The Organization

Rolan’s tie was crooked, his shirt was more wrinkles than fabric, and his coffee was the color of used motor oil. Yet, somehow, he carried himself like a man who had seen too much and survived on nothing but sarcasm and caffeine.

“Kid, let me tell you something about the Bermuda Triangle,” he began, waving his Styrofoam cup like it was a scepter.

Miles, the newest recruit, grimaced. “Please don’t. I’ve always liked the triangle.”

Rolan smirked. “Liked it? That’s the point. It’s a smokescreen. You think we’d let ghost-hunting YouTubers, cruise ships, and college professors with bad beards run around if it was actually dangerous? Nah. The real place you should worry about is… Lake Superior.”

“Lake Superior!?” Miles nearly tripped over his own shoes.

“Yep. Safer, less obvious. There’s even a ferry that runs straight past it with tourists snapping pictures. Meanwhile, deep down—well, let’s just say you don’t want to know.”

Miles tried to laugh, but it came out nervous. “So, the triangle’s fake, national parks are a cover-up, and the Gateway Arch is… what, a cosmic antenna?”

“Bingo.” Rolan raised his cup like a toast. “Picks up faint signals from a dead alien civilization. Think about that the next time you’re in St. Louis.”

They walked past rows of cubicles. From a distance, it looked like any government office—phones ringing, printers jamming, employees hunched over stacks of paperwork. But the words on those papers told a darker story: entity neutralized, containment breach averted, classified remains secured.

Miles lowered his voice. “So… what exactly do we do here?”

Rolan chuckled, but it wasn’t friendly. “We keep the lights on, kid. Hunters take down the ghosts, demons, and cryptids. We make sure the flights are booked, the weapons arrive on time, and the hotel rooms are ready. The monsters might be real, but they don’t stand a chance against good logistics.”

Miles blinked. “So… we’re just admin?”

“Admin?” Rolan barked a laugh. “Son, we’re the thin beige line between order and the apocalypse. You think a Hunter covered in dragon guts can walk into Hertz at 2am for a rental car? No. Lana from payroll handled that. You think holy water just magically shows up? No—try processing a purchase order where cases of bottled water are billed as munitions.”

He leaned in, eyes bloodshot but alive with mischief. “Last week a team flew to Paris because some college kids accidentally summoned a low-level demon in their apartment. Flights, hotel, cleanup—all of it handled from this office. Nobody outside these walls will ever know, and that’s the point.”

Miles sighed, suddenly aware of the endless reports, the buzzing phones, the stressed voices around him. “So, we don’t fight the monsters…”

“No, kid,” Rolan interrupted, sipping what had to be his tenth coffee. “We make sure the people who do don’t miss their flights or starve in the field. The Hunters bump in the night, but without us? The whole world would go dark.”

There was silence for a moment, only broken by the sound of a copier spitting out another report. Rolan’s smirk softened, just slightly. “Welcome to The Organization. Where even the end of the world requires a well-run payroll department.”

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