01. THE YELLOW EYES

We burst into the manager's office like a SWAT team with clipboards. Me, Ex-Calibur v3.1 raised, laser sight on, duct-taped at its slight angle, 4% more deadly and 12% more morale. Brenda, two clipboards, zero fear. Dave, colander on, Nerf gun up, screaming before he'd even seen anything.

The two yellow eyes blinked at us from the top of the Fort of a Thousand Cushions.

Mister Whiskers. Facility Morale Officer. ON-DUTY MANAGER of Annex Delta. Sitting in his own office. In the dark. Like a gargoyle. Like he'd been waiting sixty-one chapters for us to figure it out.

I lowered the Ex-Calibur. "You've been here the whole time."

Mister Whiskers said nothing. Cats. Also: hired six months before the outbreak, declined evacuation, "unfinished business." We'd read his personnel file in Chapter 12 and learned absolutely nothing.

Behind me, Dave's breathing accelerated into full paper-bag territory.

02. THE BADGE, EXPLAINED

Back at the gate kiosk, Brenda Senior reconstructed the timeline with the grim satisfaction of a woman who lives for timelines. Assistant Brenda's visitor log: one fresh wet X, 6:02 PM. The visitor badge, still warm: "DOD INSPECTOR — CLEARANCE: ALREADY INSIDE."

Here's what happened. The flat, tired voice on the crate phone said the inspector was already inside. Assistant Brenda — Visitor Intake Coordinator, night shift, takes her job extremely seriously — did what any professional would do. She signed the inspector in. She wrote the badge. She warmed it with her hands so it would feel official.

She signed in the cat.

It was now documented. There is no arguing with documented.

03. THE DOUBLE BLINK, DECODED

The Revised Employee Handbook. Chapter 1. "Nonverbal Directives." Brenda flipped to it so fast the pages smoked: one blink = approval. Two blinks = counter-offer.

Mister Whiskers' double blink at the office window wasn't fear. It was a counter-offer. To the inspection itself.

Dave filed Incident Report #228 on the spot, in the hallway, writing on the wall with a crayon he'd been saving for emergencies. Quote: "THE CAT IS THE INSPECTOR. THE GAME WAS RIGGED FROM CHAPTER ONE. NOBODY LISTENS TO DAVE."

Joe read it over his shoulder and wept into his espresso. "It's becoming a whole thing," he whispered.

REVERSE AUDIT!

04. THE INSPECTION

Dawn. Mister Whiskers walked the compound. Brenda scribed on a fresh clipboard, walking backward in front of him like a paparazzo. Joe served the Inspector's Blend — triple shot, tastes like accountability — in the good chipped mug.

The cat inspected the cheese tower (one blink: dairy confidence adequate). The Perimeter Wellness Patrol's laminated break schedule (one blink). Dave's fort-inside-the-fort (a long, silent stare; no blink; Dave took it personally and filed a rebuttal). The Ex-Calibur's laser sight (stared for a full minute; the duct-taped angle held; respect the angle — never fix the angle).

Then, on the Fort of a Thousand Cushions, before the full assembly: two blinks. A pause. One slow blink.

Brenda wept openly. "Two stars," she whispered, clutching the survey. "'Would not recommend.' And he still ratified us."

Buster, deadpan, not looking up: "Nice landlord."

01. THE DAIRY ECONOMY

Complaint #0001: RESOLVED. Brenda framed the two-star survey and hung it next to the laminated break schedule in the manager's office — the inspector's office — which Mister Whiskers permitted with one blink.

Joe's Inspector's Blend is now the official drink of Local 404. The Perimeter Wellness Patrol walked the fence with extra clipboard snap in their step. We celebrated the only way a dairy-based economy can: government cheese, courtyard, moonlight.

Buster said "Nice cheese" three times. A personal record. Joe wept into his espresso like a man watching his child graduate.

02. THE BITE

Midnight. I went to admire the cheese tower — our monument to dairy confidence, sweating gently in the moonlight — and stopped cold.

One block. Third from the top. A bite taken out of it. A human-sized bite.

And the bitten edge was glowing. Faintly. Green.

"Dave, it's probably just—" I started.

03. THE GLOW

I am professionally obligated to report that the glow was moving. Across the courtyard. Toward the radio mast. A small, faint, green-glowing shape, humming contentedly, leaving a trail of crumbs.

I raised the Ex-Calibur v3.1. Laser sight on. Four percent more deadly. Twelve percent more morale. The duct-taped angle caught the moonlight like it knew.

GLOW. GLOW. GLOW.

From the dark, deadpan, glowing faintly green: