The screen faded from the city skyline into the studio. The Sterling dia anchor sat straight at the desk, hands folded neatly over a stack of papers. Her voice was steady, but there was a heaviness beneath it, a careful choice of words.
"Good morning. We now bring you an official statent from the President’s Office in response to the recent broadcast by the masked figure calling herself Atropos."
She looked briefly at the prompter, then continued, eyes locked on the cara.
"The President’s Office advises all citizens to remain calm and continue their daily activities as normal. Authorities have assured that not a single innocent person will be hard. Security asures are in place across the nation and throughout allied countries. The public is urged not to panic, and to avoid spreading unverified rumors across social dia."
The screen shifted to the scrolling thread released by the President’s Office — words appearing bold against a pale background.
"We understand the fear and uncertainty caused by the broadcast. Our Nation, alongside its allies, is actively investigating the matter. We want to assure the public: no innocent lives are at risk. Continue your lives, your work, your routines. We stand united, and we will not bow to threats of terror."
The anchor’s voice overlaid the text. "The statent closes with a firm reminder: the governnt and its allies are fully prepared to respond to any attempt at further disruption."
The screen cut back to her, eyes calm but lips pressed faintly tight.
"That is the official position from the President’s Office. Once again — citizens are advised to stay calm, remain vigilant, and continue life as normal."
Her gaze lingered a second longer before the news shifted to stock updates and weather, the reassurance hanging over the broadcast like a fragile shield.
June stood near the TV, arms folded, her brow furrowed as the news replayed the President’s statent for the second ti in the day. The anchor’s calm voice sounded more like a script than comfort.
"What is going to happen?" she asked softly, her voice carrying a trace of nerves.
Miles leaned against the armrest, eyes still on the screen. "What? Nothing is going to happen. We focus on our things. Let the governnts deal with their world problems."
She exhaled, then nodded. "You’re right, boss. I should just focus on work." She grabbed her folder from the table, tucking it under her arm. "I’m out for the onsite visit with April today. Call if you need anything."
"Alright." Miles’s tone was casual, but his eyes followed her until she disappeared through the door.
The screen dimd, switching back to muted updates, and the room grew quiet again. Miles walked back to his chair, dropped into it, and pulled out his phone. His fingers moved quick — a secure line, encrypted.
The call clicked through.
"Yess, boss," Monica’s voice ca sharp, businesslike.
"What’s the status?" Miles asked.
"Still nothing," she said. "Kyle hasn’t left his mansion in three days. He walked in with a few people, and hasn’t stepped out since. I’m sure of it now — the broadcast was made from there. He’s hiding in plain sight."
Miles frowned, leaning back in the chair. "Why his house, though?"
Monica’s laugh was short, cold. "Because it’s perfect. No one would even consider it. They’re scrambling across the globe, narrowing down coordinates, but his mansion? It’s not even on their radar."
"Makes sense," Miles muttered. His hand tapped lightly on the armrest. "And the broadcast itself — tracking?"
"He’s layered up. Equipnt’s heavy, security tight. They won’t trace it through normal channels. Not unless they tear through firewalls that’d take weeks. He planned this."
Miles went quiet for a mont. Then his voice dropped lower, steady. "Keep watching. Every movent. Every visitor. Be ready when I call."
On the other end Monica smirked, her tone almost playful. "It’s gonna be fun."
Miles’s lips curved into the faintest smile. "Yes."
The call clicked off. The screen across the room still rolled the sa lines: Stay calm. No innocent lives will be lost.
Miles sat in silence for a while, his hand tightening once against the phone before setting it aside.
Flashback — Siberia
Snow cut at the camp like a knife. The temporary shelters hunched low, half-buried, circling the ruined silhouette of the old prison beyond. Breath stead in the air. Everything slled of cold and tal and old oil — small comforts when the world out there was trying to kill you.
Ghost moved through the camp in full winter kit: fur-lined hood up, face half-hidden, boots crunching on new crust. He didn’t hurry. He walked with the sort of calm that unsettled people — slow, deliberate, nothing wasted. n glanced up, then back to their tasks. They trusted the silence he carried.
He stopped by a low table where the Graveyard strategist sat hunched over a laptop, fingers white from the cold. The screen threw a pale light across maps and faces.
"What’s the status?" Ghost asked, voice low. It was more question than demand.
The strategist didn’t look surprised to be asked. He tapped a few keys, the laptop chittering. "Thirty-seven civilians. Six kids among them." He pointed at the screen where nas and blurred photos scrolled. "Those are the targets. They’re being held inside the old prison."
Ghost’s eyes narrowed. He leaned in, looking at the files. Faces, dates, last-known-contacts — the kind of list that made the stomach tight. "Who’s running them? Local bandits?"
