The hum of the G.H.O.S.T. space station felt different now—broken, uneven. The aftermath of Atlas' encounter with the Vaknar lingered in every corridor. Sparks arced intermittently from exposed conduits, and the hull had scars that whispered of violent impact. Crew members moved with measured urgency, their boots clanging against metal walkways, carrying tools and supplies to stabilize the damaged sectors. Even the air seemed heavy, carrying a faint tang of ozone and burnt machinery.
Inside the council chamber, the room's gravity was unchanged. The high walls, once gleaming with polished steel and holographic interfaces, bore the subtle scars of recent chaos. The oval table at the center reflected dimly under the emergency lights, and the chairs around it sat occupied by the most powerful figures in G.H.O.S.T.—faces stern, eyes sharp, hands restless. Despite the remnants of the station's battle, decorum demanded silence, a fragile tension before words were even spoken.
A figure entered, and the room's atmosphere shifted. The Protector's presence commanded attention without a single gesture. Shadows flanked him, silent and deliberate, their loyalty unspoken but palpable. Eyes followed him as he strode forward, armor whispering with each step. Councilors' whispers ceased, replaced by a low, anticipatory hum. The Protector didn't need to speak. Presence alone communicated authority, experience, and the faintest trace of menace.
Klaus Borin rose from his chair as the Protector approached, his dark wool coat brushing the floor. Age had not softened him—his left eye clouded with the aftermath of a battlefield burn, jaw lined with scars earned in campaigns that had erased entire units from memory. He bore the history of a soldier who had survived everything the universe could throw at him, then stepped into politics with the same unyielding will.
"Good," the Protector said, voice low but firm, scanning the holographic monitors embedded in the table. "They didn't screw this up."
"They almost did," one councilor interjected, voice trembling with a combination of fear and awe. "But they stopped them—and on their own." A hand waved toward the monitors showing live feeds from the damaged prison sites, survivors being evacuated, injured operatives being stabilized.
"The prison is down," the Protector said. His eyes flicked across the council, each expression cataloged and noted. "All witnesses accounted for. All guards saved. Yet chaos still lingers."
Klaus' gaze lingered on the monitors, his scarred face unreadable. "The Elites recovered the civilians. They did their job when you, Protector, might have only succeeded in maintaining protocol."
"I am simply the Protector," the figure replied, eyes cold but calculating. "I expected failure."
Another councilor leaned forward, fingers drumming on the table. "We anticipated this scenario. Yet seeing it unfold... I am impressed by your lack of concern."
"Not everyone failed," the Protector said, voice calm but carrying weight. "The Elites remain intact. My Shadows remain intact. There are always variables."
A murmur rose around the table. "We have reports," another councilor said sharply, "that the Knight is still at large."
"Yes," the Protector confirmed, tracing a finger across the holotable showing recent Knight sightings. "Captured briefly on the black site in Metar, now striking with precision across prison facilities. Shane's betrayal has escalated the threat exponentially."
"You let this happen," Klaus said, voice low but edged with steel. "You failed to prevent Shane from retrieving Anitta Von Ross."
"I act within the bounds of probability," the Protector replied. "Even the most calculated predictions cannot account for the chaos inherent in beings like Shane and the Knight."
"Yes, that is true," a councilor admitted, though their voice carried skepticism. "Yet we must act. Plans are in motion, but uncertainty remains. How much intel has Shane compromised? How many of our assets are at risk?"
The room fell silent, each mind working, weighing. Even amid the ruins of the station, amid sparks and smoke, the council's focus sharpened. This was the crucible in which decisions were made—life and death, fates intertwined.
The councilors shifted in their seats as the hum of damaged machinery vibrated through the chamber floor. Sparks danced across one of the ceiling conduits, illuminating Klaus' furrowed brow. Even amid ruin, the room held its ceremonial weight—holographic maps projected the remnants of the prison facilities, fractured and ablaze with faint residual energy.
"The Knight is unpredictable," the Protector said, voice measured but sharp, cutting through murmurs. "Reports indicate he operates with precision beyond any known operative, wielding abilities we cannot fully counter. The Vaknar are consolidating power. Waiting is not an option."
A younger councilor, her voice trembling, spoke up. "And yet... we are still debating whether to act openly or quietly. If we act rashly, we risk civilians. Half our intelligence network could be compromised."
