The Global Occult Coalition (GOC) seemed to have gone mad.

As if in a desperate frenzy, it was conducting carpet-like searches across an entire North American state.

Unlike the SCP Foundation, the GOC didn't hide in the shadows. It claimed to protect humanity—even if humanity never asked for it.

They rarely displayed supernatural powers or used ultra-advanced technology in front of the public. Such things, after all, were dangerous for those who controlled the world.

If everyone became aware of the supernatural, of what truly existed beyond the veil, the risks would multiply.

And as the world's top political organizations, the GOC's leaders knew best how to deceive the masses—how to maintain their rule through ignorance.

But now, it seemed they no longer cared.

A super fighter jet cut across the skies, sonic booms splitting the clouds.

Teams of agents stormed through neighborhoods, armed with rifles, kicking open doors, and tearing through homes one by one.

Not long ago, a mild spatial quake had been detected here—evidence that a spirit had appeared. Yet, strangely, none of the GOC personnel seemed to care about that anomaly.

They were after someone else.

A senior agent from Division 067 of the Global Occult Coalition had defected. And now, every armed unit was out to find that traitor.

Defectors weren't exactly rare within the GOC.

Under a brutal, high-pressure, and inhuman work environment—where even rest was considered a privilege—it wasn't uncommon for one's sanity to erode.

And when that happened, there was only one escape: defection.

Normally, the GOC would send a small task force to make a symbolic effort to hunt them down. If the defector got away—fine.

Let him rot somewhere in hiding.

Because anyone foolish enough to show himself again would simply be asking to die.

But this time… it was different.

This defector wasn't a high-ranking executive. Yet his reputation within the organization was colossal.

Irreplaceable even.

He was someone the GOC absolutely had to control.

Or destroy.

He called himself Clef.

When he introduced himself, he strummed a ukulele and played a bright major chord, claiming that his name was nothing more than a sound.

Where others signed documents with ink, he drew a symbol—an alto clef. And so, the world knew him as Agent Alto Clef, or simply Agent Clef.

He was a senior operative of the Global Occult Coalition—one of their finest.

He had executed hundreds of anomalies, always cleanly, efficiently, and elegantly. No one could do what he did. To the GOC, Clef was a reality bender—someone capable of distorting the very laws of the abnormal.

He could nullify anomalous effects, ignore the impossible, and shoot an anomaly straight through its core.

To many, he was terrifying.

Because if Clef ever wanted to, he could kill the GOC's top brass before anyone had time to react.

And they knew it.

Clef's true appearance couldn't be captured by any known method.

Those who'd seen him described a man with a wide, Cheshire-like grin and a strangely large nose. Three eyes—green, blue, and hazel—each with pupils that swallowed light.

It sounded like a fairy tale.

But then again, most "reality benders" did.

One day, the GOC detected a massive space-time disturbance.

Agent Clef was dispatched to deal with the anomaly—a manifested "spirit." Three hours after he departed, headquarters lost contact. Two hours later, he killed the first GOC personnel who came after him.

That was how his defection began.

The GOC could not allow such a blade—one so sharp it could pierce gods—to exist beyond its grip.Even worse was the idea that this blade refused to be held.

And so began the greatest manhunt in the Coalition's history.

Gunfire echoed across a desolate town.

The roar of a large-caliber pistol filled the night.

"Clef! If you don't want to be turned into a hornet's nest, drop your weapon and kneel on the damn floor!"

A furious voice barked from outside the house.

The captain of the strike team had already lost seven men trying to contain him. And worse, he would have to pay the pensions for those deaths.

If he could, he'd rather kill the widows too—then there'd be no one left to pay.

"Hey, I remember you," Clef's calm voice drifted from the second floor.

"Oh, Yoshitomo Himuro, wasn't it? Let me guess—you've got black deposits in some Swiss bank overseas, right? I bet your 'clean' funds could only cover three agents' pensions. Tell me, does your moral integrity allow you to use dirty money for something so noble?"

The captain froze. His blood boiled instantly.

Three days ago, the secret bank account he'd used for bribes and skimming funds had been emptied—hacked and drained clean.

He'd gone mad searching for the culprit. Interrogated everyone who might've known. Now, here was Clef, mocking him with it.

"You son of a—!"

He raised his weapon, aiming at the window—but before he could fire, a soft thump echoed.

A silenced shot.

Then silence.

A breeze swept across the street.

The captain's helmet hit the ground with a dull clang.

There was a hole in the front.

And another in the back.

Blood seeped out between them.

"Well," Clef's voice floated lazily from above, "guess who can't use that money now? Not me, anyway. After all, as long as you're alive, you might still need it."

No one answered.

Everyone knew Clef's habit—when not dealing with anomalies, he was a habitual liar with a dark sense of humor.

He wasn't cruel for cruelty's sake.

He just… got bored.

Now he crouched by the window, glancing at the corpses below.

He sighed.

Talking nonsense was more entertaining than silence. Otherwise, he'd just end up killing them all too quickly.

Click-click-click!

A line of rifle shots ripped through the walls, shredding concrete and wood alike.

Clef rolled to the floor just in time—dozens of holes burned through where his head had been moments ago.

If he hadn't moved, he'd be a colander by now.

But since he wasn't a colander—someone else soon would be.

Muted gunfire followed.

Precise.

Methodical.

One shot per heartbeat.

Like Death itself calling the roll.