Morrigan: Year 3101.

Jacques slouched in his chair, eyes glazed over as he stared at the monitor. The screen glowed with an unfinished report, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a half-formed sentence. He'd been sitting there for hours, but his mind was a million kilometers away from the mundane paperwork.

He glanced over at Eugène, who is hunched over his own desk, busy typing. How the fuck could he just move on like nothing happened? Jacques gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to chuck his stylus across the room.

That Colette bitch from DST. Her face kept popping into his head, smug and superior. How did she know about their investigation? And why the hell was DST so interested in their case that they'd sent an agent to snatch everything away?

Jacques leaned back, chair creaking, and crossed his arms. They could've gotten their claws into any other case, but they chose theirs. Why? Was there something in their investigation that would expose someone important? Maybe. Maybe not. But it stank worse than week-old fromage.

He couldn't shake the feeling that they were onto something big. Something that powerful people wanted to keep buried. Jacques' mind kept circling back to one crucial piece of evidence that just didn't add up: Yuki Sato's body. Those two puncture wounds in her neck...

He'd joked with Eugène about vampires, but what if...? Nah, that was ridiculous. Wasn't it? But what if that's exactly what Colette was trying to hide?

"Fuck it," Jacques muttered, earning a disapproving glare from his partner.

He pulled up a browser window, fingers tapping restlessly as he searched for articles on vampires. Nothing useful came up, just the usual folktales and shitty teen romance crap.

He slammed his fist on the desk, rattling his coffee mug. "This is bullshit."

Eugène sighed. "Let it go. It's out of our hands now."

"Like hell it is," Jacques growled. "Wait, how did you know what I was thinking?"

"I'm not. I'm just guessing that you're still thinking about that DST chick."

"Don't you wanna know what's really going on?"

"What I want," Eugène said, "is to keep my job and stay out of prison. Drop it before you get us both canned."

Jacques leaned forward. "You can't tell me you're not curious. This shit stinks worse than that time we found that body in the sewers."

Eugène kept typing, not looking up. "Curiosity got the cat dissected. I'm not risking my pension over some wild goose chase."

"Wild goose chase? Did you see those puncture marks on Sato's neck? That's not normal."

"Here we go," Eugène rolled his eyes. "So what? Could be anything. Some new drug, maybe a sex thing gone wrong. Doesn't mean we should stick our noses where they don't belong."

"Since when did you become such a pussy? The Eugène I know would've been all over this."

"The Eugène you know likes having a roof over his head and food on the table. DST's involved now. You really want to fuck with those guys?"

"Someone's gotta do it," Jacques said, crossing his arms. "If we don't, who will?"

"Not our problem anymore. Let it go. For fuck's sake, just let it go."

Jacques stood up, kicking his chair back. "I can't believe this shit. You're just gonna roll over and let them walk all over us?"

Eugène sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's called picking your battles. This isn't one we can win."

"Not with that attitude," Jacques muttered, pacing the small space between their desks.

This wasn't just any battle, it was the fucking war. His partner had gone soft, content to be a lap dog for the higher-ups. Jacques couldn't fathom how Eugène could just turn his back on the truth. This case reeked of cover-up, and he knew in his gut that they were onto something big.

He glared at his partner, then turned back to his seat. Maybe Eugène was right. Maybe he should just quit this case and move on. What's the point?

Jacques sighed, pushing himself up from his chair. He needed a break, needed to clear his head. Maybe some caffeine would help.

"Gonna grab some coffee," he muttered to Eugène, who barely grunted in response.

The hallway to the break room was filled with the usual mix of uniforms and plain-clothes detectives. Jacques nodded at a few familiar faces as he passed, but his mind was elsewhere.

"Hey Jacques, how's it hangin'?" Officer Woo called out as he entered the break room.

"Low and to the left," he replied automatically, heading straight for the coffee maker.

He filled his mug to the brim with the station's notoriously strong brew, then slumped into a chair facing the wall-mounted screen. The news droned on, a monotonous parade of weather reports and petty crime updates. Nothing that could distract him from the gnawing feeling in his gut.

Jacques' thoughts drifted back to the case. The DST's involvement, the strange wounds on Yuki Sato's neck, the abrupt way they'd been shut down. It all stank of a cover-up. But why? What the fuck were they hiding?

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. Eugène was right, wasn't he? They should just let it go, move on to the next case. But something about this one had its claws in him, refusing to let go.

Desperate for distraction, he pulled out his phone and started scrolling through social media. Stupid memes, pointless arguments, vapid celebrity gossip. None of it held his attention for more than a few seconds.

"Fuck this," he muttered, pocketing his phone and draining the last of his coffee.

Before he knew it, his feet were carrying him towards the archive room. Maybe if he could find a similar case, something to put this all in context, he could finally put it to rest.

The door slid open with a soft hiss. Rows of data banks hummed softly, stretching aross the room. At a desk near the entrance sat Lyle, the old British record keeper Jacques had only seen a handful of times in his years on the force.

"Morning," Jacques said, approaching the desk. "Mind if I access the computer archives?"

Lyle peered at him over a pair of old-fashioned glasses. "Reason for access?"

He hesitated, then decided on a half-truth. "Looking for cases similar to a recent one. Trying to establish a pattern."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm working on this case right now, and I need to see if the killer that we're trying to catch has a similar pattern of killings in the past."

Lyle leaned back in his chair. "Alright, Detective. But before you go in, there are some rules you need to follow."