The strategist exhaled. "They were petty thieves, sure. Local. But this—" He flicked his finger to a different profile. "This isn’t their usual job. They’re being paid. Organized now. Different stakes."
Ghost’s hands flexed against his parka. "Thieves follow money. If there’s no ransom, then soone’s buying them for sothing else." He said it slow, tasting the implication.
"How can you tell?" the strategist asked, almost defensive.
"For thieves it’s always money," Ghost said. "So who’s writing the checks?" He pointed at the laptop. "Pull the recent transfers. Look at who’s wired funds to these n."
The strategist’s cursor hovered a second before the screen slid open a new window. A na sat there, stark and clinical: Dmitri Volkov. Title: scientist. Two PhDs listed. Publications tab. A list of banned research notes.
The strategist read aloud, voice flat. "Dmitri Volkov. Brilliant, but banned last year for unethical experints. Animals — procedures. He lost his grant, disappeared from the journals. Then these paynts start showing up."
Ghost stared at the photo. A pale face, narrow jaw, eyes too intelligent for comfort. For a second Ghost’s face didn’t move. Then he said, quiet and cold, "You’re telling he’s behind this? Children and civilians—taken for experints?"
"I hope not," the strategist admitted. "But everything points that way. The transfers, the timing, the labs listed on his last-known properties. He had access to sterile facilities before his expulsion. Now he’s got manpower."
A slow, hard sound escaped Ghost — not a laugh. His fist tightened inside the glove until the knuckles showed white. There was a weight to it. Years of things he couldn’t forgive folding into the mont. "Soone like him doesn’t deserve to live," he said. No flourish. No shouting. Just a low verdict.
The strategist’s hands hovered, uncertain. "We move at sunset. In through the north ravine, blackout entries. We get the kids out first. dical team on standby. Extraction by two vehicles east." He ticked off the plan like a man reading a recipe — thodical, clear. "You rest now. You’ll need it."
Ghost looked up at the horizon where the snow swallowed the pale sun. The old prison lood like a bad mory. He let his breath fog the air. "Rest," he repeated. For sobody else, it might have sounded like permission. For him, it was an order he already intended to ignore.
He turned, walked out of the tent and into the raw white. The camp’s muffled noises folded behind him — radios, a low murmur of n checking gear, the scrape of shovels. He walked toward the line of broken trees that marked the path to the ravine, shoulders hunched against the wind, thinking in the way people think before they go into a fight: small details, triggers, angles.
Sunset would co. They would move. Ghost kept his face blank, the cold stinging his cheeks, and carried a heat inside that nothing in the snow could touch.
Present — Star Harbor, Office Cafeteria
The cafeteria buzzed with the low hum of voices, trays clattering, coffee machines hissing. Miles sat at a corner table, a plate in front of him, eating in silence. His posture was calm, but his eyes were distant, like he was watching more than just the room.
Then — a sharp vibration from his coat pocket.
He glanced down, pulled the phone out, and answered without hesitation. "Greetings, Commander Ray. Missing in the Graveyard already?"
On the other end, Ray’s voice carried through, warm in a way Miles rarely heard. "How can I not miss a boy I already considered a son?"
Miles blinked, the faintest flicker of surprise passing through him. "It’s rare, Commander. You sound soft."
A pause. Then Ray’s tone grew heavier. "Well... there’s sothing important. Listen carefully."
Miles straightened in his chair, every trace of casualness gone. "I’m all ears."
Ray didn’t soften the blow. "We’ve found them."
Miles frowned. "Them?"
"The remaining people."
The words dropped like lead. Miles stood without realizing it. The fork in his hand bent with a sharp tallic screech as his grip tightened. His chest felt like it locked up, breath coming shorter.
"Where?" His voice wasn’t loud — it was cold. Too cold.
"Calm down, son," Ray said quickly. "I’ll co to Star Harbor in a few days. Until then, keep steady. Don’t lose yourself."
Miles’s jaw worked, teeth clenched. Finally, he exhaled, the edge dulling slightly. "...I’ll wait for you, Commander."
The call ended.
For a mont, the cafeteria blurred around him. mories cut through — shadow of face he couldn’t save, the sharp weight of helplessness that never left him. He closed his eyes, but the ache pressed harder.
"Boss?" A softer voice broke through.
Miles blinked back into the present. June was standing beside him, eyes narrowed with concern. "Are you alright?"
He looked down. The fork in his hand was bent nearly sideways.
Miles forced a small chuckle, setting it down carefully. "Oops. Sorry."
He glanced around — a few employees were watching, whispering. He slid back into his seat, lifting his plate like nothing had happened.
"I’m fine," he said, voice steady, eyes lifting to June’s. "Don’t worry."
And then, as if nothing had cracked inside him, he continued his lunch.
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