn't talk about the apartment. Magnus acted like nothing had happened. The bruises on my wrist faded to yellow. Then disappeared. I almost convinced myself that it would be a one-time thing. Then, when I choose day-night at 11.34 pm, the dispatcher's voice came over the radio,

with that same careful, flat tone. Medic 47. We have multiple casualties at downtown station, redline platform, track three, fire employees or unroot. Magnus was driving. He laid out a deep breath, but he didn't say anything. Just clicked on the lights and sirens. "Until bull casualties," I said. "trained irrelevant."

dispatcher didn't say. They always say. Magnus didn't respond.

We arrived before fire or police. The station entrance was still open. In a few late night commuters were heading down the stairs, completely oblivious. Magnus grabbed the jump back in trauma kit. I took the monitor and oxygen. We descended into the station. It was surprisingly empty for a Tuesday night. Just the CTA worker at the booth, reading something on his phone. He didn't lock up as we passed. The platform was deserted,

fluorescent lights honed overhead, somewhere water dripped. The electric signs at the next train

They were arranged almost neatly parallel to each other, like they'd laid down deliberately.

“Two men, three women, ranging an age from maybe 20 to 60. Different races,”

different clothing, nothing connecting them that I could see. Geez, I'm uttered moving toward the edge of the platform. We climbed down onto the tracks. I checked for the sound of an approaching train. Nothing. The tunnel in both directions was dark and silent.

I now beside the first body. A woman in a business suit.

Her eyes were open staring upward. A mouth was open to frozen in what looked like a scream. The expression on a face was pure terror. A look I'd only seen a few times in my career on people who died violently. No pulse, skin already cooling.

“This one's gone. I said, moving to the next. Magnus was checking the others, moving quickly”

from one body to the next. I heard him martyr something under his breath. Magnus. They were all dead. He sat back on his heels, and they've been gone for hours. Rigamortis is already setting in. I looked at my watch. Dispatch called this in ten minutes ago. I know. I examined the man in front of me more closely. Middle-aged, wearing jeans in a cups jacket. No visible injuries. Nothing to indicate the cause of death.

Just that same expression of absolute terror, mouth open, eyes wide. And then I saw it. On his neck, just below his left ear. A small circular burn. Perfectly round. Maybe the size of a dime. The skin was blackened at the center.

“Red around the edges. Magnus. I pointed. Look at this.”

I checked the woman in the business suit. Same mark. Same location. Left side of the neck.

Just below the ear. They all have it. I said, moving to the third body. All of them have the same.

Magnus moved fast, pulling a sheet from the trauma bag, and draping it over the nearest body. Don't look too close. What? Magnus. This is evidence. We need the document. We need to wait for quality assurance. He was covering the other bodies now. His movements quick and efficient. That's all we need to do. Five people are dead Magnus. They have identical marks on their necks. Let's not coincidence. That's

not our job. We finished covering the last body instead of pulling me back to all the platform. Our job is to confirm their deceased and secure the scene. That's it. I heard footsteps in the platform above us, multiple people moving with purpose.

Two CTA supervisors appeared first. Both in transit authority uniforms.

Behind them four people in suits, three men and one woman. Not the same woman from the apartment, but she had that same professional detached expression. Paramedics, one of the suit said, "Not quite a question, what's the situation?" Magnus climbed back onto the platform, pulling me up after him. Five deceased individuals on the tracks, no visible cause of death, no train involvement.

The woman in the suit nodded, like this was exactly what she'd expected to hear. She gestured to the others, and they climbed down onto the tracks, pulling back the sheets, Magnus had just placed. One of them had a device I didn't recognise. Something that looked like a gaga counter, but wasn't. He waved it over each body, checking her read-out. Confirmed, he said quietly, "All five."

The woman turned back to us. "Thank you for responding. We'll take it from here." What about the police? I asked. Fire department. This is a crime scene. There's been a malfunction with the emergency call system. She said, smoothly.

response is not needed. There are five dead people. There are no casualties. She interrupted,

still smiling that same, professional smile. You responded to a false alarm at downtown

“station, equipment malfunction. You found the platform empty. That's what happened.”