The Protector's gaze fixed on her, icy and unyielding. "The time for caution passed when Shane infiltrated our systems. Every delay costs lives. Every second we hesitate allows the Knight to strike again."
Klaus rubbed the scar along his jawline absentmindedly. Memories of his field days stirred—a firefight on a frozen outpost where he had carried three wounded men over half a kilometer under enemy fire, while simultaneously coordinating a counterstrike that obliterated the enemy battalion. Survival had always been about calculation and ruthlessness in equal measure. And yet, politics demanded another kind of precision—alliances, persuasion, compromise. The weight of each word here could decide who lived or died.
A councilor, a graying man with eyes sharp as flint, leaned forward. "And what of Grim? He—"
"Grim's fate is irrelevant to this council," the Protector interrupted, a flicker of disdain in his tone. "Whether alive or dead, the machinery of G.H.O.S.T. cannot halt for ghosts. We move forward with what we have."
Klaus' hands clenched beneath the table. Grim's absence had left a vacuum—a moral and tactical void. His respect for Grim's iron will had always been matched by his unease with the man's uncompromising methods. Now, standing amid the echoes of battle, Klaus felt that void keenly.
One of the more vocal war-hawks slammed a fist on the table. "We cannot wait for every scenario to play out! If the Vaknar remain unchecked, entire sectors could fall. I say we authorize full-scale retaliation. Firepower. Preemptive strikes. End this before it spreads!"
"And risk innocent lives in the process?" Klaus countered, voice steady but resonant. "You would gamble with human lives like dice, all to feed your ego?" His scarred eye burned with intensity. "We are G.H.O.S.T. We protect, even when the cost is personal. Do not let rage dictate strategy."
Murmurs rose again as the Protector leaned back slightly, observing the exchange. His silence was calculated, forcing others to project their convictions, to reveal their weaknesses.
A councilor, sympathetic yet cautious, spoke softly. "Klaus, perhaps there is merit in... compromise. Grim, for all his rigidity, always sought to balance necessity with preservation. The Protector's methods may appear... pragmatic, but unchecked, they carry risks of their own."
"Yes," Klaus agreed, nodding subtly. "We honor Grim's shadow by tempering action with reason. But we cannot allow sentiment to hinder defense. We act, but we act deliberately."
The Protector leaned forward, his shadowed presence dominating the room. "Deliberately," he echoed, a faint, sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "You speak of patience as though you know what ghosts do in the dark. Tell me, Klaus—do you even know where Grim went when he vanished? Do you know what he left behind?"
The words struck like a blade turned casually across scar tissue. The room stilled, councilors watching the exchange with hushed intensity.
Klaus' jaw tightened. "Grim's disappearance was... unexplained. He was a commander, not a coward. If he left, he had reason."
"Reason?" The Protector's tone sharpened, a blade now unsheathed. "Or an agenda? Grim abandoned this council, this station, and the very operatives sworn to follow him. He left us to patch the wounds of his secrecy while the Vaknar burrowed deeper into our systems. You call it reason. I call it desertion."
Murmurs rippled, some councilors shifting uncomfortably.
Klaus met his gaze without flinching. "Grim carried burdens you never understood. He didn't vanish for selfishness—he vanished because some truths are heavier than any of us could bear at the time."
The Protector tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dim light. "How touching. You defend the man even in his absence, though he never confided in you. Perhaps you should ask yourself why." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a quiet, almost mocking tone. "Did Grim trust you at all, Klaus? Did he trust anyone? Or are we all just pawns on a board he set long before his disappearance?"
The scarred commander bristled, but his reply was calm, even. "Grim trusted G.H.O.S.T.—trusted the mission. That's more than I can say for some who sit in this chamber now."
The Protector's smile thinned into something sharper, a crack in his mask. "And what if Grim is alive? Out there—watching, manipulating, pulling strings we can't see. Would you still defend him then? Or would you admit what I already know: that his absence left us weaker, and his shadow shackles us still?"
Klaus' silence hung heavy, his thoughts flashing with memory: Grim's stern hand on his shoulder, his unwavering gaze, the lessons burned into him like brands. The station hummed around him, wounded but alive, carrying echoes of a leader who might yet still walk unseen.
At last, Klaus answered, voice low but steady. "If Grim lives, then he will return when the time is right. And if he does not... his shadow remains, a reminder that this agency is built on something more than fear and fire. You may call him a ghost, Protector. But ghosts have a way of shaping the living."