"Ok."

"First off, no removing any files or data from this room. Everything stays put, got it?"

"Got it."

"Second," Lyle continued, "you're to log every search you make. We keep track of who's accessing what and when. Third, some files are classified. If you don't have clearance, you don't get to see them. No exceptions."

"Fair enough," Jacques said.

Lyle held up a hand. "I'm not finished. Fourth, no food or drinks in the archive room. Fifth, if you damage anything, you're responsible for replacing it. And lastly, this is all off the record. You're here on your own time, not the department's. Understood?"

Jacques suppressed a sigh. "Crystal clear. Anything else?"

"Just one more thing," Lyle said, reaching for a form. "I need you to sign this disclaimer. It states that you understand and agree to all the rules I've just laid out. It also absolves the department of any responsibility if you misuse the information you find here."

Jacques took it and skimmed quickly before scrawling his signature at the bottom. "There. We good now?"

Lyle examined the form, then nodded. "Alright, you're cleared to enter. Remember, I'll be watching. Don't try anything funny."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jacques muttered as he pushed past the old man's desk and into the archive room.

Inside stretched out like a football field, all sterile white and chrome. Rows of data banks, each the size of a refrigerator, lined up in perfect formation.

At the far end, a wall of screens flickered with streams of data, numbers and letters scrolling endlessly. The ceiling, a good five meters high, housed a network of cables and cooling pipes, snaking their way across like vines.

Workstations dotted the room, each a self-contained unit with a holographic display and neural interface pad. The chairs, ergonomically designed, looked like something out of a spaceship cockpit.

The lighting was subdued, mostly coming from the blue glow of the data banks and the soft white of the workstation displays. It gave the whole place an otherworldly feel, like stepping into the guts of some massive AI.

Temperature controls kept the room cool, necessary for the delicate equipment. The floor, a seamless expanse of anti-static material, muffled footsteps and prevented any stray charges from damaging the sensitive electronics.

Jacques sat at one of the workstations near the center, surrounded by the quiet hum of machinery. From here, he had a clear view of the entrance, where Lyle's desk stood the opposite. The old man's periodic patrols were the only sign of life in this sterile digital vault.

Jacques settled into a chair at one of the computer terminals, its holographic display flickering to life at his touch. He cracked his knuckles and dove in, searching for anything remotely connected to their case.

Hours ticked by, marked only by the soft whirr of cooling fans and the occasional footsteps of Lyle passing by. Jacques could feel the old man's eyes on him each time, knew he was just pretending to be engrossed in his tablet. But Jacques didn't care. He was too focused on the task at hand.

Search after search came up empty. No matter how he worded his queries, no matter what parameters he set, nothing seemed to match the bizarre circumstances of Yuki Sato's death. It was like trying to find a specific grain of sand on a beach.

"Fuck," Jacques muttered under his breath, rubbing his tired eyes.

He leaned back in his chair. Something wasn't adding up. Either there had never been a case like this before - which seemed unlikely given the long history of weird shit in this city - or someone had gone to great lengths to scrub the database clean.

If the DST had that kind of reach, what else were they capable of? And more importantly, what the hell were they trying to hide?

His mind wandered to wilder possibilities. What if there really was some kind of "vampire" organization out there? Not actual bloodsuckers, of course - he wasn't that far gone. But a group that used that name, that mimicked vampire attacks? It sounded absurd, but in this fucked-up world, anything was possible.

He shook his head, trying to clear the fantastical thoughts. "Get it together, Jacques," he muttered to himself. "You're starting to sound like one of those conspiracy nut jobs."

But he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was onto something. The lack of evidence was, in itself, evidence of a cover-up. The question was, how deep did it go?

Jacques stretched, his joints popping in protest after hours of sitting hunched over the terminal. He glanced at the time display and swore softly. He'd been at this for nearly five hours, and he had jack shit to show for it.

Lyle's footsteps approached again, slower this time. Jacques tensed, expecting the old man to finally call time on his little investigation. But Lyle just shuffled past, eyes fixed on his tablet, though Jacques could've sworn he saw the hint of a smirk on the old man's face.

"Alright, one more try," he muttered, turning back to the terminal.

He cracked his neck, took a deep breath, and dove back in. There had to be something, somewhere. And he was going to find it, even if it took all night.

As the hours stretched on and his searches continued to yield nothing. The complete absence of similar cases was suspicious in itself. It was as if someone had erased any trace of vampire-like killings from the database.

"This is getting nowhere."

He was about to call it quits when something caught his attention. A case from a few years back popped up - someone killed in a similar fashion, complete with puncture wounds. He blinked hard, wondering if his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him.

"Holy shit," he muttered, leaning closer to the screen.

He quickly scanned the details. The officers involved had all left the force, which explained why he hadn't heard about it before. But there, at the bottom of the report, was a small footnote mentioning an interview with a reporter named Amélie Rousseau.

This could be the break he needed. He scribbled down the reporter's name on a scrap of paper, then cleared his search history. No sense leaving a trail for anyone else to follow.

As he stood up, stretching his stiff muscles, Lyle appeared at his elbow.

"Find what you were looking for, Detective?" the old man asked.

"Not really," Jacques said. "Guess it was a wild goose chase after all."

"Well, better luck next time, eh?"

Jacques mumbled his thanks and headed for the exit. He had a new lead to follow, and this time, he wasn't going to let it slip away.