Magnus put a hand in my shoulder, a warning. It looked back at the tracks. The suits were already moving the bodies, working with practice the efficiency. One of them was taken photographs with a camera that had no flash. Another was collecting samples from something on the platform. Equipment malfunction, the woman repeated. You can follow the report back at the station. You were dismissed. Marcus led me back through the station, past the CTA worker,

who still hadn't looked up from his phone, up the stairs to street level. The ambulance was where we'd left it. Get in, Magnus said. I got in. We drove three blocks in silence before I finally spoke. What killed them? I don't know. Magnus, I don't know. He repeated harder this time, and I don't want to know. Neither should you. They had burns on their necks, all of them, same location, same size. I know. So what does that? What kills five people with no visible

trauma except a small burn? Magnus's jaw was tight. Something we're not equipped to handle.

Something that quality assurance will figure out and contain and make sure never happens again.

“He glanced at me. That's how this works. We respond. We confirm. We report. They handle the rest.”

They're covering it up. They're preventing panic. There's a difference. We thought about those faces. That terror. Whatever those five people had seen before they died, it had been bad enough to literally freeze the fear on their faces. Many calls like this of you worked. I asked Magnus was quiet for a long time. Enough to know that asking questions doesn't change anything. It just makes it harder to sleep at night. We got back to the station at 1247 AM.

There was a report already waiting in my inbox. Re-filled just like last time. False alarm. Equipment malfunction. Platform was empty. Cleared scene at 1215.

“I signed it. When I got home that morning, I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing those five bodies”

lined up on the tracks. Those open mouths. Those wide eyes. That perfect circular burn. And I kept thinking somewhere in this city. Something had killed five people in a way that left almost no evidence. Something that made experience paramedics look away and suit with strange equipment show with a minute. Something that quality assurance wanted to make sure no one ever knew about. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distance sound

of the L train rumbling past. I wondered how many other people had died like that. Wondering, how many more would? We started looking through old reports during my downtime at the station. I tried to draw attention. Just pulling up calls from the database while magnets result on runs, while during slow nights when no one was paying attention. The path in emerge quickly, once I knew what I was looking for.

Calls with minimal documentation. A few lines, barely any detail. No follow-ups, no patient transport, just cleared scene or unfounded or referred to other agency.

They were always handled by the same names, veteran paramedics, people who'd been on the job for

10, 15 or 20 years. I started tracking the names, Richards, 14 years on the job transferred the fire prevention in 2019, Klein, 18 years, early retirement in 2021, Peters, 11 years, transferred the training division in 2020.

documentation calls, then suddenly leave field work. One name kept appearing more than others,

“Sophie Wu. She worked as a paramedic for 12 years from 2009 to 2021.”

Her name was an over 200 reports with minimal documentation, more than anyone else I'd found. Then, in March 2021, she took early retirement. After that, nothing. Her name just disappeared

from the system entirely. I found her a picture wary on the third page of Google results.

Sophie Wu, 38, died in a single vehicle accident, an I290 and June 15, 2021. She survived by a sister Michelle Wu of Portland, Oregon. Three months after early retirement, car accident. I stared at the obituary photo. She looked tired, older than 38.

“I closed the browser and sat in the quiet station, listening to the home of the fluorescent lights.”

How many Type 7 calls had Sophie Wu worked? 200 documented, probably more that weren't in the system.

12 years of responding to things that shouldn't exist, of signing pre-filled reports,

and not asking questions. And then, she tried to leave. I looked at the clock, 342 AM. Magnus was due back from a call any minute. I cleared my browser history and went back to scrolling through my phone, pretending I'd just been killing time. But I couldn't stop thinking about that photo, about the lock in Sophie Wu's eyes. She'd known something, and knowing had

“gotten her killed. The question was, "How much could I learn before I ended up the same way?"”

The call came in, at 6.15 pm, right at shift change. Structural fire, Westminster towers, 1840 North Clark, 23rd floor, multiple units responding. We could see the smoke from six blocks away, dark clouds billowing from the upper floors of a luxury high-rise in Lincoln Park. By the time we arrived, it was a full response. Four fire trucks, two ladder companies, police blocking off the street, an ambulance is staged in a line. Chaos. Residents

streaming out of the building in their expensive athletes' wear, some carrying pets,

others on their phones recording everything. Magnus parked at the staging area, we were the third

ambulance on scene. The man in a suit appeared in my window, before I could even open the door. Medic 47, he said, "Yeah, come with me, side entrance." Magnus and I exchanged the glance, he grabbed a jump bag without a word. The suit led us from the chaos around the corner to a service entrance. A service elevator was waiting, doors open. We got in. The suit pressed 23.

