Chapter 5 Echoes of the Unfinished

– Shadows in the Interrogation Room

The room was smaller than Nathan remembered, though he wasn’t sure if it had actually shrunk or if his own awareness had simply expanded. The walls seemed to press in—not physically, but in the way the air felt thick, as though each breath had to be pulled through molasses. A low amber glow from a recessed light overhead carved deep shadows across the steel table, each edge casting sharp lines that made the space feel less like a room and more like a trap.

The air carried three distinct scents—cold metal, faint machine oil, and something sharper, more sterile. Disinfectant. He hated that smell. It clung to the back of his throat like powdered glass, a reminder of places where bad things happened behind closed doors.

Nathan sat with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, elbows resting against the table’s cool surface. Across from him sat the Enhanced they’d pulled from Sector 12. The reinforced restraints bit into the prisoner’s wrists and ankles, metal cuffs anchored to steel loops bolted to the floor. Despite this, their posture radiated unsettling calm. No fidgeting. No struggle. Just stillness.

Its eyes—an unnatural, iridescent gray—tracked Nathan’s smallest movements, like a predator marking the flicker of prey in the grass. It didn’t blink often, and when it did, the motion was slow, deliberate, as if every muscle movement had been considered and approved.

When it finally spoke, its voice was low and almost conversational, but the kind of conversational tone that made your pulse tick faster without realizing it.
“You’ve only just begun to wake up,” it said, tilting its head like it was listening to a sound only it could hear. “And they’ve already sent you into the field. That’s… reckless. Or maybe they’re desperate.”

Nathan didn’t answer. He’d learned from Corvus that silence was often more powerful than words. In silence, people filled the void with truths they didn’t mean to give away. So he leaned back, studying the prisoner’s face, waiting.

“I know what you are,” the Enhanced continued, voice smoothing into something almost soft. “I know what you were made for. But you don’t, do you?”

Nathan’s jaw tightened. The words landed heavy in his chest, like stones dropping one by one into water. “You’re not going to bait me,” he said evenly. “If you know something, say it.”

The prisoner’s mouth curved in a slow, unsettling smile. “I could say it. But would you believe me over them?”

Before Nathan could press further, the door hissed open and Corvus stepped inside. He didn’t rush, didn’t announce himself—he simply appeared like a shadow filling the room. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was a force. He moved to stand behind Nathan, resting a broad hand briefly on the back of his chair.
“Keep him talking,” Corvus murmured, his voice pitched so low it was almost part of the hum of the air vents.

Nathan turned back toward the Enhanced. “Why did you come for me?”

The prisoner’s gaze sharpened. “Because you’re incomplete. And because when you finish changing, you’ll be the only one who can stop what’s coming… or the one who ensures it happens.”

The last words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and slow to disperse.

Nathan’s heartbeat ticked faster, but he forced himself to keep his tone steady. “What’s coming?”

The prisoner leaned forward as far as the restraints allowed, the chain links rattling like dry bones. “A storm. One that’s already started. You think you’ve seen war? You’ve only seen the shadows before the lightning.”

The phrase struck something deep in Nathan—a memory, blurred and incomplete. Rain hammering against a roof. A flash of light, not from the sky but from the muzzle of a weapon. His mother’s voice, sharp and panicked, calling his name. And then—darkness.

He blinked hard and the memory scattered like startled birds. The prisoner was still watching him, and Nathan had the unpleasant feeling they’d noticed his distraction.

“You were there that night,” the Enhanced said quietly. “The night your family—”

“Shut up,” Nathan cut in, the words sharper than intended.

The prisoner only smiled wider. “Eight months. That’s how long it’s been. I can see it in you. The way your grief has shifted into something else. Something… useful.”

Nathan’s pulse thudded against his ears. He hadn’t told anyone how long it had been—not exactly. Not Corvus. Not Raze. Not even—

The thought cut short as the prisoner tilted their head again, eyes flicking briefly toward the mirrored glass behind Nathan. “She’s listening,” the Enhanced said. “The one who watches you when you train. The one who wonders if you’ll look her way.”

Nathan didn’t move, but his fingers tightened against the edge of the table. He knew who they meant, and the knowledge unsettled him more than the fact that they knew about his family.

Corvus’s voice came over the comm in his ear. “Don’t react. Keep control.”

Nathan exhaled slowly. “You’re good at games,” he said.

