Somewhere in the underbelly of New York City...

The man wakes up from his supposed slumber. As his conscious comes to life, he realizes his wrists and hands are confined to something cold.

"Ah, handcuffs of course," He thought in his mind, "The last thing I remember doing was heading into a building."

Suddenly, he felt a throbbing pain in the back of his head. Repressed Head Trauma. He remembers being hit in the back of the head. But by whom?

It's not like he can see much of anything through this dim room he's confined into. The grime fills the area and it's intoxicating. In a bad way, of course.

Suddenly, a huge light flickers in his region. It takes but a second, but as soon as he gets adjusted to it.

"Agent Hendersfield...." a mysterious voice calls out him. Hendersfield tried to maintain his composure but not when this terrifying voice filled his eardrums with a huge sense of dread that crept even down to his stomach.

The voice sounded like the screech of a banshee mixed with the sound of a blender mixing ingredients. It then feels like they took that and turn the pitch all the way down to deep. It was unnatural, it was not from the world and yet it existed.

"You MBS agents have been interfering with my work for the longest time," the voice continued, "I have no choice but to make you the next statement."

Hendersfield's eyes held all that the mysterious figure needed to know.

He asks the figure, "What do you even want? Who...who are you?"

The figure came closer to the light. It wore a mask, resembling that of a skull of a venison. It was accompanied by white pupils which stared deeply at the agent.

"You may call me....Mors." the figure replied. The figure known as Mors paused for a minute.

"For what I want...there's no point in telling you."

Suddenly, a scythe came out the figure's hand.

Then there was darkness.

MBS Headquaters, Agent Rocky Crawfish's Office

Rocky plopped into the worn swivel chair, a squeak heralding his arrival. He leaned back, arms behind his head, surveying the cramped space with a mock-serious squint. "Behold, the Crawfish Cavern," he announced to no one in particular.

"Hope you're not claustrophobic," quipped a passing agent, peeking in with a raised brow.

"Only when I'm strapped into a sardine tin at 30,000 feet," Rocky retorted, earning a chuckle as the agent moved on.

He spun around, facing the monolithic stacks of files. "Now, where's that pesky paperclip?" he muttered, embarking on an archaeological dig through the layers of bureaucracy. His hand emerged holding a red stapler triumphantly above his head. "Excalibur!"

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"Need help wielding that sword?" An agent leaned against the door frame, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Only if you've got the stone it came from." Rocky's eyes twinkled with humor, the ice between him and his colleagues thawing further with each exchange.

The agent laughed, shaking her head as she walked away. "Good luck, Crawfish."

"Thanks—gonna need it!" he called after her.

Alone again, Rocky flipped open the top file, his smile fading as he delved into the gravity of his task. Photos of agents, lives cut short, stared back at him—each one a mystery to unravel, a justice to be served. He traced a finger over the first face, whispering, "Let's figure out what happened to you, buddy."

Alone again, Rocky flipped open the top file, his smile fading as he delved into the gravity of his task. Photos of agents, lives cut short, stared back at him—each one a mystery to unravel, a justice to be served. He traced a finger over the first face, whispering, "Let's figure out what happened to you, buddy."

The office was silent but for the hum of the ancient computer as it booted up. Rocky tapped a rhythm on the desk, anticipation threading through the monotony of loading screens. He scanned the room, noting the array of gadgets lining the shelves—bugs, trackers, scramblers—all tools of the trade he was itching to master.

"Okay, operation 'Uncover the Unpleasant' is a go," he declared, fingers poised over the keyboard. With a deep breath, he dove into the depths of MSB's database, his quirky charm shelved for the moment, replaced by the focus of a man on a mission.

Rocky's fingers froze over the keyboard, a shadow looming across his desk. He tilted his head up, squinting at the figure silhouetted against the fluorescent glare.

"Agent Crawfish?" Her voice cut through the quiet like a knife—clear, authoritative, and somehow, expectant.

"Uh, yes?" He managed to push out the word, standing abruptly, knocking into his desk. Papers fluttered to the floor like startled pigeons.

"Agent Victoria Sutton. Call me Vic." She didn't offer a hand but surveyed him with appraising eyes. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she watched him scramble to gather the papers.

"Nice reflexes," Vic quipped, the hint of a challenge in her tone.

"Thanks, I've been practicing my paperwork-fu." Rocky winced at his own joke, but Vic's chuckle told him he'd landed on solid ground.

"Word is you're on the agent downer case," she said, nodding toward the files now back on his desk.

"More like drowning in it," Rocky admitted, glancing at the mountain of data.

"Mind if I dive in with you? Two can swim better than one."

"Are you saying I need floaties?"

"Let's call it a life jacket. And I know just the crew to help keep us above water." With that, Vic gestured for him to follow.

They strode through corridors lined with agents immersed in their screens, chattering on phones, or locked in hushed conversations. Rocky felt the weight of the building's secrets pressing down on him like the deep end of a pool.

"Here's our tech guy," Vic introduced, stopping by a cubicle where gadgets blinked and beeped like Morse code. "Milo Briggs, meet Rocky."

"Hey," Milo murmured without looking up from a tangle of wires and screens. His fingers danced across a keyboard with the grace of a concert pianist.

"Hey yourself," Rocky said, grinning. "Hope you don't mind, I'm not great with tech unless we're counting microwaves."

"Good thing I am," Milo replied, finally offering a shy smile.

"Next stop," Vic continued, leading Rocky around another corner.

"Streetwise and savvy," Vic declared, pointing to a woman with piercing eyes and an easy stance, leaning against a wall plastered with maps and photos. "Danielle Cruz, Danny to friends."

"Rocky Crawfish. And I guess that makes us friends?" he ventured.

"Could be," Danny said, eyeing him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Suddenly, Rocky's phone goes off as he gets a notification.

"It's the director." Rocky annouces to the group. "Should I...?"

"Yes."

"Immediately."

"Don't be dumb."

Rocky takes a audible gulp. "Hopefully it's not too serious."

To be already knee-deep in a medium to high level case like this gotta make our boy a little nervous, don't you think? Rocky, palms sweaty, hands jittering, looks at the message.

MSB Headquarters, MSB Director's Office

"No way....." said Agent Briggs. "I think I'm gonna be sick....."

Rocky couldn't believe his eyes, he almost refused to believe what he saw was real. Reality is often too disappointing however.

He was looking at pictures of the remains of former MSB Agent Patrick Hendersfield.