The Whispering Ghost

Sven's Office

Once the last visitor had departed, it left behind a calming silence that wrapped around the bright, modern office like a soft blanket. Seated at his desk in front of the window, Sven reached for a cigarette, and his fingers deftly flicked the lighter. A small flame danced before his eyes before disappearing into a soft glow at the tip of the cigarette. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching as it curled lazily upwards, dissipating into the cold silence of the room.

Then—a sudden gust of cold wind rolled through the closed window, touching his skin. A shiver ghosted down his spine as a chill wind whispered through the space despite every window and door being firmly locked. The air shifted, carrying with it an almost unnatural stillness, the kind that crept into abandoned places long after the living had left.

Sven frowned. His eyes flicked toward the window opposite him. It was shut. His gaze moved to the heavy oak door leading out. It was locked.

A crease formed between his brows before shooking his head and letting out a sharp breath while recalling Li from the university who talked about ghosts. He chuckled at her claim that he was being haunted and found it amusing. "It must be my imagination playing tricks on me."

Suddenly, he heard a faint thud that made him jump from his chair. His breath hitched and he quickly turned his head toward the source of the sound. It came from the third room at the far end—the one nearest to the exit.

Sven straightened, his muscles tensing instinctively. He knew this office like the back of his hand. There was no reason for any sound to come from that room. He wanted to ignore it, but something compelled him forward, tugging at his resolve. Taking hesitant steps, Sven approached the doorway, the weight of the silence nearly suffocating him.

Suddenly, a soft chuckle echoed—a distinctly feminine voice whispered through the air coiled around him like an intangible serpent.

And his blood ran cold! He spun around, his sharp gaze scanning the office. But the room was empty. The chuckle had felt too real and too close to ears. A bead of sweat trickled steadily down from his temple. His heart raced in response, pounding vigorously and echoing in his ears.

"H-hello?" His voice cracked slightly, betraying the fragile courage he had tried to summon. "Is someone here?" he called out again, but came a loud silence in response. The oppressive silence in the room mocked him, refusing to offer him any reassurance.

His trembling fingers moved subtly toward his right pocket, where he stored a pocket knife. He pulled out the knife, holding it firmly as if it might slip from his grasp.

"This isn't amusing," Sven muttered weakly, trying and failing to muster strength in his voice. "I don't believe in ghosts," he yelled. He was not informing someone. Instead, he was reassuring himself that there is no such thing as a ghost in this world to hide his fear behind a loud voice. However, it failed.

As if challenging his beliefs, another, louder crash erupted from the third room. Sven flinched, his breath shortening as dread pooled coldly in his stomach. In that room—files upon files, rows of metal cabinets neatly stacked. 'Perhaps some files fell off?' He questioned himself.

His feet pulled him toward the third room door as he grasped the handle. His palm was cold and damp, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, a cabinet rattled violently, sending boxes and papers crashing onto the floor. Sven froze, every muscle in his body seizing up with raw, icy fear. He wanted to step forward to see if any person was hiding in his room. But before he could take another step behind him, the office window near his desk flew open violently, slamming against the wall with unnatural force.

Spinning around, Sven's blood turned to ice to see the window was open. Not only was the window opened, but also, there stood a woman, ghostly pale with her long grey hair hiding her face. He did not need to see her face to know how scary she looked. Her white dress flowed around her like mist, untouched by gravity. Rippling softly in a breeze was enough to cause someone to soil their pant.

Sweat dripped down Sven's forehead, his entire body trembling. The overwhelm washed over his entire body when another crash sounded behind him, cabinets toppling one after another in a domino effect. He whipped back toward the sound, panic clawing viciously at his chest.

He was alone in the office and standing near the exit door. Should he just run away from here, or should he muster up his courage and try to uncover if someone is playing a prank on him? He could not think clearly, with fear seizing his senses.

Turning back, the window was empty again, and the spectral woman vanished as if she had never existed. But the window slammed open and shut repeatedly with violent intensity, driven by an unseen, malevolent force.

Sven's strength abandoned him entirely. His knees buckled, and the edges of his vision blurred as darkness rushed in, swallowing him whole. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

A shadow slithered into the room through the now-open window. Silently, Precisely, it was Rachel.

She moved like a whisper, a wraith in the darkness, her white dress billowing softly behind her as she made her way toward the third room, where another figure waited—Daran, coming out from the darkroom dressed in black attire to match the darkness, was hiding behind one of the cabinets.

He stood near the fallen cabinets, his expression unreadable as he scanned the labels on the files.