“This isn’t a game,” the Enhanced replied. “It’s a countdown. And you’re running out of time.”

– The Weight of Ash

The barracks were quiet except for the low hum of the ventilation system and the muted clatter of someone in the far corner adjusting their gear. Nathan sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, staring at the scuffed floor. Eight months and twelve days. That’s how long it had been since he’d lost everything. The number wasn’t one he consciously counted down to—it simply sat there in the back of his mind like a dull ache, resurfacing whenever he let his guard down.

Across the room, Cassian was leaning back in a chair on two legs, tossing a small metal sphere into the air and catching it without looking. “You looked deep in thought out there,” he said without preamble. “Sector 12 got under your skin?”

Nathan didn’t answer right away. “It’s not that,” he said finally. “It’s just… what that thing said.”

Cassian let the chair legs thud to the floor. “Thing? You mean the prisoner?” He smirked faintly. “They’re all the same. Half riddles, half threats. Best not to dwell.”

From the next bunk over, Saela’s voice cut in, her tone sharper. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t hear him.” She was lying back with her forearm over her eyes, but Nathan could see the tension in her jaw. “Incomplete, changing… It’s not the first time I’ve heard an Enhanced say something like that to one of us.”

Nathan glanced at her. “To one of us?”

Saela sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bunk. “When I first got here, an Enhanced I helped capture told me I’d ‘see the cracks’ in time. I thought it was just a mind game. But…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Forget it.”

Nathan filed the words away. Every fragment mattered.

The door to the barracks hissed open and Elara stepped in, her dark hair still damp from training. She carried herself with an easy confidence, though Nathan had noticed she kept her guard up in ways the others didn’t—never letting her back fully to a door, always scanning a room when she entered. She dropped her duffel by her bunk, catching Nathan’s eye.

“You going to eat, or just brood here all night?” she asked.

He gave a faint, almost reluctant smile. “Haven’t decided.”

Elara tilted her head toward the galley. “Come on. You’re no good to anyone on an empty stomach.”

They walked side by side through the narrow corridors. The galley was quiet at this hour, lit by a warm overhead glow that softened the hard edges of the steel walls. Elara busied herself with the coffee machine, the faint scent of roasted beans filling the air.

“You’ve been here what—three months now?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Four,” Nathan corrected. “Feels longer.”

“That’s because time stretches here,” she said with a small smile. “Every day feels like three. And when you’ve been through what you have…” She paused, then set a mug in front of him. “It’s a lot to carry.”

Nathan’s hand brushed hers briefly as he took the mug, and for a moment neither of them moved. There was something unspoken there—an understanding, maybe even recognition—but neither dared name it.

Back in the barracks later, Raze was perched on the edge of his bed, cleaning his sidearm with methodical precision. “Corvus wants you in Tactical tomorrow,” he said without looking up. “Debrief and next steps.”

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That quick?”

Raze’s gaze flicked up, cold and assessing. “We don’t wait here. The enemy doesn’t either.”

Cassian snorted from across the room. “Careful, Nathan. You keep impressing them and they’ll have you running missions before you know what half your gear does.”

Saela chuckled, but there was no real humor in it. “That prisoner… You think he knew we’d be there? Sector 12’s been quiet for months.”

Raze set his weapon down with a soft click. “If he did, that means we’ve got a leak. And that’s a conversation for another time.” His tone left no room for argument.

The night stretched on in a haze of small talk, shared silences, and the muted camaraderie of people bound by both duty and something unspoken. Nathan lay awake long after the lights dimmed, staring at the ceiling. Every face in that room, every scrap of conversation, felt like a piece of a puzzle he was only beginning to understand. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Elara’s voice lingered, telling him not to starve himself—of food, of strength, of whatever fragile connections could still be made in a place like this.

– Fault Lines in the Team

The Tactical Operations room felt different from the rest of the compound—not just in layout, but in atmosphere. Where the barracks carried the hum of human presence and the training halls rang with movement, Tactical was still, precise, clinical. Banks of holo-screens floated in the dim light, casting faint blue and amber reflections across the steel walls. The air smelled faintly of ozone, as if charged by the hum of dormant machinery.

Nathan entered quietly, boots clicking against the floor. Raze was already there, leaning with both hands braced against the central table, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the tactical display. Corvus stood on the opposite side, posture immaculate, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His presence filled the room in a way no sound could—a force that made you straighten your spine without realizing it.

