I woke choking on someone else's name.
The sweat had already soaked through the back of my shirt. My hands were clenched into fists, nails sunk deep into my palms. I hadn't screamed—not out loud—but my throat burned as if I had.
The dream was already breaking apart in the light, shattering like frozen glass.
But fragments clung.
Smoke.
Metal.
The sound of someone sobbing like the world had ended.
A body—slim, blood-slick, shaking in my arms.
And my own voice, hoarse, begging:
"Don't die—don't leave me—please, please—Shanshen—"
I didn't recognize the man.
Didn't recognize the name.
Didn't recognize myself.
⸻
I got out of bed without turning on the lights.
Muscle memory carried me through the motions: boots, gloves, jacket. I washed my face in cold water, ignoring the tremor in my jaw. The image in the mirror stared back without emotion. Still me. Still Commander Li Qiyan.
I dried my hands and left the room.
It was 05:12.
Time for morning drills.
⸻
The outer yard was already gathering mist. Smoke rose from the barracks' chimneys. Recruits fell into rows as the bugle rang across the compound—flat and sharp.
I moved through them without speaking. They straightened as I passed. No one looked directly at me.
Good.
I didn't want anyone to see the flicker of hesitation still riding my shoulders.
⸻
By 06:45, I was in the north tower briefing hall reviewing supply distribution logs. My adjutant, Sergeant Wen, tried to ask me something about relocation protocols. I answered, but I don't remember what I said.
Because just outside the glass wall behind him—
Past the drill lines, past the rusted crawler transport—
There was a man walking alone across the yard.
Dark coat.
Broad shoulders.
Expression unreadable.
He didn't march like the others. Didn't glance around. Didn't move with the fear that most survivors carried like a second skin.
He just walked.
Like he had done it a thousand times before.
Like he owned every step.
I stared too long.
"Commander?" Wen's voice cut back in.
"What's his name?" I asked.
Wen blinked.
"Sir?"
I pointed without turning my head.
"The man heading toward the old south watchtower."
Wen followed my gaze. He frowned.
"Oh. That's… Jiang. Jiang Shanshen. Recovered asset. Came in three days ago. Used to be Eastern Command, if the blood scan's legit."
Jiang Shanshen.
I tasted the name. It felt… wrong in my mouth.
Not unfamiliar.
Too familiar.
Wen was still talking, but I wasn't listening anymore.
I watched as Jiang disappeared into the fog.
⸻
There's a rhythm to the compound.
Orders, drills, silence.
Eat, check-in, sweep, silence.
Repeat.
That rhythm has kept this base alive longer than most of the others.
But it cracks. Every time he walks through.
Jiang Shanshen.
He didn't stand out on paper. The scraps I was allowed to see, anyway.
Former recon. Tactical clearance revoked. No known relatives. No injuries logged—despite the scar over his heart. Nothing about his behavior that explained the classified lock placed across half his file.
I flagged it for override.
I was denied.
"That's unusual," I told myself.
"That's a threat," said something deeper inside.
⸻
I started watching him more than I wanted to.
I told myself it was precaution. Discipline.
But my gaze always found him.
During meals—where he never ate more than three bites.
During drills—where he didn't join but watched the formations like he was auditing ghosts.
During patrol briefings—where he leaned against the wall with that same unreadable look, as if he were already somewhere else.
The others noticed, too.
They called him "The Ghost." I never corrected them.
⸻
It happened around midday.
The mess hall exploded in shouts first. Then the sound of metal crashing against concrete. By the time I arrived, two privates had a third pinned to the wall with a broken tray.
Blood slicked the floor.
"You stole my fucking rations, Han! I saw your greedy little—"
"You're out of your mind—!"
"Shut the fuck up, both of you—"
One of them drew a knife.
The crowd backed away.
I didn't bark a command. I didn't have to.
He moved first.
Jiang stepped between them.
Didn't draw a weapon. Didn't raise his voice.
Just looked.
And something about the way he did it—
Not threatening. Not angry.
Just… still.
Unblinking.
The knife wavered. The air itself seemed to thin.
Then Han dropped the blade.
Stumbled back, muttering apologies, as if he'd seen something only he could see.
The crowd didn't clap. Didn't cheer.
They just parted.
Jiang walked past them, silent. No expression. No pride. Like he hadn't done anything at all.
⸻
Later, I saw him outside the infirmary, crouched beside the muttdog that guards the west fence.
That thing snarls at everyone. Bit two medics last week. Barely tolerates its handler.
But Jiang?
He reached out, pressed his fingers against the scarred muzzle, and the beast leaned into him like a child seeking warmth.
I was too far away to hear what he whispered to it.
But I felt the hairs on my neck stand.
⸻
I reported the mess hall incident as "internal stress release."
Privately, I replayed Jiang's expressionless face over and over again behind my eyelids.
Emotionless. But not numb.
No. Waiting.
For something.
Or someone.