It was late in the evening at the Federal Bureau of Control's headquarters, the Oldest House. The hum of the building's shifting architecture was almost soothing to Dr. Casper Darling as he stood in front of a glowing whiteboard in his lab. The words "Prime Candidate Program: Third Phase" were written in bold black ink, and beneath them, hastily scrawled notes about the candidate, designated "P3."

"Casper, you've been at it for hours," Director Zachariah Trench said from the doorway. His shadow stretched across the room, cast by the flickering fluorescent light above. "You should take a break."

Darling turned, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The scar on his side, a souvenir from last year's ill-fated Astral Plane expedition, ached faintly, but he ignored it. "I can't help it, Zach. This candidate…they're different. The readings are off the charts. If we play this right, we might finally have our successor."

Trench stepped further into the room, his presence commanding yet weary. "I... We thought the same about the first two. And look where that got us. We brought them into the House too early. We exposed them to…" He trailed off, glancing at the distorted lines of a static-riddled monitor displaying a live feed of the Astral Plane. "It was a mistake."

"Which is why we're doing it differently this time," Darling reassured him, his tone tinged with determination. He gestured to the array of equipment surrounding him—everything from Resonance feedback devices to case files stacked precariously high. "Observation only. No direct contact. No exposure to the House. We'll monitor from a distance and intervene only if absolutely necessary."

"And if things go wrong?" Trench asked, his voice low.

Darling's smile faded. He didn't have an answer for that—not one that would satisfy either of them.

P3, known outside the Bureau as Emily Carver, stood in her small apartment, staring at the flickering screen of her television. Static crawled across the screen for a moment before snapping back to the evening news. She shook her head, wondering if the power grid in her building was finally giving out. Again.

Unbeknownst to her, the static had been no ordinary interference. Hidden cameras, subtle energy monitors, and Bureau field agents were quietly watching her every move. Emily's unassuming life as a graduate student in parapsychology was the perfect cover. But her latent parautilitarian abilities, discovered during a campus experiment gone awry, had caught the Bureau's attention.

A black van was parked across the street, its windows tinted. Inside, a pair of agents monitored the screens connected to equipment Darling had designed specifically for this operation.

"Her energy spikes every time she gets frustrated," one agent noted, pointing to a graph. "Look at this—just from the TV acting up."

"If she ever realizes what she's capable of…" the other muttered, trailing off.

Back in his lab, Darling was reviewing the data stream coming in from Emily's location. Her Resonance levels fluctuated in fascinating patterns, aligning with the profiles of other parautilitarians but exhibiting unique anomalies.

"She's not like the others," Darling murmured. "Her connection to the Resonance is…more fluid. Almost like she's aware of it on some subconscious level."

Trench stood behind him, arms crossed. "Let's hope that makes her easier to manage if the time comes."

Darling hesitated. "If the time comes," he echoed. But he knew better. With the Bureau's track record, things never stayed quiet for long.

One Week Later

Emily sat in her favorite coffee shop, a stack of papers spread before her. The faint hum of conversation and clinking cups filled the air. She tapped her pen against the table, her mind wandering to the strange dreams she'd been having lately—dreams of endless white corridors and floating platforms. She'd wake up feeling like she'd left part of herself behind.

Outside, a storm brewed. The sky darkened unnaturally fast, and the air grew heavy. Emily's pen slipped from her hand, rolling off the table. She bent to pick it up, and as she did, the room seemed to tilt ever so slightly. The lights flickered.

Across the street, the agents in the van exchanged worried glances. "Something's happening," one said, adjusting the dials on the equipment. The readings spiked, alarms beeping rapidly.

Darling's voice crackled over their earpieces. "Pull back. Observe, but do not engage. We can't risk scaring her."

The agents watched as Emily straightened, her eyes wide. The storm outside seemed to quiet for a moment, as if holding its breath. Then, with a deafening crack, the windows of the coffee shop shattered inward, and the patrons screamed.

Emily stood frozen in the chaos, her hands outstretched instinctively. A translucent barrier shimmered in the air around her, deflecting the shards of glass. Her heart pounded as she stared at her hands, realization dawning.

In the Oldest House, Darling leaned closer to the monitor, his breath caught in his throat. Trench, standing beside him, muttered, "She's waking up."

Darling's fingers hovered over a button on the console. "Do we intervene?"

Trench's jaw tightened. "Not yet. Let's see what she does."