“Nathan,” Corvus said, voice level but with an edge that made it feel more like a summons than a greeting. “Sit.”

Nathan obeyed, pulling the heavy chair out with a low scrape.

The holo-display flared to life between them, resolving into a three-dimensional projection of Sector 12. Streets, alleys, and collapsed buildings floated in the air like a ghostly diorama. Red markers indicated movement patterns.

“This,” Corvus began, “is where you engaged.” His fingertip tapped a small square—an abandoned transit hub on the western edge. “Your entry point was clean. No external interference. But the prisoner knew you were coming.”

Raze’s gaze flicked to Nathan, sharp as a blade. “You saw his reaction. No fear. No surprise. Almost like he’d been waiting for you specifically.”

Nathan kept his expression neutral. “He said as much. Told me I was ‘incomplete.’ That when I finished changing, I’d either stop what’s coming or make it happen.”

Corvus’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “He said that?”

“Word for word.” Nathan leaned forward slightly. “And he knew I didn’t understand it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was dense, layered with unspoken meaning. Raze was the one to break it. “Eight months since the incident, and now this.” His tone was low, but the weight of the words was unmistakable.

Corvus’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t.”

Raze’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t back down. “He needs context. Otherwise he’s operating blind.”

Nathan’s eyes moved between them. “What does my family’s death have to do with this?”

Neither man answered immediately. Corvus finally stepped closer to the projection, the shifting light painting sharp angles across his face. “What happened to your family wasn’t random,” he said quietly. “And it wasn’t just an act of violence. It was a message. To us. To you.”

Nathan felt the air leave his lungs in a slow, deliberate breath. “From the Enhanced.”

Corvus didn’t confirm it outright. “Let’s just say their interest in you didn’t start yesterday.”

Raze’s voice cut in, measured but heavy. “Which is why we can’t afford hesitation. You’ve been showing… indicators. Faster reflexes. Sharper perception. Anticipating movements before they happen.”

Nathan’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t told anyone about the details—the camera hum, the shift in air pressure—but Raze’s words told him they already knew.

“You’ve been watching me,” Nathan said flatly.

“We watch everyone,” Corvus replied, unflinching. “But in your case, we’re not just watching. We’re preparing.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair, tension coiling under his skin. “Preparing me for what?”

Corvus’s gaze held his. “For the day when you’ll have to choose which side you’re on.”

The words lingered in the air, heavier than the silence that followed.

Before Nathan could respond, Elara’s voice came over the comm system. “Incoming transmission—priority code.” Her tone was crisp, but there was something underneath it, a note of urgency that made Nathan’s pulse quicken.

Corvus glanced at Raze, a silent exchange passing between them. Then, to Nathan: “We’re done here. For now. Go to the training hall. Stay sharp.”

Nathan stood, but as he turned to leave, Raze’s voice stopped him. “Nathan.”

He looked back.

Raze’s expression softened just enough to be noticeable. “Whatever that prisoner thinks you’re ‘incomplete’ about… don’t let it define you. You decide what you become.”

Nathan gave a slight nod, but the words only added to the weight in his chest. As he stepped out into the corridor, he could still feel both men’s eyes on his back, as if they already knew the path he was walking—one he couldn’t yet see for himself.

– Quiet Conversations

The communications bay was alive with low chatter and the rhythmic hum of active consoles. Dozens of small holo-panels floated around Elara, their light catching in the copper strands of her tied-back hair. She barely noticed the movement of others in the room; her focus was fixed on the encrypted transmission that had just come through—a data stream laced with priority codes she’d only seen once before.

Her fingers danced over the keys, the motion swift but deliberate. Every click of her console felt like a heartbeat. The message was fragmented, pieces of data spliced and buried under layers of interference, but she could already tell it had weight. She could also tell Corvus had known it was coming—he always seemed to know before anyone else.

When the door slid open behind her, Elara didn’t have to turn to know it was Nathan. There was something about the rhythm of his steps—steady, measured, almost too controlled—that set him apart from the rest of the squad.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said without looking up.

“And yet, here I am,” Nathan replied, leaning casually against the frame. “Corvus told me to head to training, but I figured I’d check in first.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, catching the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Checking in on me or on the transmission?”

“Can’t it be both?”

