I was about to declare the room empty, when the beam of my torch fell on a ghostly figure. He was pale, bald, cowering in a corner. He was brandishing an ancient shotgun, but seemed not to be holding it very steady. I quickly drew my pistol.

“Sir, I don’t know who you are. But as long as you co-operate, I have no intention of harming you. I’m agent AMT, of The Gentlemen’s Club. You may never have heard of us; who we are and what we do does not concern you. We are looking for…”

As my eyes grew accustomed to the haze, I suddenly realized who I was looking at.

“Agent Ramirez?”

It was him all right. The older version, head shaven bald and emblazoned with a barcode. But he looked different somehow… frail, broken.