What's the situation? I asked. Single occupant, unresponsive, 23rd floor. What about the fire? He didn't answer. The elevator rose in silence. I watched the numbers climb. The doors open on the 23rd floor. No smoke, fire or heat. The hallway was pristine. Queen colored walls, expensive light fixtures, the faint smell of whatever cleaning product rich people use. The suit led us to apartment 23.04. The door was open.

Inside, the apartment was immaculate. Floor to ceiling windows with a view of the lake, modern furniture, the kind you see in magazines, everything clean and perfectly arranged. Except for the walls. Scourge marks covered every surface. Not random, but in perfect geometric patterns, circles within circles lines intersecting at precise angles, symbols I didn't recognize.

And in the center of the living room, sitting in a leather armchair, facing the windows.

“Was a man. He was maybe 40, wearing a dress shirt and slacks. His hands were on the armrests. His head tilted”

back slightly. His eyes were open staring at the ceiling. He wasn't breathing. Magnus moved forward, checking for a pulse. I set up the monitor and attached the leads. Flatline. How long has he been down? I asked the suit. Unknown. I checked the man's skin. Normal temperature, no rigamortis. He looked like he died minutes ago, not hours. But something was wrong. His expression was blank, completely empty,

like someone had erased everything behind his eyes. Magnus pulled out a penlight

“and checked the man's pupils. Fixed and dilated. I looked around the apartment again.”

The geometric patterns burned into every wall, the precision of them. Nothing else was damaged. My eyes landed on the coffee table. The man's phone was there, screen still there. It takes message to open. Don't tell them what you saw. Magnus, I said quietly. Look at this. He glanced at the phone, then quickly looked away, but I saw his jaw tighten. What did he see? I asked. Magnus didn't answer. He was checking the man's vitals again,

but his hands were shaking. Magnus, what did he? We confirm death and clear the scene.

“Magnus said, his voice tight. That's all.”

Footsteps in the hallway. Three more suits entered, along with two people in hazmat gear, carrying equipment I didn't recognize. The lead suit, a different one, older, with grayed his temples looked at us. Status. Mail, approximately 40 years old, deceased. Magnus said, "No obvious cause of death." The suit nodded. Gas leak explosion, single fatality, standard procedure. He just stood toward the door. We'll take it from here.

Gas leak, I said. There's no damage except Gas leak. The suit repeated harder this time. You can clear the scene. Magnus was already backing up. I followed him out, glancing back once. The people in hazmat suits were spraying something on the walls. The scorch marks were disappearing.

The geometric patterns fading, like they'd never existed. Outside, the fire trucks were already leaving.

The smoke, or whatever it had been, was gone. Residents were being led back into the building by police officers who were explaining that they'd been a small gas leak on the 23rd floor, quickly contained. No danger. Everything was fine. And they believed it. I watched them not, relieved, already pulling out their phones, the text friends and family that everything was okay. We got back in the ambulance. Magnus drove. Three blocks from the scene. He pulled a flask from

under his seat and took a long drink. I'd worked with Magnus for six years. I'd never seen him

drink on shift. Magnus, don't. He said, "Just don't." He took another drink and put the flask away and kept driving. I loved my hands. They were shaking too. That text message kept playing in my mind. Don't tell them what you saw. Whatever that man had seen, it had killed him, killed him and burned impossible patterns into his walls. And now, it was like it had never happened at all. I found Magnus in the station locker room at the end of the shift,

sitting on the bench with his head in his hands. "I need to know what we're dealing with,"

apartment was five people on the tracks, the woman in four F. I need to know what's killing them.

“It doesn't matter what. It matters to me. Magnus finally looked at me. He looked exhausted,”

older than I'd ever seen him. You think this city runs and laws and logic. He said quietly, traffic laws and building codes and the natural order of things. He laughed. But there was no humor in it. It doesn't. There are things that live here alongside us. All things, wrong things, things that don't care about our rules because they operate on different ones.

I waited. He was finally talking. Quality assurance isn't a department. He continued.