It was a simple exchange, but under the surface there was an unspoken current—one that had been building quietly for months. They’d known each other for less than a year, but it felt longer. She’d been the first person he spoke to when he was brought into the compound, the one who walked him through security protocols while everyone else treated him like a dangerous unknown.

Now, watching him in the low glow of the comms room, she could see the changes Raze had hinted at. He moved differently, held himself differently—like he was aware of every movement around him, every flicker of light, every breath in the air.

“Your file says you used to be quiet,” she said suddenly, eyes still on the console.

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “And now?”

“Now you talk more. To me, at least.”

He didn’t answer right away, just watched her work, the glow of the holo-panels casting sharp shadows on her face. “Maybe I just trust you.”

That made her pause, if only for a second. She knew better than to read too much into words like that—trust was currency in this place, not sentiment—but with Nathan, it felt different.

The console beeped, pulling her attention back. The final packet of the transmission unlocked, revealing a partially corrupted image: a dim, flickering room, a silhouette bound to a chair. Even through the static distortion, Nathan’s breath caught.

It wasn’t his family. But it could have been.

Elara’s eyes flicked to his. “You recognize them?”

Nathan shook his head slowly, though his jaw was set. “No. But whoever sent this wanted me to.”

Her instinct was to tell him to back away, to let Corvus handle it—but she didn’t. Because in that moment, she understood what Corvus and Raze already knew: whatever was happening wasn’t just about missions or objectives. It was about Nathan.

The room felt smaller, quieter, though neither of them had moved. She turned back to her console, her voice lower now. “Be careful, Nathan.”

His eyes lingered on her for a beat longer than necessary. “I will. As long as you’re watching my back.”

– Glass Between Worlds

The smell of rain on hot pavement was one of those things Nathan never thought about—until he couldn’t smell it anymore.

It had been late afternoon, the kind of summer day where the clouds gather like bruises in the sky, heavy with the promise of a storm. Nathan had been sitting on the porch steps of their small house on the outskirts of the city, his elbows resting on his knees, watching his younger sister, Lily, try to catch raindrops in her hands before the storm fully broke.

“Bet you can’t catch ten in a row,” he’d teased.

She’d grinned—gap-toothed and fearless—and spun in circles, her hair whipping in the wind. “Bet you can’t beat me in one-on-one later!”

From the kitchen window, the warm light spilled out where his mother was making dinner, her humming barely audible over the rustle of the wind. His father’s voice came from the garage, a low murmur as he worked on the old motorcycle that had been his pride since his twenties.

It was all so ordinary. So painfully, beautifully ordinary.

Nathan remembered the weight of that moment now more than anything else—not the arguments, not the bills they were behind on, not the little frustrations. Just the way the air smelled, the way his family moved in their small orbit, unaware of how little time they had left.

“Dinner in twenty!” his mom had called, and Nathan had answered without thinking, “Got it!”

If he’d known… if he’d known, he would’ve dropped everything. He would’ve stayed on that porch until the sun went down, just watching them.

The storm came in fast, the kind that turns the sky an unnatural shade of green. Nathan remembered helping his dad pull the tarp over the bike, his fingers cold from the sudden drop in temperature. He remembered the way his dad had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’ve got good instincts, kid. Don’t lose ’em.”

The next day, everything burned.

He’d been coming home from a supply run when he saw the black smoke rising. His heart had known before his brain could process it. By the time he got there, the house was gone. The air was thick with the metallic tang of fire, and the neighbors’ faces were pale masks in the dim light.

Corvus had found him there—standing in the ash, clothes singed, eyes empty. He hadn’t spoken for three days.

Back in the present, that memory clung to him like smoke. The faces of his squad were sharper in focus now—Corvus’s guarded eyes, Raze’s calculated smirk, Elara’s subtle, searching glances. Every bond he formed here was weighed against the memory of what he’d lost, a silent measure he never spoke aloud.

Elara had noticed. She always did.

“Sometimes,” she had said quietly one night after a mission, “you look at us like you’re waiting for us to disappear.”

He hadn’t answered. Because she was right.

– The Long Silence

The training hall was nearly empty when Nathan finished his final set of drills. Sweat clung to his shirt, his breath steady despite the intensity of the session. Across the mat, Raze leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching with the kind of sharp-eyed interest Nathan had learned to distrust.

“You’re getting faster,” Raze said finally, pushing off the wall. “Not just faster. You’re seeing things before they happen. That’s not training — that’s… something else.”

