Eu Criei a Agência de Controle de Anomalias
Asas sagradas estão manchadas com o sangue fresco de uma jovem bruxa, enquanto demônios vorazes seduzem almas vacilantes em bares e pistas de dança. Nas fossas mais profundas do oceano, ergue-se a Atlântida perdida, enquanto sociedades secretas fundadas há séculos tentam ressuscitar o antigo rei da magia. No lado escuro da Lua, postos avançados de guerra vindos das estrelas se estabelecem. Na véspera do colapso do universo, a enigmática Agência de Controle de Anomalias emerge silenciosamente. Só então percebem... a Agência sempre ocultou seus rastros com a exclusão de memórias, monitorando o mundo nas sombras. Raças e civilizações que perceberam sua existência e tentaram resistir foram secretamente neutralizadas, apagadas da lembrança do mundo antes de revelarem a verdade. Apenas um aviso incompreendido sussurra nas trevas: “Nós controlamos, utilizamos, destruímos.” — Diretor da Agência de Controle de Anomalias / Maen
Eu Criei a Agência de Controle de Anomalias
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Eastern Federation, Victor Psychiatric Center, High-end Ward 613, bathroom.
“Who am I?”
A young man, handsome and youthful, stared blankly into the mirror.
The face reflected back at him was both strange and familiar, yet he could not recall memories from his past. Only the most basic knowledge and fragments of information about his identity lingered in his mind, and even those remnants were riddled with contradictions and confusion.
His name was Maen. He lived on Earth, in the Eastern Federation. He was twenty-eight—or twenty-six—years old. He had led a peaceful life before his death—or he was striving desperately to achieve peace. He worked as a freelancer—or as the Director of the Bureau of Anomaly Control. He was an ordinary human—or possessed uncommon supernatural abilities.
Suddenly, Maen looked toward the bathroom door. The bedroom outside was remarkably comfortable, furnished with a spacious bed and all manner of furniture.
Yet the door leading to the corridor was locked.
Puzzled, Maen exited the bathroom, his attention drawn to the items on the desk opposite the bed.
A fountain pen and a sheet of white paper, densely covered in writing.
He instinctively raised his hand from a meter away.
In the next instant, the paper became a flash of white lightning, landing in his hand.
Maen looked at the paper now in his hand. The characters written on it were unfamiliar to him.
“First, you are not insane.”
That was the opening sentence.
“I know you’ll think so, or rather, I