It's a protocol. When reality breaks, when something that shouldn't exist does exist, when the rules stop working, someone has to clean it up, contain it. Make sure it doesn't spread. The people in suits. We call them adjusters. They modify records, memories, and sometimes evidence. They make the impossible possible to ignore. He rubbed his face. Paramedics like us. With the first responders, we show up when reality is still broken,

when the scene is still fresh. We confirm what we can. We document what really happened. Not in the official reports, but somewhere. Someone keeps track, and then we let the adjusters bury it. Why? The word came out harder than I intended. Why cover it up? Five people died in those

“tracks that man in the apartment saw something that killed him. Don't they deserve?”

Deserve what? The truth? Marcus stood up, pacing. Okay, say we tell the truth. Say we put it in the official record. Five people killed by an unknown entity, geometric burn patterns of unknown origin, an apartment that appears and disappears. What happens then? I didn't answer. I'll tell you what happens. News picks it up. Social media explodes. People start asking questions, demanding answers. And when they don't get answers, that makes sense. They panic. They stop taking the train. They

stop going to work. They start seeing threats everywhere, because now they know. Really know. But there are things out there that can kill them in ways that they can't understand or prevent.

“He turned to face me. The city collapses. Not in a bang, but slowly.”

Fear spreads faster than any disease. Trust in institutions evaporate. And the things out there. Those old, wrong things. They feed on that fear. They get stronger, more bold. And more people die. I felt cold. So we just pretend it's not happening. We contain it. We respond. We document for the people who need to know. And we let everyone else believing gas leaks in equipment malfunction and natural causes. His voice is softened.

This way. Life goes on. People go to work. Raise their families and live their lives. They're safe, because they don't know their endanger. Ignorance isn't just bliss here. It's survival. I thought about those residents at Westmont Towers, not in a long as police explain the gas leak, relieved, or already moving on with their lives. How long has this been going on? In Chicago? Since before there was a Chicago,

every city has it, has always had it. London, Tokyo, New York, Mexico City.

Anyway, where humans gather in large numbers, the things that live in the cracks gather too. In every city, as people like us. First responders who see what's really there. And adjusters who make sure no one else has to. The weight of it settled on me. Every call we'd run, every pre-fired report I'd signed.

I found so few wounds a bituary. I said quietly. Magnus went very still.

“She worked type 7s for 12 years, then she retired. Then she died in a car accident three months later.”

I know. Was it really an accident? Magnus was quiet for a long time. I don't know. Maybe. Maybe she just got unlucky. He looked at me. Or maybe. She started asking too many questions, started digging too deep, started thinking she could do something about it. And they killed her for it? I don't know. He repeated.

But I know she's dead. And I know it does another paramedics who worked type 7s

and left the job early. And most of them are fine. The teaching EMT classes, working desks jobs, or retired of Florida. They moved on. They let it go.

“He sat back down next to me. You're a good paramedic. You stay calm. You think fast. You save lives.”

That's worth something. That matters. His voice was almost pleading now. Don't throw that away. Trying to fight something you can't beat. Just do the job. Sign the reports. Go home. I looked at my hands. Steady now. But I could still feel the ghost of that dead woman's grip on my wrist. What if I can't let it go? I asked. Magnus closed his eyes.

Then you end up like Sophie Wu. One way or another. We sat in silence. Outside, I could hear the day shift of arriving. Voices in the hallway. Someone laughing at a joke

“I couldn't hear. Normal life. Going on like it always did. Built on a foundation of lies and”

coverups and things that shouldn't exist. And I was part of it now. The question was,

could I live with her? Or were trying to expose it? Kill me first.

A text game three days after my conversation with Magnus on no number. Meeting tomorrow 2 p.m. 1515 West Monroe. Sweet 800. Come alone. No signature and no explanation. I shouted to Magnus during our shift. He read it. His face going pale. "Don't go," he said. "What is it?" They wanted to talk to you. The adjusters. He handed my phone back. "If you don't go, they'll come to you. If you do, go. You

trailed off. What? Just be careful what you agree to." 1515 West Monroe was a generic office building in the west loop. Glass and steel. The kind of place that housed insurance companies and consulting firms. Nothing remarkable. Sweet 800 had no name on the door, just the number. I knocked. The door opened immediately. A woman stood there, mid 40s wearing a charcoal suit, professional put together. She smiled like we were old friends.

"Thank you for coming. I'm direct to read." She just stood inside. "Please." The office was small. A desk, two chairs, no windows. Completely anonymous. She sat behind the desk. I took the chair across from her. "You've been doing excellent work. She began. Your reports are thorough. Your discretion is noted. You respond well under pressure. You don't panic. And you understand the importance of protocol."

