The dim light from the projector screen cast long shadows in the silent room. No one moved or spoke but They all knew, deep down, what was coming. The old man glanced at his wristwatch, then at the sea of grim faces before him. When he spoke, his voice was calm, yet it carried weight.
"This footage was taken inside Sector Joint 07. Fleet #07 and the sector officer are missing. They have been pronounced missing, but I assume the worst."
A heavy silence settled over the room. He let his words linger before continuing.
"This has been hard on all of us. We've lost our comrades." His voice lowered, heavy with something unspoken. "I won't waste your time. Everyone, except Delta Force—North Division—is dismissed."
For a second, no one moved. Then, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor echoed through the conference room. Chairs scraped. Muted whispers filled the air as officers rose. Some exchanged glances, others walked away, their expressions hollow.
They filtered out through the heavy doors, the dim hallway swallowing them one by one. The sound of boots faded into silence.
And then, only six people remained.
Ryan fidgeted with his hands, his toes tapping in a restless rhythm. The weight of the moment pressed down on him. Across the room, the old man studied his soldiers, his expression grave.
His voice was steady, devoid of any warmth. "Your mission is simple. You will enter the route connecting Sector Joints #5 and #6. Search for survivors. If you find bodies—burn them. Erase all traces. And return alive."
A cold hush settled over the room. The old man continued.
"Now, let's discuss the anomaly. From the video, we've confirmed that this entity—whatever it is—can manipulate radio waves. Cutting power or shutting off a device won't sever its connection once it takes hold."
He paused, scanning their faces before delivering the next part.
"We have two working theories.
One: attempting to run may trigger a death flag.
Two: turning your back on it could do the same. That's all we know."
The air in the room felt heavier.
"The mission begins at 05:00. You have thirty minutes to prepare. We've arranged new gear for all of you. Get ready."
He straightened, his tone final. "Dismissed."
As they walked down the dimly lit corridor, tension clung to the group like a shadow. Their footsteps echoed, the silence between them heavier than the mission ahead.
Trying to ease the mood, a medium-statured youth scoffed. "You guys know we don't have to be this tense, right? It's not like this is our first mission."
Ryan glanced at Raymon, his expression unreadable. His voice, however, was firm. "Yeah, but it might be our last." He let the words settle, the weight of his statement sinking into the group. Silence followed. No one had a rebuttal.
Raymon clicked his tongue, crossing his arms. "Why so pessimistic?" His voice carried a hint of disappointment.
Ryan met his gaze and smiled—a sad, knowing smile. "Give it time, Raymon. One day, you'll understand."
No one spoke. The only sound was the steady rhythm of their boots against the cold floor.
As they reached the changing room, Ryan exhaled and turned to the group. "Alright, everyone. Let's gear up. We have a job to do."
Without another word, they stepped inside.
The changing room was dimly lit, rows of lockers lined the walls, each bearing the name of a soldier. Ryan walked over to his locker and swung the door open. Inside, his gear was neatly arranged—black tactical armor reinforced with lightweight plating, a utility belt packed with essential equipment, and a headgear with an inbuilt communication system. He pulled on his undershirt, then methodically strapped on each piece of armor, securing the buckles with precision. Around him, the others did the same.
Raymon, fiddling with a device, frowned. "Anyone know what this blue torchlight does? Never used it in a mission before."
Carter, already geared up, smirked. "You worried?"
Raymon scoffed. "Just curious."
Ryan glanced over as he secured his gloves. "It's our last line of defense. If we ever hit a life-or-death situation, this thing buys us time. The Hexalyth ore inside repels ghosts by lowering the surrounding negative values. They hate it. But it's not foolproof."
Raymon raised a brow. "Not foolproof?"
"It's a small torch it can't do much if a ghost is too strong, the light won't stop it," Ryan said grimly. "If you're too slow to pull it out, you're already dead."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Ryan scanned their faces, gauging their readiness. "Everyone set?"
A few nods. A deep breath.
