Chapter 8: Games ALWAYS Leads to WAR

Chapter 8: Games ALWAYS Leads to WAR

Becky’s POV

I didn’t return to my desk. Not right away.

Instead, I slipped into the break room and shut the door behind me as quietly as I could. The overhead fluorescent light buzzed like it was shorting out—sharp and uneven. My skin prickled. Not just from nerves. It felt like the air itself had teeth.

Still, I stood there, staring at my phone.

You made a mistake. Now she knows. Leave it alone, or we’ll bury more than just numbers.

I read the message twice, then a third time. My fingers didn’t tremble, not exactly. They just felt... distant. Like I’d dipped them in a river too long and forgotten what warmth felt like.

My first thought wasn’t fear. It was clinical.

Okay. That’s a new one.

Hallucinated messages. Not uncommon. Delusional content, paranoia. Add it to the list.

I pressed a hand to my forehead and exhaled slowly. I’d skipped a dose this morning, hadn’t I? Or maybe I hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe the coffee was too strong. The usual culprits.

Lora stirred in my mind.

That’s not a hallucination, she growled.

“Not now,” I muttered, shaking my head. “I’m not doing this.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard voices. But they’d never been this specific. Never this clear. And I didn’t want to believe they were real. Because the only thing worse than losing your mind… is finding out it was never your mind to begin with.

You think this is schizophrenia? Lora sounded almost insulted. You’re just scared to admit it’s real.

I pressed my palms into my eyes. “You’re a talking wolf inside my head. I think I’m allowed to be skeptical.”

“I'll take that as an insult." Lora said in a pouting way. 

The chill came next—subtle, but unmistakable. My breath fogged lightly as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in seconds. I didn’t look at the air vent. I didn’t want to give it an explanation.

The cold wasn’t environmental.

It was me.

Again.

I flexed my fingers. Ice crystals formed at my fingertips before melting instantly, as if shy about being seen.

“Schizophrenia,” I whispered again. “Early-onset, trauma-induced, with a splash of elemental fantasy.”

“Gosh, how I wish I could slap some common sense into you right now.’ Lora groaned in my head. 

“Quite down, I'm trying to think and your voice is a little annoying." I whispered before another buzz was heard .

New message.

Check the finance folder. Project: Nightingale. Password: charcoalheart.

The word hit like a tuning fork in my bones.

Charcoalheart.

Where had I heard that—?

Then it came back. Just two days ago Mia had been on a call, lounging against her cubicle, giggling. She’d whispered it then, like it was some shared joke with whoever was on the line. I’d thought nothing of it.

Just a girl being fake-cute with someone she liked.

But now…

 I walked back to my office, luckily Haunter wasn't there. I pulled out my laptop from my bag, fingers moving with mechanical precision. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew if I believed the message, then I’d have to admit everything else too—the voices, the chill, the way the wind sometimes answered when I was upset.

But I did it anyway.

The company network felt like a maze—folders nested inside folders, mislabels on purpose. A smoke screen of accounting jargon and HR forms.

But there it was.

Project: Nightingale

Password: charcoalheart

The folder unlocked. A string of text blinked at me like an open wound.

Fake reports. Fabricated investment records. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations. Memos tagged DELETE ON READ.

My heartbeat slowed.

Not out of calm—out of overload. My system couldn’t process what it was seeing.

Then the photos.

Mia and Mr. Zach.

Not in the office. Not “Hey, we bumped into each other at a conference” photos.

These were close. Private.

One timestamp caught my eye—dated two days before Mia’s “accidental” misstep that lost the company hundreds of thousands.

This wasn’t clumsiness.

It was sabotage.

“Shit,” I whispered.

The screen flickered. A sharp hiss filled the office like something electric discharging into the air.

Then—

YOU WERE WARNED.

Red letters across a black screen.

I yanked the USB out of the port just as the lights above me sparked. The buzz became a roar. Static danced at the edges of my vision.

Calm down, I thought. You’re spiraling again.

But I wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.

The air around me crackled—dry, then humid, then sharp again.

Footsteps outside the break room.

I froze.

They stopped just outside the door.

Then a voice.