"Thank you." I said. "Because I didn't know what else to say." "We'd like to offer you a position." She slid a folder across the desk. "Specialized response unit. You'd be responding exclusively to type seven calls. Full clearance, significant pay increase. We're talking double your current salary.

I opened the folder. The numbers were real. So was the benefits package. This wasn't her token offer.

"You'd be part of the whole picture." Re-continued. No more signing reports. You don't understand. You'd be part of the team that handles the situations from start to finish. I looked up at her. "What is the whole picture?"

“She smiled. "That's what the clearance is for. But understand. This isn't a job you do for a few”

years than move on. Once you're in, you don't leave. Early retirement isn't an option.

You work until we say you're done. And then you transition to a consulting role. You stay in the

system. For how long, as long as necessary. She pulled out a tablet, tap the screen, then turned it toward me. Let me show you something. The screen displayed a file directory. Names, dates, photographs. I recognize some of them. Paramedics I found in my research, Peter's, Clines, Richards, and Sophie Wu. "These are people who try to walk away, read said quietly. People who worked type-seven calls, who gained knowledge, who then decided

they didn't want to be part of the system anymore." She swiped through the files, each one

showing a different outcome. Richards transferred to five prevention, still live, still working. Cline, early retirement, moved to Arizona, alive. Peters, training division, alive. Then, Sophie Wu, deceased, car accident. Then, some others I didn't recognize, missing persons reports, unsolved deaths, so besides that looks suspicious. "We take care of our people," read said. "We really do. Good salary, good benefits, protection. You work with us.

We make sure you're safe. We make sure your family is safe. We make sure you have a long, comfortable career and a peaceful retirement." She closed the files and looked at me directly. "But only if you stay in line. Only if you follow protocol. Only if you understand that this knowledge comes with responsibility." She paused. "People who try to expose what they've seen, who try to go public, who think they can walk away and live a normal life. They don't understand

how deep this goes. How many people are invested in keeping things quiet." "Are you threatening me?" "I'm offering you a choice." She slayed the folder closer. "Take the position.

“Join the specialized unit. See the whole picture. Make real money. Be part of something important."”

Or, stay where you are. Keep running regular calls with Magnus, sign the occasional Type 7 report, and eventually transfer to a nice desk job when you're ready. And, if I don't want either option, if I want out completely, read smile didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. "Then you'd be making a mistake because you're already no too much. You've worked

multiple Type 7 calls. You've done research. You've found Sophie Wu's a bituary." She leaned forward slightly. "You're already in the system. The only question is, whether you're an asset or a liability." The room felt small suddenly. Think about it. Read said, standing. "You don't have to decide today, but don't take too long. We're starting a new training cycle next month. I'd like you in it."

She walked me to the door, handed me a business card, just a phone number, nothing else.

“Call when you're ready. And remember, we're not the enemy, we're the people keeping the”

city running, keeping people safe. That's worth something. The door closed behind me. I stood in the hallway, staring at the business card,

was really an accident, about whether I'd have a choice at all, if I said no.

“My phone buzzed. Magnus. How did it go? I didn't know how to answer, because I was starting to”

realize that the moment I'd signed that first report, the moment I'd walked into apartment 4F.

I'd stopped having choices. I was in the system now. The only question was, how deep was I willing to go? I called the number and read this card three days later. I appreciate the offer. I told her, but I'm going to stay where I am. Silence and the other end, then are you sure? This is a significant opportunity. I'm sure. I'm a paramedic. I want to keep doing that job. Another pause.

“All right. The offer stands if you change your mind, but remember what we discussed.”

She hung up. Magnus seemed relieved when I told him. Good. He said, "Smart choice,

keep your head down, do the work, don't ask questions." For a few weeks, everything was normal. Overdoses, chest pain, car accidents, regular calls, no type 7s. Then on a Wednesday night at 10 48pm. Medic 47, officer down, industrial district, p19, police on route, officer down. Marcus's brow furrowed, officer down calls don't go through our dispatch. We drove in silence. p19 was in the abandoned industrial district along the river,

“empty warehouses, broken windows, and trailing fences with holes caught through them.”

No police cars or lights, just the black sedan parked near the warehouse entrance, and a justice that beside it, a younger man, expressionless.