Nathan didn’t answer right away. “Maybe I’m just reading my opponents better.”

Raze smirked. “And maybe I believe that. Which I don’t.”

Before Nathan could reply, Elara walked in, her hair damp from the rain outside. She carried two mugs of coffee, set one down near Nathan without a word, and took a seat on the edge of the mat. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than necessary, not in the way Raze’s did — not measuring, not challenging — but studying, like she was trying to read a language written on his skin.

“How’s our prisoner?” she asked, sipping her coffee.

Raze shrugged. “Still clamped down. Talks in riddles. I think he likes the sound of his own voice.”

Elara’s eyes flicked to Nathan. “Did he say anything else to you?”

Nathan hesitated. “He said I was… incomplete. That when I ‘finish changing,’ I’ll be the only one who can stop what’s coming. Or make sure it happens.”

Raze let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s not ominous at all.”

Corvus entered then, silent as always, the air shifting subtly with his presence. He glanced between them. “Whatever he told you, keep it to yourself for now. Too many ears in this place.”

Nathan felt the unspoken part of that sentence: And we don’t know which ones to trust.

That night, Nathan found himself in the mess hall after hours. The place was dim, lit only by the glow from the vending machines. Elara was there, sitting at one of the back tables with a book she clearly wasn’t reading.

“You’re not much for sleep, are you?” she asked without looking up.

“Neither are you,” he countered, sliding into the seat across from her.

There was a pause, the kind that felt like an opening if you were brave enough to step through it.

“You don’t talk about them,” she said softly. “Your family.”

Nathan’s jaw tightened. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Everything,” she said. “The way you carry them with you — it’s in how you move, how you fight. Like you’re making sure nothing like that happens again.”

He met her eyes, and for a moment the noise of the facility faded away. “You sound like you’ve lost someone too.”

“I have,” she said simply, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else.

When they left the mess hall, Raze was leaning in the doorway of the corridor, one eyebrow raised. “Midnight coffee dates now? Should I be jealous?”

Elara rolled her eyes. Nathan didn’t answer — but something in Raze’s smirk told him that the teasing carried a sharper edge than it seemed.

– Under the Amber Lights

The cell block was colder than usual. Nathan noticed it the moment he stepped inside — the sharp bite of recycled air, the faint condensation clinging to the reinforced glass. The prisoner was awake, sitting perfectly still in the middle of the room, his eyes fixed on some invisible point beyond Nathan’s shoulder.

Two guards flanked the door. Neither looked comfortable.

“He’s been… talking,” one muttered as Nathan approached.

“Talking to who?” Nathan asked.

“Not us,” the guard said. “Himself. Or maybe someone else we can’t hear.”

Nathan stepped closer to the glass. The Enhanced’s lips moved almost imperceptibly, whispering something too low for the mics to catch. Then, abruptly, his gaze snapped to Nathan, and the whispering stopped.

“You’re late,” the prisoner said.

“I wasn’t aware we had an appointment,” Nathan replied, keeping his tone flat.

“You came anyway.” The prisoner smiled faintly. “That means you’re curious.”

Nathan said nothing.

“You’ve started noticing it, haven’t you?” the Enhanced continued. “The way the world slows down. The way you can hear the hum of things others can’t. Smell the tension on someone’s skin before they throw a punch. It’s… intoxicating, isn’t it?”

Nathan ignored the shiver creeping down his spine. “You’re wasting your time. I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing.”

The prisoner leaned forward, the chains around his wrists clinking. “It’s not a game. It’s a warning. They want you controlled. I want you awake.”

Before Nathan could answer, the overhead lights flickered — once, twice — and the air filled with the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. One of the guards cursed, hand going to his sidearm.

The prisoner’s smile widened. “They’re here.”

A deep, reverberating thud echoed from somewhere above, followed by the distant wail of an alarm. Nathan’s vision sharpened instantly — the color of the warning lights seemed brighter, the sound of boots pounding down the corridor rang like drumbeats in his ears.

Within seconds, the cell block was chaos. A squad of intruders breached the far end, moving with unnerving precision. Nathan ducked behind the guard station, returning fire with controlled bursts. The Enhanced stayed seated, watching the firefight as if it were theater.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan saw Elara burst through the side door, rifle in hand. She slid across the floor to cover beside him. “They’re after him,” she shouted over the gunfire.

Nathan didn’t have to ask who.

