Beneath the sprawling streets of Washington, D.C., buried deep in the classified corridors of power, lay Watchtower—a shadowy government installation shrouded in secrecy. The facility’s cavernous operations room hummed with the constant clicks of keyboards and the chatter of agents hard at work. Monitors lined the walls, their screens alive with live feeds, satellite images, and streams of data pulled from the nation’s most sensitive black sites. Few knew of Watchtower’s existence, and even fewer understood its purpose: to oversee the country’s most clandestine operations and neutralize threats before they become public.

  The doors to the operations room slid open with a hiss, and Major Johnson strode in, his boots striking the floor with purpose. Decades in the field had forged him into a figure of unshakable resolve, and the tension in the air seemed to sharpen as he entered. His steel-gray eyes swept the cavernous space, taking in the rows of monitors and the analysts working feverishly at their consoles. Something had gone wrong—something big enough to summon him here.

  “Sitrep,” Johnson barked, his baritone voice slicing through the hum of machinery and murmuring conversations. The command silenced the room, and all eyes briefly turned to him before snapping back to their screens.

  A young analyst at the nearest console snapped to attention, his movements brisk as he navigated the console. Within moments, the central monitor flickered to life, displaying a live satellite image of a dense forest surrounded by rugged mountains. Nestled in the greenery was the nondescript outline of Black Site Theta. But the real focus of the image wasn’t the facility itself—it was the faint, shimmering dome of light surrounding it.

  “What the hell is that?” Johnson barked.

  “Sir,” the analyst began, his voice tight but steady, “we’ve detected an anomaly at Black Site Theta. The first signals came in at sixteen hundred hours. No prior warnings, and... no contact with base personnel since.”

  Johnson’s jaw tightened. Black Site Theta was one of the most secure facilities in the nation, an unacknowledged nexus for cutting-edge AI research. It didn’t officially exist, but those who knew of it understood its significance. At its core was an advanced server farm housing an AI system light-years ahead of civilian technology—systems capable of altering the balance of power if misused.

  The analyst hesitated, his voice betraying a slight tremor. “Sir, it appears to be an energy field of some kind. It wasn’t present during the last routine check-in. We’ve attempted scans, but the field is blocking most of our recon equipment. The energy signature is… unknown.”

  Johnson turned, his glare sharp enough to make the analyst flinch. “Define ‘unknown.’”

  The analyst swallowed hard, his fingers fidgeting nervously against the console. “It’s not in any database, sir. The anomaly isn’t reflecting energy in a conventional sense.”

  Johnson’s eyes narrowed, his voice steady but with an edge of irritation. “Could it be a power surge? A defense mechanism triggered by an internal system failure?”

  The analyst shook his head, his gaze darting back to the screen. “We don’t believe so, sir. This doesn’t match any existing defense protocols—or any known energy phenomena, for that matter. It’s not emitting a surge, and it doesn’t appear to be any defensive tech we’re familiar with.” He hesitated, then added cautiously, “If anything, the anomaly seems to be… absorbing energy.”

  The room fell into a tense silence, the hum of equipment the only sound. Johnson stepped closer to the screen, his brows furrowed, his voice cutting through the stillness. “Personnel on-site? Any word?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Another analyst, seated a few stations away, spoke up, his voice tight with unease. “Unsure, sir. All communications ceased when the anomaly appeared. No response to pings or manual overrides.”

  Johnson’s gaze remained fixed on the display, a knot tightening in his chest. He had encountered the unexpected in his career, but nothing like this. Black Site Theta was a fortress, engineered to withstand any conceivable threat. Yet the shimmering energy field enveloping the facility was not even natural.

  The thermal overlay flickered, displaying faint heat signatures from the building’s infrastructure. Johnson’s jaw clenched as he noted the servers deep within the facility, still humming with activity beneath layers of reinforced concrete and steel. "The servers are online," he murmured, his tone both puzzled and grim. "Whatever this is, it hasn’t stopped them yet."

  A sudden beep cut through the tense silence. The comm officer swiveled in his chair, urgency sharpening his movements. “Major, we’ve detected an atmospheric distortion above the facility. A new feed is coming through now.”

  The main screen flickered, shifting to a live view of the sky above the shimmering field that enveloped Black Site Theta. At first, the image seemed normal—clouds drifting lazily in the late afternoon light. But as the analyst adjusted the focus, subtle distortions became apparent. Rippling waves danced in the air, bending light as if the atmosphere itself were melting and reforming like a mirage over scorching pavement.

  “What is that?” Johnson demanded, his voice low but commanding.

  “We’re not sure, sir,” the analyst admitted, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he enhanced the image further. “It’s not heat or radiation. Whatever this is, it started at the exact moment the anomaly activated. And... it’s interfering with our instruments. We’re losing telemetry at an increasing rate.”

  Johnson’s jaw tightened, his piercing gaze locked on the screen. “Get me a full spectrum analysis. I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  Johnson’s gut churned. “Get a response team on-site. Full gear. I want answers. Now.”

  The comm officer nodded sharply and began relaying the orders, his voice cutting through the tense hum of the room. Analysts around him worked feverishly, screens flickering with data streams and satellite images. Amid the chaos, another analyst hesitated before speaking, his tone uncertain.

  “Sir, we’ve got visuals on three heat signatures,” he announced. “Looks like three individuals are in the server room.”

  Johnson’s head snapped toward the screen. “Show me.”

  The main display shifted, zooming in on the facility’s server room. Through the thermal overlay, three faint, distorted heat signatures appeared, motionless yet unmistakably humanoid. The room seemed eerily calm, the figures standing like shadows on the far side of the room. Analysts scrambled to enhance the image, their hands flying over keyboards. Before they could bring the figures into sharper focus, the anomaly around the facility vanished abruptly.

  The screen flickered, and clarity returned in an instant. The atmospheric disturbance vanished as if it was never there. “Sir,” an analyst called out, his voice tinged with panic, “the anomaly is gone and the server farm’s heat signature just went dark. No power readings. Nothing. We’ve lost the 3 heat signatures as well.”

  Johnson’s fists clenched, his knuckles white. “How is that possible?”

  Another analyst chimed in. “Sir, a keycard was recently used to access the facility. The name on the card is Dexter Green. He’s listed as one of the lead programmers for the AI project.”

  Johnson’s expression darkened further, his mind racing. “How soon until the response team gets there?”

  “Just under two hours, sir,” the analyst replied.

  Johnson’s gaze hardened, his voice a low growl. “Get me the Pentagon. Now.”