ZONE 7 – CALI'DUS POLICE STATION
"Please… you have to help me!"
Her voice cracked, raw from days without rest, as two young officers in rumpled uniforms ushered her toward the flickering glass doors. Outside, the neon signage cast its sickly green glow over the street: CALI'DUS POLICE STATION.
"She's been missing for a week!"
One officer exhaled like her words had wasted his oxygen.
"I told you, this happens all the time. Your daughter probably ran off with her boyfriend."
"She did not!" Her trembling hands gripped his sleeve. "You made me wait twenty-four hours before you'd even take my report. It's been seven days. Something is wrong!"
The other officer's eyes hardened — shuttered windows closing.
"Can you shut up?" the first muttered.
"Yes, yes, we'll look for her," the second said in a flat voice, already turning toward the station's cool, air-conditioned safety. "Don't come back here. We'll… call you."
She knew they wouldn't. She had watched them for days — no patrols, no search parties, just bursts of laughter drifting from behind tinted glass. Government food deliveries arrived like clockwork, trays of steaming meals carried past the front desk.
Meanwhile, she had gone hungry.
But hunger didn't matter. Her daughter mattered.
The girl had never run away — not once. If there had been warning signs, she would have seen them. Her daughter's heart had always leaned toward helping others, never chasing escape.
From her worn bag, she pulled out a wristwatch — the one her daughter never left home without. That day, she'd forgotten it. By the time her mother realized, she was already gone. The guilt gnawed like rust on metal: she should have stopped her, should have gone with her.
If there had been more money, her daughter wouldn't have needed to take odd jobs. She wouldn't have been on the streets at all.
By five o'clock, the day surrendered to another failure. Another night without answers. Tomorrow, she would return. And the day after. And the day after that.
Her feet led her toward the university gates, where her daughter had studied on scholarship before vanishing. The gates were plastered with missing posters — cheap paper curling at the corners, black-and-white faces fading under the sun.
It wasn't just her daughter. Twenty girls were gone. All students. All dismissed by the police as "runaways."
Her own poster was the poorest of them all, its ink washed pale. She had no coins for better paper, and the weight of that truth pressed into every breath she took.
A black pickup slid past, tinted windows reflecting nothing. Inside, the driver spared her only the briefest glance — careful, deliberate. His face was flawless, almost too perfect, framed by dark hair. A simple jacket, shirt, and sneakers. No visible weapons. Calm, welcoming… but he wasn't there for comfort.
His hand pressed the accelerator, the engine growling low. This time, he was certain. And he would act.
CGO – CONFERENCE ROOM
The glass-walled room was tinted black from the outside, concealing the meeting within. The day's briefing had just ended.
In the Grand Covenant Order, four divisions formed the backbone of field work:
Cloak — intelligence gathering.
Phantom — covert assassinations.
Iron Clad — heavy combat and infiltration.
Ardent — field medics.
Most field teams included one member from each. Evah had only learned this from the Doctor earlier that morning, who had jokingly complained, "We're the only department with a boring name." She'd agreed — Innovation Department hardly inspired fear.
Now she stood just outside the lab, tablet in hand, pretending to scroll through files while sneaking glances into the briefing room.
"How come no one notices these disappearances?" an Iron Clad rookie asked.
"It's Zone 7 again. What's the CGO there even doing?"
A female Cloak operative smirked. "They know. Of course they do."
"Silence," Commander Xerxes cut in, his tone heavy with warning. His uniform was flawless, not a single crease out of place. Sharp brows framed eyes that could cut through steel. One gloved hand rested at his side with military precision, boots gleaming with a mirror's perfection. Everything about him was sharp — his posture, his voice, his presence. Always strict. Always intimidating.
"It's fine, Commander."
The man at the glass monitor board wore no uniform — just a dark jacket over a plain shirt, paired with casual sneakers. His pretty face, envied and admired in equal measure, carried a quiet warmth that still commanded respect. He smiled faintly, a trace of mercy for the newcomers teetering on the edge of panic.
Major General Erion.
"Let's proceed," he said, tapping the monitor to pull up new data.
A rookie leaned toward the woman beside him. "Is he really the Major General?"
"Shut up, or the Commander will have your head," she murmured.
"Why does the Commander seem scarier than him?" the rookie whispered back.
"He is scary," another voice said behind him — but it wasn't a teammate.
The rookie froze. Everyone froze.
Erion had been at the front of the room a heartbeat ago. Now he stood directly behind them.
Shouts erupted.
"How—?!"
The Commander only shook his head, like a father disappointed in his sons.
"Hey, it wasn't me," Erion said, raising his hands in mock surrender. His expression didn't soften, but his speed alone silenced the room.
A veteran at the back chuckled and patted the rookie's shoulder. "Relax. He's just messing with you."
Erion returned to the board and finished the briefing with one last warning.
"Remember — always watch your back." His gaze locked on the rookie as he said it.
"Dismissed."
The room emptied until only Erion and Commander Xerxes remained.
"Are you sure you don't want us to escalate?" Erion's tone had shifted, the easygoing facade gone. His voice carried the weight of command.
"Just rescue them," Xerxes replied. "If we push harder, they'll kill — even the young ones. We can't let that happen."
Erion knew he was right. The man before him was younger but sharper than he'd ever been.
"Affirmative."
"Don't worry," Erion said, patting his shoulder. "I'll take care of it."
Then he left, the door closing softly behind him.