When it was over, the floor was slick with rainwater and blood. The attackers were dead or fled, but not before they’d planted something — a small, almost invisible device on the cell’s locking mechanism.

Raze arrived last, scanning the scene. “That wasn’t a rescue attempt,” he said grimly. “That was a message.”

The prisoner tilted his head at Nathan. “Now do you see?”

Nathan didn’t answer, but in the pit of his stomach, he knew the truth: he was in the middle of a war he barely understood, and every second, the enemy seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

– The Unwritten Questions

The debrief room smelled faintly of gun oil and burned circuitry. A map of the compound glowed on the central holo-table, red markers still blinking over the breached corridors. The air was thick — not just from the recycled ventilation, but from the weight of unspoken accusations.

Raze leaned forward, palms flat on the table, his voice edged with steel. “They weren’t here for the prisoner. They were here for him.” He jerked his chin toward Nathan, who stood silently near the far wall.

Elara bristled instantly. “That’s not proven—”

“It’s obvious,” Raze cut her off. “They knew exactly where to hit and when. That’s not coincidence.”

Corvus, leaning against the corner in shadow, said nothing. His silence made Nathan’s pulse quicken more than Raze’s glare ever could.

“I was in the room,” Nathan said finally, forcing his voice to stay level. “If they wanted me, they failed.”

Raze’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe they didn’t fail. Maybe they just wanted to see what you’d do.”

“That’s enough,” Elara snapped, stepping in between them. “You’re acting like he asked for this.”

Raze’s gaze shifted to her, cool and calculating. “You’ve been spending a lot of time defending him lately.”

The room went still.

Nathan felt the heat rise in his face but kept his expression neutral. Elara’s jaw tightened. “Because he’s earned it,” she said, her tone low but unyielding.

Raze smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just remember, feelings get people killed.”

Later, in the training hall, Nathan found Elara leaning against the railing, watching the storm through the reinforced glass. Rain streaked the pane in silver lines, the distant cityscape a blur of light and shadow.

“You didn’t have to do that back there,” Nathan said quietly.

She glanced at him, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Do what? Keep Raze from ripping your head off?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You made it sound like I was worth defending.”

Her eyes softened, just slightly. “You are.” She turned back to the window before he could answer, the reflection of lightning flickering across her face.

They stood in silence for a while, the kind that wasn’t awkward but heavy with things unsaid.

Nathan caught himself studying the curve of her cheek, the way her hair framed her face, the faint scar above her brow — the one she’d gotten in a fight months ago, back when he’d still been too deep in grief to notice much of anything. Now, he noticed everything.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily. His dreams were fragmented — flashes of his family’s faces, the smell of burning metal, Elara’s voice calling his name in the middle of a firefight. He woke with the sensation of someone standing at the edge of his bed, but the room was empty.

In the hallway outside, he thought he heard voices — Corvus and someone else, speaking in tones too low to make out. One word drifted through, though, before the conversation moved away: incomplete.

– The Escort Directive

The hum of the ventilation system became a low, droning lullaby as Nathan sat alone in the observation deck. It was nearly three in the morning; the corridors outside were quiet except for the occasional echo of distant patrol boots. Below him, the training floor lay empty, still damp from the night’s drills.

He should have been asleep. Instead, his mind kept circling back to that single word — incomplete. It clung to him like a splinter, impossible to ignore.

His gaze drifted to the far wall where the holo-screens were dimmed, their surfaces reflecting faint ghost-images from earlier in the day. For a moment, he saw something that wasn’t there — a kitchen table bathed in warm light, the sound of his mother’s laughter, his sister rolling her eyes at a bad joke he’d made. The smell of cinnamon bread cooling on the counter.

The image flickered, replaced by something else. The walls shook violently, his sister’s laughter cut off by a scream. The light vanished in a burst of static, replaced by fire. He could feel the heat, smell the scorched metal and burning insulation. His father’s voice — sharp, urgent — telling him to run.

Nathan gripped the edge of the railing until his knuckles whitened. He remembered how slow his legs had felt, as if he were moving through water, the hallway stretching impossibly long. Then the blast came, throwing him forward into darkness.

When he woke, the house was gone. So was everything in it.

He didn’t hear the door open behind him, but he felt the shift in air pressure — subtle, like a breeze against his skin. He turned sharply.

Corvus stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable. “You’re not sleeping again,” he said, more observation than accusation.

Nathan didn’t answer.