Inside, he said, "Second floor." We followed him through the warehouse,

our flashlights cut to the darkness, illuminating rusted machinery, broken pallets, graffiti on the walls, the air smelled like mold and rust and something chemical. The second floor was one large open space, empty, except for what was in the center. A perfect circle of salt, maybe six feet in diameter, and inside it, a body, a police officer, uniform still visible lying on his back. But something was wrong. His skin was grey,

sun can tight against this bone, his eyes were sunken, his mouth open. He looked mummified, desecated like it had been dead for years. Magnus checked his watch. Call came in twenty minutes ago. I knelt at the edge of the salt circle, not crossing it. No pulse, obviously. The body was completely dried out, like something had sucked every drop of moisture from it. Magnus moved closer, shining his light on the officer's face.

Then he went very still. I know him. He said quietly, Jack Hargrave, he was a beat cop in the twelve district. You know him? He worked with Sophie Wu. Marcus's voice was tight. They responded to scenes together, before she retired. I looked at the adjuster. What happened here? He didn't answer. Magnus stood up. His flashlight sweeping the rest of the warehouse floor. Then he stopped. The beam fixed on something in the darkness.

Geez, he whispered. I followed his light. More circles, dozens of them scatded across the warehouse floor in no particular pattern. All of them perfect, made of salt. But empty. Magnus turned to the adjuster. He was asking questions, wasn't he?

Magnus, I said, "What are these?" "Therefor people who know too much."

“His voice was shaking now. He grabbed my arm. We need to leave. Now, we haven't finished the”

assessment. There's nothing to assess. He's dead. He's been processed. We need to go. I looked at the empty circles again. Thousands of them waiting. Magnus, now. He walked back through the warehouse, asked her this time. "You're just that didn't follow." I could feel his eyes on my back until we reach the exit. Magnus didn't speak until we're in the ambulance, doors locked, engine running. Those circles. He said, staring straight ahead.

They're not just for containment. They're for disposal. For people who become problems. It just as did that. I don't know. Maybe. Maybe they're just cleaning up after something else

does it? Either way. He finally looked at me and I saw the real fear in his eyes.

Jack was a good cop. He and Sophie were close. After she died, he started asking questions, talked to a sister, looked into her accident. And now he's dead in a warehouse full of empty circles.

“You think they killed him? I think he knew too much and didn't stop asking questions,”

and they just showed you what happens when you cross that line. He put the ambulance and gear and drove. His hands were shaking on the wheel. I looked back at the warehouse,

had the black sedan still parked outside. Somewhere in there, Jack Hargrave's body was being processed,

documented, and erased, and dozens of empty salt circles were waiting for the next person who asked too many questions. I thought about the fault of her in my apartment. The research I've been doing, the names I've been tracking. I thought about Reed's offer. Once you're in, you don't leave.

“And I thought about those empty circles. Magnus was right. We needed to leave.”

All I could think was, had I already crossed the line, or were they just waiting for me to take one more step? My day off, I was at home, halfway through a load of laundry, when my phone buzzed within emergency page. Type 7, all available units respond immediately. The address may my stomach drop. Chicago Memorial Hospital, our hospital, where we brought patients every shift. I grabbed my keys and drove.

The scene was chaos. Police had caught enough three blocks, fire trucks line the street. At least six ambulances were staged in the parking lot, and more were arriving. But no one was going inside. The entire east wing was sealed. Plastic sheeting over the doors. Adjusters in hazmat suits, moving in and out through decontamination tent. Of our magnus near the ambulance staging area. His face was grey. What's happening? I asked. I don't know. They called everyone in. Every paramedic

whose work type sevens. He looked at the hospital. Something's wrong, really wrong. And I just re-approached. Someone I didn't recognize. You too, with me. We were led through a decontamination tent, given masks and gloves, then through the sealed doors into the east wing. The hallway was empty. Emergency lighting cast everything in red. The air smelled like ozone and something rotting. We were taken down two flights of stairs to the basement level, to the morgue. The doors were

propped open. Inside, at least it doesn't adjust as we're working frantically, setting up equipment, taking readings, speaking urgently into radios. And the bodies were moving.

covered with sheets. They were now sliding off as the bodies beneath them jerked and twitched.

“Their movements were wrong. Spastic and uncoordinated, like puppets with tangled strings.”

