4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
When Systems Fail
Jenny crosses the threshold from private dread into institutional indifference. Her husband missing, her son asking questions she can't answer, her dog gone. Linda—her own sister-in-law—cites procedure: one text message counts as contact. Not missing. Come back in forty-eight hours. Jenny's fist slams the counter. Heads turn. Then a voice cuts through: a detective wearing guilt beneath his sleeve and bandages under his glove. Karl Jenkins steps forward when the system steps back. One act of compassion that might pull him deeper into darkness.
Automatic doors seal behind Jenny. Fluorescent lights hum. The lobby smells of disinfectant and accumulated anxiety from thousands who've stood here gathering courage to speak unspeakable things.
Behind reception desk: Linda. Jenny's sister-in-law transformed by uniform into bureaucratic distance. Jenny approaches, explains Nial's disappearance. Linda's response flat, procedural: he sent a text. That counts as contact. Officially not missing.
Jenny's voice rises beyond control. Her fist cracks against counter. Heads turn throughout lobby. She's making a scene—the desperate woman, the hysterical wife. She doesn't care anymore.
Karl arrives late, guilt from morning's trespass clinging despite scalding shower. Bandage pulses beneath sleeve. Glass cuts hidden under leather glove. He stops, angles body behind support pillar. Pretends to check phone whilst eavesdropping.
The pattern crystallises: Jamie. Kain. Luke. Now Nial—and his dog. All gone under circumstances that feel wrong but stay just plausible enough to dismiss.
Karl steps forward before consciously deciding. Whatever lines he crossed this morning, he's still a detective. That has to mean something.
Swipes security card. Door buzzes open. Gestures Jenny deeper into station—away from Linda's rigid procedure, into interview room where maybe someone will finally listen.
