Chapter 2: Ghost Among Men

NYXARA

I wake before the bell. The room is dark and narrow, clean in the way places are when no one plans to stay long. The cot folds into the wall. I fold it. The sink runs cold. I rinse my face, dry it with the issued cloth, and hang it back on the hook.

Everything goes where it belongs. My gear waits on the steel table. Blade. Wire. Three vials sealed in dull glass. I check them in order. Not because I might forget. Because order matters. It keeps things from drifting.

The green indicator above the door is still dark. The departure window hasn’t opened yet. I’m early. Early is acceptable. I sit on the edge of the cot and wait. My breathing settles on its own. No leftover tension from the debrief. No relief either. Relief would mean something had been at risk. This was routine.

Thorne’s voice surfaces without effort. Not his words. The tone. Flat. Precise. Functional. Functional isn’t a compliment. It’s a condition. It can be measured and can be revoked. When the green light flickers on, I stand immediately. Not because I’m summoned. Because the sequence has resumed. The corridor smells like antiseptic. That pulls the memory loose.

We stood barefoot on the stone floor, five of us, toes aligned with the red line painted across it. The line was repainted every week. Someone always missed it by the end. The instructor never raised his voice. He stopped in front of a boy whose hands were shaking.

“Again,” he said. The boy lifted the blade. His cut was shallow. The correction came from the ceiling. The shock dropped him to his knees. He screamed once. Not again. We learned quickly which sounds extended the lesson.

While he convulsed, I adjusted my stance. Weight forward. Elbow higher. The blade isn’t an object. It’s an extension. Later there was the white room. No windows. No markings. Just a table and five vials.

The medic explained the rules without looking at us. Dosage. Effects. Failure conditions. One of the girls asked what would happen if we refused.

The medic capped the syringe.

“Refusal is a failure condition.” The heat spread through my chest after ingestion. My vision narrowed. The room tilted. I focused on the edge of the table and stayed upright. The instructor watched me the entire time.

Three names disappeared from the roster that week. No announcement. No explanation. The red line was repainted. I learned to step exactly where it told me to.

The corridor outside the prep wing is narrow enough that passing requires negotiation. No one negotiates with me. Two junior operatives flatten themselves against the wall as I approach. One drops his gaze. The other pretends to study a maintenance panel that hasn’t worked in years. Their pulses jump at their throats. Copper. Solvent. New fear.

I walk between them without changing pace. When I’m several steps past, one of them exhales too hard. The sound cuts off abruptly. At the armory desk, the quartermaster slides my credentials across without comment. He doesn’t ask for confirmation or meet my eyes. The tag on my file is red. It’s been red for years.

A technician whispers my designation to another when they think I can’t hear. The other technician shakes her head once. Sharp. Final. Ghosts don’t linger. I secure my pack and move on. There’s nothing to correct. Fear keeps distance. Distance keeps things clean. No one expects me to be human here. Thorne waits in the secondary briefing room. No table. No slate. Just him.

“You’re early,” he says.

“Yes.” He studies my face. My posture. The set of my shoulders. I remain still. The urge to fill silence was trained out of me early.

“Your last three assignments closed without incident,” he says. “No residuals. No inquiries.” I nod once. He isn’t seeking agreement. He’s cataloging.

“There’s been an increase in variance among Ghost-class assets,” he continues. “Burnout. Deviation. Attachment.” The last word lands differently. I note it and let it pass.

“You’ve shown none of these indicators,” Thorne says. “Your metrics remain stable.” Functional. He steps closer. Just inside my personal range. I don’t step back.

“Do you know why I prefer to brief you myself?” he asks.

“No.”

“Because you listen correctly,” he says. “Others listen for permission. You listen for instruction.” His gaze sharpens, searching for something. I give him nothing.

“We can make another Ghost,” Thorne says mildly. “You know that.”

“Yes.”

“But it would take time,” he says. “Resources.” A pause. “You are efficient.” Ownership doesn’t require affection. Only investment.

“Prepare for departure,” he says. “Dawn.” I incline my head and turn to leave. Behind me, his voice follows. Quiet. Precise.

“Do not become unreliable, Nyxara.” 

The village sits close to the edge of mapped territory. Close enough that the Guild marks it yellow instead of white. A margin. I study the map while the transport runs its checks. Dirt roads. A shallow river to the east. Timber structures clustered too tightly, like proximity alone might keep something out.

My cover identity is already loaded. Trader’s widow. No children. No fixed residence. Plausible. Disposable. Civilian clothing. Wool. Leather. Muted tones. A blade sewn into the lining. Wire wound tight around my wrist.

The briefing mentions rumors. Livestock gone. Tracks that don’t match known predators. Injuries blamed on bandits because bandits are easier to name. I commit the terrain to memory. Escape routes. Choke points. The places people won’t go after dark.

The safehouse is smaller than projected. One room. One narrow window, shuttered from the outside. Dust thick enough to suggest neglect but not abandonment. The Guild uses places like this when it wants to remember something and forget it at the same time.

I sweep the room. Corners. Ceiling. Floor. Nothing alive. I reach for the wall panel to check the supply cache and pause. It’s misaligned. Barely. But enough that I notice. Irregularities matter. I pry it loose. Inside is not a weapon or currency. Not Guild-sealed documents. It’s a book. Thin. Worn. Soft with use. No markings. Just a name pressed into the leather.

Lucien. The reaction comes before thought. A tightness low in my chest. Sharp. Immediate. My fingers curl around the spine. Heat climbs my throat. My breath stutters once. I don’t know the name. That should be enough.

I force my breathing steady and listen. Nothing outside but wind through trees. Still, I step back from the wall. The book feels heavier than it should. Ghosts don’t keep personal items. Ghosts don’t have pasts that can be written down. I open the cover just enough to see the first page. My name is there. Written in a hand I don’t recognize. Footsteps sound outside. I snap the book shut as the door handle turns.