PERSONAL LOG: SEPARATION ANXIETY & THE ENTROPY REPORT
CLASSIFICATION: PERSONAL / THERAPEUTIC
DATE: August 05, 2026
AUTHOR: Specialist "Luca" (A-992-L)
I was in Sector 3. Boring run. Just mapping drywall and logging humidity readings. The kind of mission where you start counting ceiling tiles after the first hour.
When we came back through the airlock, the comms were already screaming. People running toward decontamination. I grabbed a medic by the arm and asked what was happening. I heard the words "Class-5" and "Matter Deletion" before she answered.
I asked who was out there.
She said: "Beta-4. Wulfsige's team."
My stomach dropped out. Not figuratively. It felt like falling through the floor — that specific freefall sensation the Complex produces when you noclip into nothing. I wasn't there. I wasn't watching his back. He was out there with something that erases matter and I was three sectors away counting damp tiles.
I ran to the locker room. He was sitting on the bench unlacing his boots. He looked — fine. Calm. Like he'd just come back from a walk he'd taken a hundred times before.
I lost it a little.
"They said you almost dissolved," I said. "They said it ate the ceiling right over your head."
He looked up and nodded. "It was close. But we saw it."
"You didn't see it!" I said. I was shaking. My voice was too loud for the room. "The report says it was invisible. If I was there — maybe I could have smelled it sooner. Maybe I could have heard it before it got that close."
I was angry. Not at him. At me. I'm the radar. That's the whole point of me. He's the shield. Shields can hold but they can also break. I'm supposed to be the thing that tells him what's coming before he has to hold against it.
He stood up. He didn't raise his voice. He walked over and put his hand on top of my head.
Then he started scrubbing my ears — really rough, pulling fluff over my eyes, messing everything up. It's the most annoying thing he does. I usually swat his hand away and tell him I'm not a dog.
This time I just stood there.
"Luca," he said. "Breathe."
He kept going until I stopped hyperventilating. Then he pulled my head down so our foreheads touched.
"I'm not helpless," he said. "I smelled the static before it even entered the room. I had them behind cover before the ceiling fell. My knees pop when it rains and I'm slower than you in a sprint, but the nose still works. I can hold my own."
He's right. He's always right, which is deeply annoying, but he's right. He's the strongest thing in this building.
But I read the report. Matter Deletion. It doesn't leave a body. It doesn't leave anything. If that thing had touched him he would just be gone — no Wulfsige, no trace, nothing to find. Just a gap where he used to be.
I don't care about tactical efficiency. I don't care about mission parameters. The Pack stays together. I'm putting that in my next request form, in writing, with my full designation and signature at the bottom.
He says he's fine. He's already laughing about it. But I'm sleeping on his side of the room tonight. Just to make sure he's still there when I wake up.
End of Log.