The Protector's eyes hardened, but he reclined back, arms folding. He did not press further, though the tension between them thickened like static in the chamber.
"With only a handful of the original Elites still breathing," Klaus said, his voice low, scarred hand pressed flat on the cold table, "it's doubtful we can take them on the Vaknar as of now anyway. Shane is bleeding us with intelligence leaks, with ambushes. Every time we gather ourselves, they are already waiting. So why not bring Atlas into this?" His gaze cut across the chamber. "Why me?"
For a moment, silence weighed heavy over the council chamber. The damaged station groaned faintly above them, as if even the steel was holding its breath.
Finally, one of the older councilors leaned forward, his voice a rasp. "Because Atlas is not for wars like this. He was Grim's teacher, his forerunner—an older weapon, honed for a different battlefield. If Atlas moves, it shakes the entire world. Nations panic. Governments mobilize. The Vaknar would not be the only ones answering him."
Another, sharper voice followed, a younger councilor whose tone carried an edge of disdain. "Atlas is the old guard, Klaus. He can still crush armies, yes, but he cannot see beyond the fire and ruin. Grim inherited his strength, but refined it. You..." the councilor's eyes fixed on Klaus, "...you are the spine. The balance. Atlas taught Grim how to fight. Grim taught us how to win without burning the world down."
A murmur of agreement passed through the chamber. Some nodded reluctantly; others still looked wary.
"You want me," Klaus said slowly, "because you're afraid of what Atlas would do if he stepped into the light again."
"Not afraid," the elder corrected. "Aware. Atlas is a weapon. You are a man. And men, unlike weapons, can choose how much blood to spill."
From the shadows, the Protector laughed—a low, humorless sound. "Ah, there it is. The Council's gamble: Klaus Borin, the careful butcher. He'll kill enough to keep the wolves at bay, but never so much that the flock sees the fields drowning in blood. Admirable." His tone twisted the word into something like an insult. "But what use is careful, when the Vaknar don't play by your rules? When survival is the only law left?"
The Protector's laughter lingered like smoke in the chamber. Klaus's jaw tightened.
"You mock balance," Klaus said, "but even you have no answer for Grim's absence. You think survival is the only law? Then where was your voice when he vanished?"
The Protector's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare put that at my feet. Grim was your responsibility as much as mine. Or perhaps..." his tone turned sharp, accusatory, "...you know more than you admit."
Klaus rose slightly from his chair, shoulders tense. "Careful."
The councilors shifted uneasily, but no one intervened. One of the younger members finally spoke, voice clipped. "Enough. Grim's disappearance is not to be dissected here—"
"Not to be dissected?" the Protector cut in. "One of the most powerful among us disappears without a trace, and you think silence is strategy?" He leaned forward, glare fixed on Klaus. "Tell me, do you even know where he went?"
Klaus's fist slammed against the table. The steel rang, echoing through the chamber. "If I knew, he would be here!"
"And what of the Necroroom?"
Several councilors shifted uncomfortably at the mention, some frowning in ignorance, others carefully schooling their expressions. A ripple of unease cut through the chamber like a current under still water.
The Protector leaned forward, voice lowering, baiting. "Locked away behind codes no one admits to holding. But we all know it exists. Grim's last great mystery. A room he alone entered... and from which he walked out changed every time. Tell me, Klaus—do you deny it?"
For the first time, Klaus hesitated. He glanced toward Atlas' empty seat—the chair still under repair, its frame dented from the clash with the Vaknar weeks prior. Only he and Atlas had ever known the truth: that Grim had used the Necroroom, time and again, to pull knowledge—or power—from the dead. A truth that had scarred both of them to witness in dire times.
But he could not say it. Not here. Not now.
"The Necroroom," Klaus said finally, his voice iron, "was Grim's burden. His alone. It is not a tool for any of us to wield."
"Not a tool?" The Protector's tone sharpened. "It may be the only weapon we have left. You of all people should see that. Do you expect the New Elites to win this war? Do you expect our fractured armies and targeted supply to stop the Vaknar? No. But the Necroroom..." He paused, letting the word hang heavy. "The Necroroom can level the scales."
Klaus' scarred hand tightened against the arm of his chair. "And it can break the man who dares to use it. Grim proved that. He carried its weight, and he vanished under it. You would walk into a fire that consumed even him?"