Corvus stepped inside, his boots making no sound against the deck’s floor. “Memories?”

Nathan gave a short nod.

“They’ll come sharper now,” Corvus said. “Not just in dreams. Pieces will slide into place. You’ll think it’s your mind playing tricks, but it’s not.”

Nathan frowned. “What do you mean?”

Corvus studied him for a long moment before speaking. “You’re starting to see. Not just what’s in front of you — but the patterns underneath. It’s part of what you were made for.”

“And you’re still not going to tell me what that is?” Nathan asked.

“Not until you’re ready to hear it.”

After Corvus left, Nathan sat in the silence, every nerve alive. He could hear the faint click of a light fixture settling in the hall, the distant rattle of rain against the eastern wall. But beneath those ordinary sounds, there was something else — a rhythm, almost like a pulse, running through the structure of the compound itself.

He closed his eyes and let himself follow it. The noise became a map in his mind: corridors, rooms, moving figures marked by the sound of their breath and the shift of their weight. He knew where Elara was without seeing her — four floors down, leaning against the wall outside the med bay, her heartbeat steady but quickened as if she were deep in thought.

Nathan’s eyes snapped open, his chest tight. Whatever was happening to him, it was getting stronger.

And if the prisoner had been telling the truth, it was only the beginning.

– Beneath the Coming Storm

By the time the mission briefing ended, the air in the war room was taut with unspoken tension. The holo-table glowed in shades of crimson and gold, projecting a 3D layout of the next op’s target: a derelict supply station on the outskirts of Sector 14. Intelligence suggested it had been abandoned for years — which meant the enemy’s sudden interest in it was far from innocent.

Nathan stood at the far end of the table, his hands resting lightly on the edge. Across from him, Elara traced the projected corridors with her fingertip, her brow furrowed.

“You’re distracted,” she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

He didn’t deny it. “I can feel something. Like… there’s more to this place than the scans are picking up.”

Her eyes met his, searching. “You’ve been different since Sector 12.”

Nathan hesitated, the urge to tell her everything pressing hard against his ribs. About the way the world had begun to slow for him. About how he could sense her footsteps in a room he’d never entered. About the word incomplete. But the thought of saying it out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.

Before he could answer, Raze cut in from the side. “If you two are done whispering, we’ve got a job to plan.” His voice was light, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

They deployed at night. Rain fell in steady sheets, muting the sharp lines of the station’s structure into dark, skeletal outlines. Nathan’s visor flickered with real-time data feeds, but his attention was elsewhere — tracking the unseen currents of movement beyond their immediate path.

Halfway to the docking bay, he stopped abruptly. “We’re not alone,” he said.

Raze glanced at his scanner. “Negative. Nothing within range.”

“They’re here,” Nathan insisted. “Two floors above. Four of them. Moving fast.”

The team exchanged uneasy glances, but Corvus simply nodded. “Adjust formation. Nathan leads.”

They moved quickly, cutting through corridors slick with moisture. The enemy emerged exactly where Nathan had sensed them — their silhouettes sharp against the flicker of failing lights.

The fight was over in seconds. Nathan wasn’t sure if it was instinct or something else guiding him, but every strike landed exactly where it needed to, every dodge perfectly timed. By the end, his pulse was steady, his breathing even.

Elara caught his arm as they regrouped. “How did you know?”

He looked at her, rain streaking the visor between them. “I didn’t know. I just… felt it.”

The deeper they went, the more Nathan’s unease grew. There was a rhythm to the place — a heartbeat, slow and deliberate, pulsing through the steel. He could feel it in his bones.

At the core of the station, they found it: a sealed containment chamber, its surface marked with symbols Nathan didn’t recognize — but somehow understood. They weren’t words. They were warnings.

Corvus stepped forward, scanning the lock. “We open it, we find answers.”

Nathan’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist. “Or we find exactly what they want us to.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the roof above.

Then Elara spoke. “If we walk away now, we’ll never know what’s inside.”

Nathan’s gaze moved between her and Corvus. Somewhere deep inside, a voice — not his own — whispered that whatever was sealed in there was connected to him. To his family. To the night everything burned.

When the chamber finally hissed open, cold air poured out, carrying the faint scent of ozone and something older.

Inside, in the dim glow, a figure sat chained to the floor. Its eyes snapped open — and they were the same shade as Nathan’s.

End of Chapter 5