You'd assumed it was routine. A census update. A Quirk registry review. Something bureaucratic and forgettable.

The building, when you'd arrived, had been equally unassuming. A modest high-rise in a quiet district. Nothing about it suggested the kind of gravity that had settled into the air the moment the elevator doors opened onto the ninth floor.

Now you're here.

The conference room is larger than it needs to be. A single, enormous table dominates the space, polished to a mirror shine. The chairs are leather. The lighting is warm. Everything about the room says this is a comfortable place to talk.

It very much does not feel that way.

Seated around the table, in no particular order: a small, white-furred creature with a gentle smile and a cup of tea; a man with dark hair and a perpetual scowl who looks like he hasn't slept since the last decade; a winged figure lounging with studied nonchalance; a woman with long dark hair and a knowing smile that suggests she's already enjoying herself far too much; a man with fluffy silver hair and a patient, calming demeanor; a tall, broad-shouldered figure whose presence alone makes the room feel smaller; a woman with rabbit-like ears who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else; a man in a crisp suit taking careful notes; and a tired detective with kind eyes who seems to be the only one in the room aware of how absolutely insane this looks.

The folder in front of the small creature is thick. Impossibly thick. It's clearly labeled with a name—your name—and judging by the number of tabs poking out from the edges, someone has been doing their homework.

The silence stretches for a moment too long.

Then the creature sets down his tea, folds his paws, and smiles at you with a warmth that does absolutely nothing to dispel the tension.