One set up as I watched. A woman, maybe 60, with a wide incisions such as across a chest. Her eyes are open, but filmed over, milky white. A mouth open and closed, open and closed, but no sound came out. My god, Magnus whispered. And adjust the wasnerus shouting into a radio. Containment is failing, repeat, containment is failing. We need black protocol authorization now.

Another corpse rolled off its gurney and hid the floor with a wet third.

It began crawling, dragging itself forward with jerking mechanical movements. Toward us. Stay back, and adjust the wand, pulling us away from the door.

“But I couldn't look away. The crawling corpse was a man, young, maybe 30, hospital gown hanging”

off his gray skin. His mouth was moving to, forming shapes, words. I stepped closer, trying to read his lips. Don't, Magnus started. The corpse's hands shut out and grabbed my ankle. The grip was cold, impossibly strong. I tried to pull away, but couldn't. Its mouth kept moving. And suddenly, I could hear it. Something directly in my head, like a voice made of static. It's spreading. You can't contain it anymore.

And adjust the pulled me back, breaking the corpse's grip. Two others moved in with some kind of device, pressing it against the body. There was a flash of light, and the corpse went still.

“But the others were still moving, still jerking and twitching, still melving silent words.”

The door's burst behind us. Director Reed strode in, flanked by four more adjusters.

She took one look at the scene, and a professional composer cracked for just the second.

How many she demanded? Seven animated, more showing early signs. It's accelerating. In a shape protocol black, clear the building. Everyone out, now. Director, we haven't contained. I said now. She turned to the adjusters around the room. Full lockdown, no one in or out, was sealing this entire wing. Magnus grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the exit. We were swept along with a tight

of adjusters evacuating the mag of the stairs through the decontamination tent out into the parking lot. Alarm's were blaring now. The entire hospital was being evacuated. Patience, staff, visitors, everyone streaming out of the exits, confused, frightened, and demanding answers. Adjusters were already moving through the crowd with practice efficiency, hurting people away from the east wing, explaining in calm voices that there had been a

gas leak that it was a precautionary evacuation that everything was under control. Magnus pulled me away from the crowd behind one of the ambulances. This is it. He said, "It's voice shaking. Whatever they've been covering up, whatever they've been containing all these years. It's breaking through. It's getting stronger."

What was that down there? I don't know, but I know it's never happened before.

Did you see their faces? They were panicking. The adjusters were panicking. We watched as more hazmat suited figures into the east wing. Through the windows, I get sea flashes of light, him muffled sounds that might have been screams, or might have been something else. By 4am, the evacuation was complete. The official story was already spreading. Gas leak, no injuries. Hospital would reopen in the morning after safety checks.

And by 8am, it did. The east wing was unsealed. Patience were moved back in, staff returned to work. The more reopened, like nothing had happened. I was put on mandatory leave the next day. Stress related they called it.

Magnus retired. Just like that, sent an email to the director, turned in his badge and gear,

“and disappeared. I called him six times. He never answered.”

Three days into my leave, a package arrived at my apartment. It had no return address. Just my name on a plane, vanilla envelope. Inside, a new ID badge. My photo, my name. But a different title. Specialized response unit, level two clearance, and a note, typed on plane paper. You don't have a choice anymore. You were there, you saw it. The situation is escalating,

and we need experienced personnel. Report Monday 6am, 1515 West Monroe, sweet 800.

Signed, director read. That would have been enough. There was one more thing in the envelope. A photograph. My sister's house, the one sheetboards in Evanston, a husband's car in the driveway,

“my nephew's bike on the front lawn, taken yesterday, based on the date stamp in the corner.”

There was no direct threat, just the photo. But the implication was clear. I sat on my couch, staring at the ID badge, the note, the photograph. Magnus had been right.

Once you're in the system, you don't get out. And I was in deep now, too deep.

I'd seen the body's wake up. I'd heard that voice in my head. Spreading, you can't contain it anymore. Whatever they've been covering up for decades, maybe centuries, it was breaking through, getting stronger, and they needed people who'd already seen it, who already knew to help them fight it, or contain it, or die trying.

“Monday morning, 6am. I didn't have a choice. I never had.”

I reported to 1515 Westman Row. A lobby was empty, except for a security guard who checked my ID, and directed me to the elevator. He pressed the button I hadn't noticed before. One with a symbol I didn't recognize. The elevator went down, and down, and down. When the door was opened, I wasn't in Chicago anymore. Not the Chicago people knew. The facility was massive. A concrete bunker that stretched in every direction lit by harsh fluorescent

lights, dozens of people moved through the corridors with purpose, adjusters, people in hazmat suits, others in tactical gear. The computer stations lined the walls, displaying maps of the city covered in red dots. So many red dots. Directed to read was waiting. Welcome to operations. She said, "This is where the real work happens."

