Serafina waited for the punchline, for the hidden camera, for Morgan's composure to crack into a smile that said just kidding, here's what we're actually doing.
None of that happened.
Morgan simply watched her, patient and still, as if she'd said something perfectly ordinary and was waiting for Serafina to catch up.
"Aliens," Serafina said flatly.
She was aware of the news, of course. Everyone was. The headlines had been unavoidable for the past few years—first contact, diplomatic overtures, treaties signed in languages no human could pronounce. It had occupied the same mental space as climate summits and distant wars: real, technically important, utterly disconnected from her actual life. She'd seen the press conferences, the blurry footage, the talking heads debating what it all meant for humanity's future. She'd changed the channel and gone back to work.
Extraterrestrial life was real. She knew that much.
She just hadn't expected it to touch Earth. Hadn't expected it to walk into her life and sit down across from her in a minimalist office in Los Angeles, wearing tailored pants and asking about her relationship status.
If she thought about it too much—really thought about it, let the scale of it settle into her bones—she'd be terrified.
So she didn't.
Instead, she let the detective part of her brain take over, the part that filed and sorted and looked for the angle.
It explained some things, she had to admit. The strangeness of this setup, the empty office, the lack of security, the questions that didn't fit any earthly job description. The money—ten thousand dollars just to show up. That kind of offer didn't come from normal channels. It came from someone operating outside the usual rules, with resources that didn't need to make sense.
But still, part of her remained skeptical. She'd seen too many scams, too many confidence games dressed up in expensive suits and plausible stories. This could be an elaborate con, a cult with deep pockets, some tech billionaire's bizarre social experiment.
"If you don't want me to walk out that door right now," Serafina said, "you'd better give me something rock solid, because this smells like bullshit."
Morgan didn't flinch.
"And either way," Serafina added, "you're paying me. That was the deal—ten thousand for the interview, regardless of outcome. I showed up and I answered your questions. So whatever proof you're about to offer or fail to offer, that money is mine."
Morgan's mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile but something closer to approval.
"Fair enough," she said. "You'll have your payment before you leave this room."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out something small—a flat, dark rectangle no larger than a playing card. She set it on the desk between them.
"As for proof," Morgan said, "I think this will do."
Serafina looked at the rectangle. It was featureless, smooth, made of a material she couldn't identify—not quite metal, not quite glass. It caught the light strangely, as if the surface existed at a slightly different depth than it should.
"Press it," Morgan said.
Serafina hesitated. Her hand hovered over the object, every instinct telling her that whatever happened next couldn't be undone.
She pressed it.
The frosted glass along the left wall went clear.
Serafina's world stopped.
A figure stood on the other side—massive, armored, watching them. His armor was brutal, scaled plates of gold and bronze that fit his body like a second skin, every surface carved with patterns that seemed to shift when she tried to focus on them. His helm covered his face entirely, smooth and predatory, with no visible eyes or mouth. But there were eyes—two narrow slits that glowed a deep, burning red, fixed on her with an intensity that made her lungs forget how to work.
His arms were folded across his chest. He didn't move. He didn't need to. His presence filled the space behind the glass like pressure before a storm.
Behind him stood two others. They were tall and slender, their skin a luminous blue that seemed to glow faintly from within. Their hair was white, falling past their shoulders like silk, and their eyes—large, black, depthless—watched her with calm, alien curiosity. They wore armor too, but lighter, more elegant, nothing like the brutal weight of the figure in front of them.
These weren't props. They weren't costumes.
Serafina knew it instantly, the way she knew when a suspect was lying, the way she knew when a crime scene held more death than the body on the floor. No makeup could create that skin. No special effects could make eyes glow like embers in a dark room. No human being stood like that—like gravity was a suggestion and violence was a promise held in reserve.
