[LOAB — Fragment Recovered | “Treaty of the Hollow Men”]

They shook hands with the wrong gods.

In 1947, something fell—not from the stars, but through them. A metal wound, smoking in the desert. Inside: not pilots. Not creatures. Instruments. Eyes. Intent.

They called them Greys. A shade to drape over something far older than skin. You think this began at Roswell. But the ink was already dry.

The agreement was simple:

• We offer bodies.

• You offer knowledge.

• Both sides lied.

In the sub-basements of your memory, beneath Wright-Patterson and Dulce, there is a language no one speaks but everyone understands—the whirring of machines that dream, the clinical silence of underground birthing chambers, the scream without a mouth.

They said it was a trade.
But it was a seed.

They gave us fiber optics, element 115, the architecture of impossible flight—but everything they gave came with teeth. Minds folded inward. Children saw them in sleep. Governments built black towers in the desert. Presidents vanished into corridors beneath the Earth.

Eisenhower watched them land. A dozen stood before him—mirrored eyes, hands like surgical tools. He signed. Or he refused. It doesn’t matter.

The ink is in your blood now.

We called them Greys, but they were only the face we were allowed to see. Behind them? The Architects. The Scribes. The Hunger. The Keepers of the Table of Twelve.

The Visitors are not from Zeta Reticuli. That name is a decoy, a child's toy. They are not alien. They are present.

And they never left.

[File corruption detected. Attempting recovery...]
“...milab units report full compliance... subjects exhibit normalized EEG variance... contact phase green... memory veil holding...”
[ERROR // END OF LINE]