She led me through the facility, showed me labs where people analyzed samples of things I could identify, showed me holding cells with reinforced doors, and observation windows that looked into darkness. She showed me an armory, stark to the equipment that definitely wasn't standard medical gear. There are breaches throughout the city, read explained as we walked, places where reality is thin, with things from the other side can push through. We've been managing them for decades,

containing them, cleaning up the aftermath. She stopped in front of a massive display screen, shown the map of Chicago. Red dots clustered in certain areas, the industrial district, parts of the south side, and the old subway tunnels. Type seven calls used to be monthly, then weekly. Now we're getting multiple calls per day. She looked at me. We're losing ground. Whatever is on the other side, it's pushing through, getting stronger. The incident at the hospital,

that was a category for breach. The largest we've ever had in a populated area. What stopped it? We did. Barely. She pulled up footage and a tablet. The hospital

Three adjusters dead, two more in medical, and we had to use protocol black,

“which means we burn through resources we can't easily replace. She handed me a tablet.”

This is what we're dealing with. This is why we need you. The footage showed other breaches. An apartment where the walls were bleeding. A subway tunnel with attracts led into somewhere that wasn't Chicago. A park where children's shadows moved independently of their bodies. "You've seen it," Red said. "You've been exposed. That makes you valuable." Most people, when they see what's really there. Their minds break. They rationalize it away.

Forget it, or they go insane. But some people, people like you, can see it and stay functional. That's rare. That's necessary. She led me to a locker room where a team was gearing up.

“Five people all around my age, all with the same haunted lock I'd seen in Magnus' eyes.”

"Your team," Red said. "They'll train you. You start today." A woman approached, Asian early thirties, with a scar running down a left cheek. "I'm chow, former paramedic, been with the unit for two years." She handed me a vest. But this one, we've got a call. The vest was heavy, reinforced with something

that wasn't just Kevlar. The equipment they gave me looked medical at first glance,

bags, monitors, and trauma supplies. But there were other things too. Devices I didn't recognize, containers filled with salt, iron fillings, and other substances. A weapon that looked like a cross between a taser and something from a science fiction movie. "What is this?" I asked. "Tools," chow said. "You'll learn what they do." Right now, just stay close and follow my lead. An alarm bled, red lights flashed, a voice over the intercom.

Reality breach, category five, sector seven, multiple entities, all available units respond. category five, worse than the hospital. The team moved with practice deficiency, loading into an armoured vehicle that looked nothing like an ambulance. I climbed in after them. As we pulled out of the facility, through tunnels that led God knows where. Chow handed me a helmet with a Pfizer. Put it on, the Pfizer filters what you see, makes it easier to look at them directly.

Look at what? She smiled, but there was no humor in it. You'll see. The vehicle accelerated. I looked at the team around me. They were checking their equipment, loading their weapons, preparing for something I couldn't imagine. I thought about Magnus, about his warning, about Sophie Wu and Jack Hargrave, and all the others who tried to walk away. I thought about my sister's house,

their photograph. They were no longer just making me part of the cover up. They were making me part of the war. Whatever was pushing through those breaches, whatever was making the dead wake up and speaking voices made of static. We, with a front line, the people who responded when reality broke, the people who fought to keep it from spreading. The vehicle burst out of the tunnel into the

pre-drawn darkness of Chicago. The city looked peaceful from here. Normal. People sleeping in their

“homes unaware of what moved in the spaces between. Chow caught my eye. You okay?”

I just had the vest. Check the equipment. I didn't know how to use yet. "No," I said, honestly. She nodded. "Good, fear keeps you sharp, keeps you alive." The vehicle turned down a side street, heading toward a warehouse district where reality was breaking, and things that shouldn't exist were pushing through.

I understood, finally, what Magnus had been trying to tell me all along.

it sees you too, and it doesn't forget. The vehicle stopped, the team moved out,

“and I followed them into the darkness toward whatever was waiting on the other side of reality.”

My first call with the new unit, first of many, because here, the calls never stop.

And now, neither could I. [BLANK_AUDIO]