"Let's move."
Reaching the exit of Joint Sector #05, the team halted. A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken fears. They exchanged glances, already knowing what was about to come.
"Everyone, disable your communication devices. We won't be using them in this mission," Ryan ordered, his voice firm but quiet.
One by one, they complied, removing their earpieces and cutting off their last link to safety. The moment felt final—like they had just severed their only lifeline.
Ryan took a deep breath and pushed the exit door.
A long, drawn-out creak tore through the silence, the sound unnaturally sharp against the quiet of the dead night. The cold air hit them like a wall, thick with dampness. The blue Hexalyth lights flickered eerily, casting long, shifting shadows.
Ryan's pulse pounded. The others shifted uneasily, gripping their weapons tighter.
"Move," he whispered.
They advanced in a tight formation, their boots crunching against the frost-bitten ground. The air felt heavier with each step like something unseen was pressing down on them.
Reaching the cabin door, Ryan's eyes met his team's. A silent understanding passed between them.
On his signal, he kicked the door open.
The impact echoed, the door slamming against the wall. The team stormed in—ready, alert—only to stop dead in their tracks.
The room was empty.
No bodies. No blood. Not even a trace of dust was disturbed on the floor. The chairs were neatly tucked in as if no one had ever sat there. The air smelled stale—too clean, too untouched.
But the worst part? The absolute silence.
No hum of power. No distant wind. No creaking walls. Just a suffocating, unnatural stillness.
Ryan's throat tightened. Something was wrong—terribly, inexplicably wrong.
A chill ran through his spine. The others must have felt it too because no one spoke. No one dared.
With slow, measured steps, they backed out of the cabin.
As they stepped outside, the fog rolled in. Thick and sudden, The blue security lights barely cut through it now, their glow dimmed.
The silhouettes of the squad faded into the thickening mist, each figure swallowed by the creeping fog as they moved toward the sector joint. One by one, they vanished into the unknown, their footsteps muffled by the eerie silence surrounding them.
Back at the cabin, the heavy door groaned and squealed as it slowly began to shut. A gust of cold wind seemed to push against it, but it continued its slow descent, inching closer to closing ominously. The last sliver of light from the blue glow outside flickered before being consumed by the growing darkness, leaving the cabin.
The tension in the air was suffocating, the mist pressing down on them as they moved forward, every step heavy with dread.
"Mount your lights," Ryan's voice cut through the silence.
The soldiers quickly fixed their lights, the faint blue glow piercing the darkness, but it only seemed to deepen the shadows around them. Their boots crunched on the rocky floor, every sound amplified in the stillness.
It was as if the fog itself held its breath, waiting for something to emerge from the depths. And then, suddenly, the device on their wrists began to beep, the sound sharp and jarring against the quiet. The numbers on the display climbed—0... 1... then it stopped at 2.
"Get ready," Ryan whispered, his voice tight.
Through the mist, a shape appeared—a body, twisted unnaturally. Its back was arched, head tilted grotesquely to the side. The group froze. A wave of fear hit them all at once. They approached, hearts racing, eyes locked on the corpse.
As they drew closer, their stomachs turned. The body wasn't just lifeless—it was wrong. The skin was blue and dried up. the eyes were shriveled up, cheeks sunken to the bone, hair dried. Seeing each other everyone was scared don't know what to do.
The air felt heavier. Thick mist curled around them, swallowing sound, pressing against their lungs. The squad stood in a tense circle around the corpse, their faces pale under the eerie blue glow of their lights.
"No survivors," Raymon muttered, his voice hollow.
Carter scoffed. "Surviving an anomaly is an anomaly itself. Six bodies on the ground? No surprise. I'd be more shocked if someone made it out."
No one argued.
Raymon frowned, eyes lingering on the shriveled corpse. "But look at them... completely dried out. Like something drained the life right out of them."
