The early morning light filtered through the thin, threadbare curtains of Zaid's apartment, casting a pale glow over the cluttered room. The soft hum of the city waking up below was faint, just a distant backdrop to the stillness inside. Zaid, sprawled out on his couch in nothing but his underwear, snored lightly, completely unaware of the tension that lingered in the air like a shadow.
In the cramped, dilapidated bathroom, Zughaib stood shirtless in front of a cracked mirror, his reflection distorted by the jagged lines that splintered across the glass. His hands rested on the edges of the sink, the cold porcelain biting into his palms as he stared at himself, searching for something—maybe a piece of who he used to be, or perhaps the answers that seemed to elude him since that fateful mission.
His breath was shallow, his body tense, and then, like a wave crashing over him, it all came flooding back.
---
Years earlier – Lost Island
The air was thick with humidity, the jungle surrounding them buzzing with life. Zughaib adjusted his gear, his rifle slung low across his chest as he moved in formation with his squad—Flanké Platoon. They had been stationed on Lost Island for weeks, their mission initially a simple reconnaissance of the area. But things changed when whispers about a paramilitary group called DARKCON began to circulate among the higher-ups. DARKCON had a presence on the island, building bunkers, stockpiling weapons, and reportedly developing something far more sinister beneath the surface.
Their orders had come in abruptly: infiltrate DARKCON's headquarters, retrieve any declassified information about their operations, and extract it safely. Zughaib, Rex, and two other soldiers—Kaben and Wolard—were handpicked for the mission. They had worked together for years, a tight-knit unit that knew how to move like ghosts through hostile terrain. But this time, something felt off.
The silence of the jungle was unnerving as they approached the compound. A few days prior, a cargo-tagged helicopter from their platoon had gone missing while surveying the area, and tension had been thick in the air ever since. The jungle always had a way of swallowing things whole—whether it be men or machines—but the wreckage had never been found.
"Stay sharp," Rex had whispered through the comms, his eyes scanning the thick brush ahead.
They breached the perimeter of DARKCON's HQ under the cover of darkness, moving swiftly and silently. The bunkers were heavily fortified, but Zughaib had a knack for finding weaknesses in defenses. They slipped through like shadows, bypassing patrols and security measures with practiced ease.
Once inside the main compound, they began the search for the declassified documents—anything that would give them intel on what DARKCON was really up to. The air inside was cold, a stark contrast to the jungle outside, and their boots echoed faintly against the concrete floors as they moved through the corridors.
"Found something," Wolard whispered from a small room off the main hall. He was crouched over a filing cabinet, rifling through folders. Zughaib moved to his side, glancing over the papers. Schematics, reports, detailed diagrams of weapons—this was more than they had expected. DARKCON wasn't just a paramilitary group; they were something far worse. They were heavily militarized and organized, their operations spanning far beyond the island.
"Let's move," Zughaib ordered, stuffing the documents into a waterproof pouch. The mission was going smoothly, too smoothly. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Something was wrong.
Just as they turned to leave, a sharp, muffled crack echoed through the hall. Kaben fell to the ground, a hole blown clean through his head.
"Ambush!" Rex yelled, diving for cover as bullets began to tear through the walls.
They had been spotted. DARKCON's forces were on them in seconds, their gear shockingly advanced—SWAT-like uniforms, bulletproof vests, and tactical helmets. Zughaib recognized the insignia immediately. This wasn't just DARKCON. It was a splinter group of Anarchy, hidden beneath a different name, operating in the shadows.
Rex and Wolard returned fire, taking cover behind steel crates as the firefight escalated. Zughaib pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. Through the chaos, he caught a glimpse of something outside the perimeter fence—a wrecked helicopter. It had the same markings as the one that had gone missing days before, the one they had been searching for. But it was a fluke, a decoy. DARKCON had been playing them from the start.
"Zughaib, we're pinned!" Rex shouted, his voice crackling through the comms. "We need to get the hell out of here!"
Zughaib knew it was over. They were outnumbered, outgunned, and trapped. The extraction point was a mile away through thick jungle, but there was no way all of them were making it out alive. Wolard gave him a grim nod, his expression resigned. "Go," he said, reloading his rifle. "Get the intel back. We'll cover you."
Zughaib hesitated for a moment, his eyes locking with Wolard's. He wanted to protest, to fight with them, but there was no time. He had to complete the mission. With a silent nod, Zughaib and Rex broke from cover, sprinting through the compound and into the jungle as Wolard fought to the bitter end.
The last thing Zughaib remembered was the sound of gunfire fading into the distance as he and Rex made their escape through a dinghy, the jungle closing in around them like a tomb.
---
Zughaib blinked, snapping back to the present, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the sink. His reflection in the mirror was still the same, but his eyes… they were haunted, filled with the ghosts of the past.
A soft knock on the bathroom door startled him.
"Hey, man, you alright in there?" Zaid's groggy voice came through the thin wood. "I need to use the restroom."
Zughaib didn't answer immediately, taking a moment to compose himself. Finally, he opened the door, stepping aside to let his brother through.
Zaid, still half-asleep, rubbed his eyes as he shuffled past, barely glancing at Zughaib. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he muttered before closing the door behind him.
Zughaib leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly. He hadn't just seen a ghost—he had been living with them for years.
---
Later that morning, Zaid was rushing out the door, his work clothes disheveled and a coffee thermos in hand. "I've got a busy day ahead," he said, pulling on his jacket. "You're welcome to stick around here if you want. Just don't burn the place down, alright?"
Zughaib gave a half-smile, but his mind was elsewhere. He watched his brother fumble with his keys, clearly in a hurry. Zaid paused at the door, glancing back for a moment.
"Look," he said, his voice softer, "I know it's been a long time. We've both changed. But… it's good to see you. I mean that."
Zughaib nodded, the polite smile returning, though it didn't reach his eyes.
With that, Zaid disappeared through the door, leaving the apartment eerily quiet. Zughaib stood by the window, staring out at the gray morning. The city stretched out below him, its streets wet from the night's rain, the people moving like ants through the busy avenues.
He should have felt something—relief, perhaps, or even a sense of reconnection with his brother—but instead, all he felt was a growing sense of loss. The world he had left behind, the world he had returned to, none of it felt real anymore. He was a man trapped between two worlds, neither of which seemed to have a place for him.
Zughaib sighed and sat down by the window, staring at the rain-streaked glass. He didn't know what the next step was. He didn't know if there even was a next step. All he knew was that the ghosts of his past weren't going to let him go that easily.