The Protector's eyes glittered, sharp and fearless. "If that's what survival demands, yes."
The council erupted into murmurs, some alarmed, others intrigued. The word Necroroom whispered from mouth to mouth, taking on a life of its own—half dread, half forbidden promise.
One councilor, the cautious bureaucrat, raised a trembling hand. "We— we were never briefed on such a chamber. What is it? What does it do?"
Klaus' jaw locked. Atlas had sworn the truth would die with them. To reveal it was to betray a pact with both Atlas and Grim. Yet the council pressed, eyes sharp, ears pricked, the room suffocating with curiosity and fear.
"The Necroroom," Klaus said slowly, "is not for debate. It was Grim's domain, and his alone. To speak of it is to risk misunderstanding. And to use it is to risk... far worse."
The Protector's lips curled. "Which means it exists. Which means you and Atlas knew. And which means you've kept its power buried while men like me bleed in the dark to stop monsters."
Klaus' silence was answer enough.
"Consider the variables," Klaus said firmly, voice calm yet commanding. "The Necroroom is not a weapon to wield lightly. Every action has consequences. If misused, we may gain victory against the Vaknar only to invite a greater catastrophe upon ourselves. This council must weigh every risk."
Arguments volleyed across the table, voices rising, tension escalating. The Protector remained a fixed point, a storm contained, eyes coldly measuring every face, every reaction. His plan was clear; the council's approval was unnecessary for action. Yet here, in the chamber, they debated.
Klaus straightened, voice deliberate. "Then we make this a stable plan prior to this contingency. Hunter's unit—Toya Sakusi aka Ravager, Ryder Ackerman aka Kane, Oliver Midas aka Sparrow, Shayna Price aka Frost—will lead the efforts. Effective immediately, Xavier Bridger is recognized as a full operative under G.H.O.S.T.'s Elite command as well."
The chamber stirred at the declaration. A few councilors murmured their disapproval—"too green," "too unstable"—but Klaus cut them off with a raised hand.
"He's proven himself against the Knight. That makes him more qualified than most of the names on our rosters."
One of the war-hawks leaned forward. "And what of their mission? What are we sending them to die for this time?"
Klaus's gaze hardened. "They'll serve as the core of a new strike initiative. The Shadow Elites. Small, surgical, untraceable. They will move where our larger forces cannot, targeting Vaknar strongholds, camps, and ambush sites. Every operation they succeed in tips the balance of this war."
The Protector's lips curved in a faint, dangerous smile. "Shadow Elites. Covert ops within our covert ops of G.H.O.S.T.—appropriate. But who exactly are they protecting? Or should I say... who are we protecting?"
Klaus didn't hesitate. "Malcolm Bridger. Lead technologist among us all. Billionaire. Now a primary target of the Vaknar."
A ripple of acknowledgment moved through the council. Even the Protector's smile faltered. "And you think the boy can keep him alive?"
Klaus's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "They won't just keep him alive. They'll use his work to help us fight back."
Another councilor frowned. "Malcolm Bridger is a liability. A man with too much money, too many enemies, and too many skeletons. Why him?"
"Because," Klaus said, his voice low, deliberate, "he knows something none of you do. And if the Vaknar get him, we lose more than this war—we lose the future."
The Protector's eyes narrowed, studying Klaus with suspicion, but he didn't press further. Instead, he leaned back into his chair. "So be it. Shadow Elites it is. But when— not if—this goes wrong, remember who tied this noose."
Klaus ignored the barb. His gaze swept the council chamber, daring dissent. "Then it's settled. Three months of consolidation, infiltration, and protection. We do not break. We do not burn. We adapt."
The councilors nodded one by one, reluctant but bound by necessity.
The Protector departed quietly, shadows trailing him like smoke. Klaus adjusted his tie, the silence of the chamber pressing in. The war had already begun, and the lines were being drawn—both outside the station and within.
His comm buzzed. He answered without looking at the ID.
Atlas's voice came through, gravelly but steady. "How'd it go?"
Klaus let out a slow breath, eyes drifting to the stars beyond the fractured viewport. "We bought ourselves three months."
A pause. Then Atlas's reply, heavy with the weight of inevitability: "Then use them well. Because when the storm breaks, there won't be time to breathe."
The line went dead.
Klaus stood in the ruins of consensus, already knowing the storm had begun.