ARCHIVE INSERT: OBSERVATION // CODE: RESONANCE-DECAY.09CR
Status: Recovered Field Residue — Telemetry Interference
Clearance: Tier Null-Tau / Onyx Override Required
Incident Type: Unclassified Orgasmic Collapse
Subject: Agent Crale
Location: Blackwatch Citadel — Training Wing 9-F
Trigger Link: Unstable Recursion Trace to Subject Vale, Thalos | Classification: CHAPTER FIVE COMPANION
Classified Memorandum
Archive Division: Field Telemetry Recovery Wing
Subject File: AGENT CRALE
Observation Year: Cycle Twelve
Access Level: Onyx Override
Recorder: [Redacted]
[Internal Breach Warning]
File captured through unsanctioned aftershock telemetry.
Emotional corruption present. Physical echo residue confirmed.
The Archive does not forgive memory.
Entry #0909: Unclassified Resonant Collapse Event
Time Stamp: 04:13 A.M.
Telemetry flagged a recursive disturbance within Training Wing 9-F—abandoned, no scheduled activity for 231 days.
Agent Lior dispatched for field investigation.
Primary Findings
Subject identified: Agent Crale.
Condition:
Environmental Observations:
Facial observations:
Lior physical telemetry:
Agent Lior delayed reporting immediate retrieval.
Auditory Event Recorded:
“Gods help us, I think he came himself to death.”
Archive Response:
Analytical Summary
Death consistent with unclassified orgasmic recursion event.
Residue emotional imprint:
Recommendation: File archived under Resonant Decay Events. No official incident report to be filed. Memory echo deemed unstable. Silent containment enforced.
[End of Entry]
Recovered Visual Transcript
Deleted Scene — "Echo on the Mat"
Location: Blackwatch Citadel — Abandoned Training Wing | 04:13 A.M.
Agent Lior never walked this wing without his boots whispering apologies. The stone floor still remembered him from another life—a younger man, a hungrier one, full of ache and ambition. He hadn’t planned to return tonight. Not here. But the Archive had glitched—a cold pulse in the sigil flow, a false reading near the disused training alcoves. So he came. Alone. As instructed.
He moved like a man used to being watched but rarely approached—tall, with the kind of build that filled out a uniform without ceremony. Not hulking. Just dense. The outline of muscle beneath his coat suggested power restrained, not flaunted. His trousers clung to thick thighs that didn’t beg attention but took it anyway, and the tail of his coat swayed low across an ass that looked better when it wasn’t trying. He kept his gloves on even in warm rooms. Said it was about protocol, but the rumors were different.
Some said his hands bore ink. Others said sigils.
No one had seen him shirtless in years, but that didn’t stop the speculation.
His beard was trimmed short, flecked with a single stripe of silver just at the chin. A scar bisected his left brow—clean, shallow, deliberate. It didn’t mar his beauty. It gave it context.
The training room’s door cracked under his palm, the old glyphs long since faded to memory. No scent greeted him at first. Only stillness. Then, slowly—heat. Sweat. And something more human.
He stepped inside.
And stopped.
Crale.
Naked. Pale. Collapsed like an unfinished sentence. Knees bent beneath him, spine arched like he’d died mid-prayer—or mid-ecstasy. One hand still curled loosely at his side, the other flung across the mat, smeared with something dark at the knuckles. His cock hung flaccid, spent, but there was no shame in the way his body had fallen. It looked like surrender. Or ritual.
The floor beneath him was damp. Not blood. Not semen. Something else. A scent like iron and ink and ash. Lior crouched low, gloves creasing at the knuckle, fingers hovering near the shoulder but not daring to touch.
His own body stirred, not from arousal—but from memory. Instinct. Echo. The Archive had trained him to recognize arcane residue the way most men recognized weather. And this—this wasn’t magic. Not exactly.
It was aftermath.
There was no sigil on Crale’s corpse. But something had been there. The air still pulsed faintly above his skin. A shimmer. An afterimage. Like a name half-erased.
Lior’s jaw flexed.
He didn’t call for a medevac right away.
He stared.
Because Crale’s face didn’t wear fear.
It wore awe.
And grief.
Like he’d seen gods. And realized they weren’t coming back for him.
Lior touched his own chest then, palm flat above his heart. Beneath the fabric: steady pulse. Human rhythm. No sigil response.
But his throat felt tight. Not from emotion.
From resonance.
Something had happened here.
Something holy. Or profane.
And the Archive hadn’t forgotten it.
When he finally keyed his comm, his voice was low.
"Agent down. Confirmed. Male. Room 9-F. No signs of combat. No signs of restraint."
A breath.
He looked again.
"Just... collapse. Mid-climax, I think."
Silence.
Then, softer—unable to help himself:
"Gods help us, I think he came himself to death."
The Archive didn’t answer.
But the lights overhead flickered once, like breath caught in a throat.
And Lior could swear—for a heartbeat—the air whispered Kaelor.
Classification Note:
This file remains sealed under Directive Null-Tau. Any attempt to replicate resonance pattern will trigger permanent erasure protocols.
Observe. Record. Do not replicate.
FILE END
Director's Unauthorized Addendum:
There are worse ways to go.
But gods, few more honest.
Agent Crale didn’t die in battle. He didn’t fall to blade or betrayal. He folded himself open mid-climax, offered up everything he was to something that never even needed to touch him.
Some part of him must have understood. The way his back arched. The way his hands smeared themselves against stone like prayer.
It wasn’t desperation.
It was worship.
And the Archive? It didn’t flinch. It didn’t weep.
It watched.
If you’re reading this, remember: no sigil ever needed carving when the body already knew how to kneel.
I certainly will.
—Director S. Threnna
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