The metal drawer slides out nearly soundlessly, revealing rows of official-looking folders.

The metal drawer slides out nearly soundlessly, revealing rows of official-looking folders.

Be fleet of foot, operant. Your enemies are on to you.

Alright, what have we got in here?

After a moment of rifling, your fingertip catches on a sharp edge. The culprit is a large beige folder labelled, 'VISITORS, NOTATED.'

Lot of footfall for a two-person 'magazine office'.

Lot of footfall for a nondescript building tucked in the corner of a city.

Look through the 'VISITORS, NOTATED' folder.

Strangers in grainy black and white stare back at you. Under each photo, a terse itinerary: VISITOR, DATE OF ARRIVAL, DATE OF DEPARTURE.

Each of them seems to have left the same way: flight D513 to a regional airport in Ile-de-Söze.

There were reports of a ghost-site labour colony on Ile-de-Söze that the Opera took seriously.

Operant CYLINDER (Status: LOST) was convinced EMTERR were behind it -- though he could not ultimately prove it.

Hold on... this place is connected to EMTERR?

If your read is correct... this place is EMTERR.

THE SEAL IS BROKEN. YOU HAVE STEPPED WITHIN THE PHANTOM KINGDOM.

Enemies. Bloodscent. Flee.

So it's likely that anyone who 'visited' this place is already gone.

Going by the dates, their 'visitors' don't tend to stay long. This is a liminal space -- your time may be limited.

What are they doing to these people?

Vanishing them. The black box fate of dissidents, political prisoners, and people in the worst place at the worst possible time.

Whatever it is, it's certainly not poetry.

Sending them to Ile-de-Söze.

Ominous name. Distance. Lost.

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Perhaps they're running a writer-in-residence program on the wasteland mesas of Ile-de-Söze.

Doesn't sound quite right...

Prisoners often compose very compelling poetry.

EMTERR is finally investing seriously in the Arts.

Are you sure this is even a prison? Could just be a very deadline-oriented working environment.

Must be highly-valued contributors.

Look for familiar faces in the files.

You skip through the stack until your eye catches on a man's face: mid-sixties, eyes blown up by milk-bottle glasses.

The last time you saw him, he was smiling at the camera. He isn't smiling here.

Malen's dad...

He looks exhausted and grubby, crumpled at the corners. His glasses were still with him when this was taken.

A sudden talisman. The last thing he gave up.

Read through the document.

'VISITOR: KRANTZ, Eno. DATE OF ARRIVAL: 4.3.96. DATE OF DEPARTURE: 4.18.96, flight D513 to Ile-de-Söze, direct.'

'NOTES: Prolonged interrogation. Mostly unsuccessful until daughter threatened.'

So he's not even in Portofiro anymore? He's just...

Gone.

You have found someone who isn't really here.

Put the document back. (Conclude.)

It disappears soundlessly into the stack.

He looks exhausted and grubby, crumpled at the corners.

Resigned to what was then coming, now come.

Could it be...?

I don't want to see this. (Put the file back.)

It slips between two other files which look just like it.

Pick out the photo of the missing father again.

Read the document about the missing father.

You find his magnified eyes once again among the files.

Check the files for 'Eno'.

You flick through the pages and discover a 'Krantz, Eno'. Attached to the file -- a creased photo of an older man in milk bottle glasses.

Check the files for 'Eno Krantz'.

You flick to the 'K' section and discover him at the end of it. Attached to the file -- a creased photo of an older man in milk bottle glasses.

Check for Ultra Violeta.

You look for any young woman by the name of 'Ultra Violeta'. You find none.

Obviously a stage name. She could still be in here somewhere, unknown to you.

Maybe try... 'Violeta, Ultra'?

Feel around the back of the cabinet.

You bend your arm at an uncomfortable angle and press around at the deepest part of the drawer. Nothing.

Nothing cool stashed behind the folders?

Not even a lost paperclip or bent staple.

Feel for a false bottom.

The drawer's base makes a thin rattle -- not the hollow echo you were hoping for.

Give up.

You pull your hand back from the standard issue cabinet. Files crowd over the gap you made.

INTERROGATE THE FILING CABINET.

ENTER CASCADE. DELVER OF SECRETS, DISMANTLER OF CLERICAL ASSETS.

Start sifting.

The files blur -- then your fingers pause, your conscious mind catching up a split-second behind:

'ESZTI NEWITZ, HEAD OF HUMAN CAPITAL, EMTERR.' A familiar name, stamped in green ink.

The past descends with talons.

Your old asset, ESTOC. Still draped in the same cover you left her in. With one new styling...

Hold on... this place is connected to EMTERR?

If your read is correct... this place is EMTERR.

THE SEAL IS BROKEN. YOU HAVE STEPPED WITHIN THE PHANTOM KINGDOM.

Enemies. Bloodscent. Flee.

EMTERR, a.k.a. L'Empire sans Territoire, a.k.a. 'The Bank'. Equal parts global development fund and spy service. Linchpin of the Developed World.

'Head of Human Capital'... she got promoted?

She is fastened to her cover, mutating with it -- the mask has become her face.

But at what cost? To become the high arbiter of Human Capital, you no doubt have to trade in some of your own.

So I still have a high-level asset inside The Bank.

ESTOC. Status: ALIVE. Alignment: UNKNOWN -- presume BAD FAITH.

Maybe the Whole Sick Crew blow-up wasn't that big of a deal...

Or maybe it was so bad she couldn't claw her way to the surface and was forced to tunnel deeper.

You're welcome, Eszti. Glad to see you flourishing.

Could all your assets have been so adaptable?

Unbearable dissonance reflected back on itself. Synced in and phased out.

Why does her name make me nervous?

Something about unreturned phone calls, abandoning your assets, record lows in cowardice... that kind of thing.

Cold, old, megaton bitch. Never really proper gäng to begin with. Work experience gäng.

A telephone from five years ago startles in its cradle, waking you from the thin end of a dream.

Answer it.

"Hershel. It's Eszti. I'm going to talk fast. Something is dreadfully wrong."

Her phrasing that day always stuck with you -- 'dreadfully wrong', the most wrong a thing could ever be.

The memory bleeds away. Your eyes refocus on the filing cabinet before you.

Don't answer it.

The ringing cuts dead, as if a soon-to-be-intruder snipped the cable outside.

Anything else Eszti-related? (Conclude.)

An address listed in the Housing Campaign to the north of Party Alley. No house number given.

Names over numbers. Old school community.

Existing in plain sight. Courageous.

You store the file in the cabinet, and the information for later use.

TIME TO RENDER THIS MATERIAL 'POST'. TAKE THIS GLORIFIED ACCOUNTANT APART, FROM THE OUTSIDE IN.

CASCADE will extract something cooler than mere accounts.

Your eyes scan the scuffed metal flanks, the slightly-crooked base -- the cabinet wilts under your relentless visual grilling.

HOLD! WHAT'S THIS? A COVERT STATEMENT ETCHED UPON THE STEEL!

Look closer at the scratched writing.

NESTOR IS DEAD HISTORY TOO POEMS R GAY AND SO R U

I've been made by a filing cabinet.

A WORTHY IDEOLOGICAL FOE AFTER ALL.

This interrogation just got enhanced. (Kick the cabinet.)

The CLANG of foot on metal shudders across the room.

Relatively deafening.

AND STILL IT DOES NOT BREAK. YOU ARE BESTED BY FILING CABINET'S RIGID MATERIALISM. TIME TO TURN THIS INTERROGATION INWARD.

I should get moving. [Leave.]

The metal rattles against itself as the drawer slides shut.

Wasting valuable time. But there may be something in here...