Carter let out a low chuckle. "You think this is bad? Back in Little Gills Town, HQ sent an advanced team after reports of a ghost that made people vanish. Only one guy came back. They sealed the whole damn town after that—kept the entity from spreading."
Raymon shuddered. "Yeah, well, remind me never to set foot there."
The group fell into uneasy murmurs, nerves stretched thin. No one noticed the creeping shadow in the mist, inching closer from the direction of the cabin.
Then Ryan's expression shifted. His gut twisted. Something was wrong.
"Behind you," he breathed.
But it was already too late.
Three men crumpled face-first to the ground, their bodies convulsing. Horror twisted their features—mouths agape, eyes bulging. Saliva dribbled from their lips as their skin shriveled, turning a sickly shade of blue.
"Shit—shoot!" Ryan barked, heart pounding.
Raymon and Carter panicked, their hands slick with sweat as they emptied their magazines into the mist. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness.
The figure didn't stop.
A silhouette loomed closer, its presence thick and suffocating. The mist peeled away as it stepped forward—an old man in a butler's uniform. His gaunt face was frozen in an eerie calm, thin strands of hair neatly parted to the side. One eye gleamed red, the other hidden behind a broken monocle, barely clinging to its socket. His skin, tinged blue, stretched taut over crooked bones, lips slightly parted as if whispering something only the dead could hear.
Ryan's breath hitched.
"Don't turn your back. Move—slow and steady," he ordered, forcing his voice to stay level as he kept firing.
The squad retreated step by step, eyes locked on the thing that shouldn't be.
Then—Raymon's foot sank into something soft.
His stomach lurched. Slowly, he glanced down.
He had stepped on the corpse.
His breath hitched. Horror bled into his face as an icy sensation slithered up his leg. His veins darkened beneath his skin. His eyes turned bloodshot, his lips quivering.
"Ryan—" Raymon's voice broke, pleading.Ryan spun just in time to see Raymon's blood evaporate into a fine mist, his skin paling, turning a sickly shade of blue. His limbs twitched, then locked.Raymon staggered, his eyes wide, teary—knowing.Then—he fell.Ryan clenched his jaw, helpless rage and terror boiling inside him.There was nothing he could do.Nothing at all.He turned for Carter—but Carter was gone lost in the mist.Ryan was alone.His breath turned shallow, cold dread clawing at his spine. He didn't want to die. His eyes darted left and right, searching—desperate. Then, out of the corner of his vision, he saw it.A tree. Barely reaching the castle wall.If he could jump—if he could make it—he had a chance.Adrenaline surged through his veins, numbing the fear. He shifted, inching sideways, step by step. Then—he ran.And leaped.For a brief moment, he was weightless. Suspended in the air.Then—he fell.As he plummeted, Ryan caught a glimpse of the wall's edge. The old man stood there, staring down at him. Cold. Mocking. His face devoid of emotion, yet his very presence whispered a cruel truth: futile.Then, the world slammed into him.Branches tore at his skin as he crashed through the treetops, his body spinning uncontrollably. His lungs emptied in a choked gasp as he struck a thick branch, his ribs screaming in protest. He flipped midair, only to smash his back against another limb. Pain erupted through his spine.He screamed.Then, he hit nothing.Falling—faster—harder—He crashed into the muddy ground with a sickening thud, skidding down a steep, grass-covered slope. His body rolled violently, the slick earth offering no resistance.The world blurred. His thoughts scattered.Ryan didn't stop, airborne for half a second—then slammed into the forest floor, his body flung like a ragdoll through the undergrowth. He tumbled, crashing through tangled roots, snapping branches, the world dimming with every impact. Then—stillness.At the boundary of the misty forest, the old man watched.His feet moved unnaturally fast, a blur beneath him, yet his upper body remained still. He stopped abruptly—exactly thirty meters from the woods.For the first time, his expression changed.A flicker of unease.His crimson eye lingered on the treeline as if something inside the forest was watching him.Slowly, cautiously, he stepped back. He did not turn his back on the trees.Then—he vanished into the mist.