“I know you’re in there, Becky.”

Haunter.

My hand reached for the pepper spray I kept clipped inside my pocket. Just in case.

“Breathe,” I muttered to myself. “Just Haunter. Nothing to panic about.”

I opened the door.

He was leaning against the frame, relaxed posture, but his eyes were too focused. Too calm.

“Don't you have something better to do?" I asked, eying in suspiciously. 

“Found something interesting?” he asked Ignoring my question.

I looked him over. No weapons visible. No smirk, either. That was the most unnerving part. He wasn’t trying to charm me.

“What is Project Nightingale?” I asked.

He raised a brow. “You found that fast.”

“You sent the message?”

“No.” He stepped inside the room, glancing around. “But I made sure it could be found. Eventually.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

“Because you’re not like the rest. You don’t believe your own eyes. That makes you unpredictable—and useful.”

I didn’t like how that sounded. I didn’t like how easily he’d just dissected me in a sentence.

“I’m not useful to anyone but myself and I see this so your real intention as to why you want me to move in with you,” I snapped.

He looked at me—really looked—and for a second I swore I saw gold flicker in his pupils.

“You will be. If you survive tonight I want you to move in with me because you're my mate and you are mine and I am yours.”

He handed me a card with a time and location scribbled on the back.

“Lower garage. Twenty minutes. Come alone.”

Then he walked away, leaving me in the buzzing silence with a USB drive in my sock and a dozen questions stacked like broken glass in my chest.

Lower Garage – Twenty Minutes Later

I hated that I went.

Hated that I was curious. Hated that Lora was quiet. Hated that the wind seemed to guide my steps like a whispered warning.

The lowest level of the garage was nearly empty, half-lit by twitching lights. The air smelled like oil and rust, like forgotten things.

Haunter stood by a cement pillar, arms folded, eyes already on me.

“You came alone,” he said.

“Should I not have?”

He smirked. “You have no idea how dangerous that question is.”

“I’m starting to.”

He gestured for me to come closer. I didn’t. Not right away.

“I need to know why Mia’s protected. Why Zach covers for her. Why those files were even accessible if they’re so damning.”

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

“Then give me the right one.”

“Why do you think you’re hallucinating?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked. “What?”

“You believe you’re sick. That you’re imagining voices. Frost. Wind. That’s what they want you to think.”

My breath hitched. “They?”

He stepped forward. “The Quiet Order. They manipulate memory, perception, and entire lives. You’ve felt the edges of it. Haven’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I had.

For years.

“The powers?” he said gently. “They’re real. Your wolf? Real. The problem is, no one told you how to use them. They just kept you sedated and confused.”

“I don’t believe you.”

But I did. Deep down, I did.

And that was the scariest part.

A noise broke the tension.

Footsteps.

Measured. Too measured.

Haunter stiffened. “Behind me.”

I obeyed, ducking low, heart hammering.

Two figures stepped from the shadows, masks covering their faces, weapons aimed.

“Becky Rivers,” one of them said. “You’ve seen what you shouldn’t.”

Laser sights. Red. One on my chest. One on Haunter’s.

Then chaos.

Haunter moved like something out of a nightmare—fast, brutal, efficient. I ducked behind a pillar, wind rising around me in a sharp gust that knocked one attacker off-balance.

I didn’t mean to do it.

But I didn’t stop it either.

One man lunged.

I raised my hand—and a burst of ice formed at my palm, shooting like a spear into his knee.

He screamed.

I stared at my hand, horrified. Amazed.

Lora roared in approval.

That’s it. You’re waking up.

Haunter grabbed my wrist. “We need to move. Now.”

We ran. Gunfire chased us. The stairwell door loomed ahead.

I kicked it open with wind behind my heel. The door flew off its hinges.

Out into the cold.

Freezing, real, grounding.

Haunter peeled a tarp from a motorcycle, tossed me a helmet.

“You’re not just an employee anymore,” he said.

“No,” I whispered, sliding the helmet on. “I’m something else.”

“A target,” he finished.

And as we tore off into the night, the garage behind us exploded in flame, I realized one more thing.

This wasn’t a hallucination.

This was war.