The Night Report

The stale air in the temporary office hung heavy with the scent of burnt coffee and overtired agents. Agent Griffen hunched over a desk, furiously typing out his preliminary report. The glow of the screen illuminated the exhaustion etched on his face.

"Alright, that's the last of it for tonight," Griffen mumbled, rubbing his temples. He pushed away from the desk.

Davies, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up, stretched with a groan. "Good work, Griffen. Your intuition about Tanaka paid off. Got a call from command a few minutes ago. Sounds like the top brass are breathing a little less intensely down our necks. A name, finally. Something to work with."

Griffen managed a tired nod. "Let's hope it actually leads somewhere. I could use about three days' uninterrupted sleep."

"Tell me about it," Davies chuckled, pushing himself up. "Almost time to hit the pub, eh?"

Just as the thought of a cold pint began to form in Griffen's mind, a low, distant thud vibrated through the building. It wasn't just a sound; it was a physical tremor that rattled the windows and made the fluorescent lights flicker.

Woooo-wooo-wooo!

An ear-splitting alarm blared through the building's PA system, its urgent wail cutting through the night. "This is not a drill! Repeat, this is not a drill! All personnel, seek immediate shelter! Attack confirmed!"

Griffen and Davies exchanged a wide-eyed look. "What the hell was that?" Davies muttered, already scrambling to his feet.

"No idea, but we're going to the shelter," Griffen snapped, grabbing his tactical vest. "Now!"

They sprinted through the suddenly chaotic corridors, joining a stream of agents and civilian workers heading for the reinforced underground shelters. The air crackled with fear and confusion. Once inside the bunker, the heavy blast doors hissed shut behind them, muffling the chaos outside.

"What's the situation?" Griffen demanded of a harried-looking security officer.

The officer, still pale, shook his head. "Unknown source, sir. Looks like... a bomb. We just got hit."

"How?" Davies pressed, his voice tight. "How did anything get through?"

The officer just stared back, bewildered. "Don't know. Just... boom."

Before anyone could process the inadequate answer, a second, much louder and closer KABOOM ripped through the ground above them. The entire underground shelter shuddered violently, dust sifting down from the ceiling. A collective gasp went through the room as lights flickered more severely. Personnel were now on extreme alert, weapons drawn, eyes fixed on the reinforced door.

Time blurred. When Griffen next saw the night sky, it was cold and clear, though tainted by the acrid smell of burnt concrete and pulverized steel. He stood outside the damaged intelligence headquarters, surveying the scene with a grim fascination. Rescue workers, their faces smudged with soot, swarmed over piles of rubble that had once been an entire wing of the building. Emergency lights pulsed red and blue, casting stark shadows.

"Casualties?" Griffen asked a medic hurrying past.

"No fatalities, thank God," the medic replied, breathless. "But a lot of injuries. Smoke inhalation, concussions, broken bones. Luckily, they got the evacuation warning."

Griffen looked at the sheer scale of the destruction. The targeted section of the building was not just damaged; it was utterly obliterated, a gaping maw in the building's side. This wasn't a conventional bomb. This was like a missile. The sheer, concentrated force hinted at something far beyond their current understanding of explosives. It was clean, almost surgical in its devastation, yet utterly overwhelming.

He sighed, the cold night air stinging his lungs. "Well, Davies," he muttered to himself, watching the methodical clean-up, "looks like I'm not going home anytime soon."

________________________________________________________

The morning light, pale and weak, did little to dispel the gloom in Agent Griffen's temporary office. He stared blankly at the television screen, where a news anchor's grave voice droned on about the previous night's terrorist attack. Images of the heavily damaged intelligence headquarters, now a gaping maw of twisted metal and shattered concrete, flashed across the screen. Relief efforts were underway, the reporter solemnly declared, and investigations had begun into the unprecedented act of violence. Griffen watched for a few more moments, then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the city, he clicked the remote, plunging the room into silence.

The door creaked open, and Davies stumbled in, looking every bit as haggard as Griffen felt. Dark circles underlined his eyes, and his usually neat hair was a mess.

"Morning," Davies grunted, dropping heavily into a chair. "Or what's left of it."

Griffen merely nodded. "Any word from command?"

"Oh, you know it," Davies said, running a hand over his face. "The brass are in an absolute frenzy. Full-scale investigation into this 'terrorist attack.' They want heads, Griffen. They want to know how this could possibly happen, given our supposed security. And they're raising security protocols across the board, nationwide. Our team... we're temporarily re-tasked to aid in this investigation." He gestured vaguely at the wall, implying the sprawling, new command structure.

Griffen leaned back, his chair groaning under the strain. He understood the official narrative, the panic, the need for a swift response. But a cold, persistent unease gnawed at him. His gut, honed by years of sniffing out trouble, told him there was far more to this than a simple bomb. Especially after they'd just found a lead in their other investigation. The timing felt too convenient, too precise.

"A terrorist attack," Griffen murmured, more to himself than to Davies. "Funny how it pulls all their attention away from a certain collapsed apartment building and a missing Japanese exchange student, isn't it?"