Destroy the Log

The superintendent's reply arrives in under ten minutes — far too fast for a man who should have been asleep. DESTROY THAT LOG. LINE FLAGGED. DO NOT ENGAGE. No explanation. No concern for what you witnessed. Just erasure, delivered with the clipped authority of someone who has given this order before.

Your hand hovers over the logbook. Then the key begins tapping again — uninvited, on the dead line. The new message is not fragmented. It is precise. It is the superintendent's home address, street and number, transmitted three times in perfect Morse.

Whatever is in that wire knows exactly who you contacted. And it wants you to understand what that means.