DataVault

The building didn’t feel wrong.

That was the first problem.

CatCo Worldwide Media ran exactly as it should—

lights steady—

screens alive—

voices layered into something controlled.

Efficient.

Reliable.

Trusted.

Ace walked in.

No resistance.

No hesitation.

The system let her through.

Clean.

That was new.

Mai noticed it immediately.

“…accepted,” she said.

Flat.

No friction.

The doors opened on time.

Perfect timing.

Inside—

nothing was.

Desks filled.

People working.

Screens updating.

Everything looked right.

Until it didn’t.

“We ran that yesterday.”

“No—that’s today’s slot.”

“I already pushed that edit—”

The voices didn’t clash.

They aligned.

Too easily.

Mai slowed.

Watching the connections form.

“…they’re agreeing,” she said.

Not certain.

Working it out.

“Even when they shouldn’t.”

Shammy stepped further in.

The air didn’t shift.

Didn’t resist.

Didn’t react.

That was worse.

“It’s holding,” she said.

A pause.

“Like it doesn’t want to break.”

V frowned.

“…yeah,” they muttered.

“…no one’s even questioning it.”

Because nothing felt wrong to them.

That was the problem.

Ace stopped at a workstation.

Didn’t touch it.

The screen changed anyway.

A draft article.

Half-written.

Headline:

“Unidentified Operator Seen in Lower Floors”

Ace read it once.

No reaction.

“That’s you,” V said.

Quiet.

Ace didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t.

Mai stepped closer.

Logs.

Timestamps.

Edits.

Everything lined up.

Too clean.

“…this wasn’t filed,” she said.

A beat.

“It… resolved.”

Not written.

Something else.

The cursor blinked.

Waiting—

like it had always been there.

Behind them—

a voice:

“I told you that was real.”

They turned.

A journalist.

Mid-thirties.

Eyes tired—

but certain.

“I saw it,” she said.

Pointing—

not at Ace—

at the screen.

“He came through here.”

Her gaze shifted—

landed on Ace—

and didn’t hesitate.

Recognition.

Immediate.

“You.”

Not surprised.

Confirmed.

“You were here yesterday.”

Ace didn’t move.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t engage.

Mai stepped in.

“That’s incorrect,” she said.

The journalist frowned—

just slightly.

Then—

smiled.

Small.

Confident.

“No,” she said.

“I remember it.”

A beat.

“You spoke to someone.”

Another—

less stable now—

“Security didn’t stop you.”

V shifted.

“…that didn’t happen.”

The journalist blinked.

Once.

The room around them didn’t change—

but something in her expression did.

A flicker.

Then it locked back in.

“It did,” she said.

Softer.

Less certain—

but holding onto it.

Shammy stepped closer.

The air moved—

subtle—

barely there.

“You’re holding both,” she said.

The journalist looked at her.

Confused.

“What?”

Shammy tilted her head.

“You know it didn’t happen.”

A pause.

“But you remember that it did.”

Silence.

This time—

it didn’t resolve cleanly.

The journalist hesitated.

Longer.

Her gaze flicked—

to the screen—

to Ace—

back again.

“…no,” she said.

But it didn’t land.

Mai watched carefully.

Not jumping to conclusion.

“…it’s sticking to the story,” she said.

A beat.

“Not the data.”

That felt closer.

Ace stepped back.

Looked at the room again.

Now—

it wasn’t normal.

It was aligning.

People weren’t working.

They were correcting.

Adjusting memory—

to match output.

Or the other way around.

V exhaled slowly.

“…okay,” they said.

“…this is worse.”

No one argued.

A screen nearby flickered—

just once—

an article shifting—

a line appearing—

then disappearing.

No one reacted.

Mai saw it.

“…it’s not centralized,” she said.

Not certain—

but leaning there.

“Or not anymore.”

Ace’s gaze lifted.

Toward the upper floors.

Not because it was obvious.

Because it felt like something was pulling upward.

“Source.”

Mai nodded.

“Higher access,” she said.

“Editorial—maybe core.”

Not confirmed.

Close enough.

Behind them—

the newsroom continued.

Smooth.

Unbroken.

Unaware.

Because as long as the story held—

no one needed to question it.

And somewhere above them—

not quite in the system—

not quite outside it—

something had already adjusted—

not writing what would happen—

just making sure

it would fit

when it did.

—

© 2025-2026. “World of Ace, Mai and Shammy” and all original characters, settings, story elements, and concepts are the intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved.
Non-commercial fan works are allowed with attribution.
Commercial use, redistribution, or adaptation requires explicit permission from the author.

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