Rachel's gloved fingers traced the edges of a folder before she pulled it free, flipping through its contents with an expert's efficiency.

"Your skill for unlocking anything is coming in handy," she murmured, a slow smirk curling her lips as she glanced at Daran.

He didn't reply, merely pulling out his phone to take quick photos of the documents before him. Rachel did the same, silently recording, documenting, and erasing proof of their presence with the same precision she executed a kill.

She was almost done—almost—when her gaze flicked toward Sven's unconscious form.

A thought slithered into her mind.

Without hesitation, she moved toward him, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

Daran frowned. "What are you doing?"

Rachel ignored him. Her fingers grazed over the desk, landing on a pair of sharp scissors from the stationary box. She crouched before Sven, tilting her head, watching his unconscious face with an amused glint in her eyes.

Then—the blade traced the air just above his skin.

Daran sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Rachel…"

A soft, mocking chuckle escaped her lips as she brought the cold metal dangerously close to Sven's throat.

She wasn't going to kill him—no, Liora must have her revenge, so she can't kill him yet. She simply wanted to see how close she could get before he felt it in his bones. Rachel lowered the scissors slightly, pressing the cold tip to his pulse.

She chuckled, imagining his reactions when he awakens from his unconscious state.

*

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At one of the Triad hospitals, Donovan stood unmoving, watching unconscious Liora lay on the bed. He was standing next to her like a guardian angel, keeping an eye on the doctor and nurse to see if they were doing their jobs right. It's not that he did not trust them, but he did not want any mishaps anymore when it came to Liora.

The doctor's hands moved swiftly, drawing blood, checking vitals, and running the tests he had ordered with precision. He demanded a full examination—no oversight, no assumption. He needed to be sure. Absolutely certain that she hadn't suffered deeper harm.

But the certainty would still not calm the storm raging inside him.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as his fingers flexed at his sides, itching to return to Sky Tower and tear through the bastards who had been in that room with her. But he forced himself to stay rooted here, where she needed him or perhaps where he wanted to stay closer to her. His gaze drifted over her pale skin, her delicate wrists, the faint marks of distress still lingering on her body.

Once before, he had taken Liora to the hospital during their high school years, and now he was bringing her in for a similar reason. How could he forgive himself for both instances when he could have shielded Liora, but instead, he was late, just like that night during camping?

His phone vibrated in his pocket, snapping him from his thoughts. He left the room and pulled it out, swiftly dialling Logan.

"Did the bags arrive safely in the basement?" His voice was low, sharp—dangerous.

A beat of silence stretched before Logan answered. "Yes, but may I ask why they are in the basement? Those aren't just any bags, Don. Their owners aren't exactly the type to stay silent if they go missing." Logan did not understand what made Donovan take such uncalculated steps.

"They stay there." Donovan's words were final. "Keep them locked up. I don't want them misplaced or scratched." His voice dropped an octave, and his warning was crystal clear.

"Don, if their families get a whiff of this—"

"I'll handle them," Donovan cut in like a blade. "I'll speak to every single one of them. However, until I have verified the authenticity of every single bag, they aren't going anywhere. Do you understand, brother?"

Logan paused, holding his tongue for a moment. Donovan could sense the thoughts churning in his mind. Logan is a politician. Among those brats, few come from political families, and connections with those families hold significant weight with Logan's family. Yet, ultimately, he had only one response he could provide.

A heavy sigh came from Logan's end. "Understood. Anything else?"

Donovan's grip tightened around his phone. He was not done yet. There was one final, crucial issue that needed immediate attention, "Tell the lady in black to drag Peter from Twilight Zone to the office—along with the guest he switched."

This time, Logan didn't answer immediately. He was putting the pieces together, realizing the severity of what had happened. When he finally spoke, his tone carried a weight of understanding.

"Done. But Don, what the hell went down at that club?"

Donovan didn't reply. He ended the call as there were two more important calls that needed to be made.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his focus back to the present before dialling another number. Mr Sohn—the man who ensured the Triad's secrets remained buried.

"Mr Sohn, I need a favour," Donovan said smoothly, though the edge in his voice could not be ignored. "For the next nine days, no word about tonight reaches my family. Think you can manage that?"

A stretch of silence on the other end followed alongside a measured breath.

"Mr. Magnum," Mr. Sohn finally said, his tone cautious, "keeping this quiet—what happened at the club and whatever you are planning in that basement—could cost me more than my position."

Donovan's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then tell them I threatened your life. That should be convincing enough."

"I hope you know what you are doing," Mr Sohn murmured, voice heavy with warning. "I might hold them off for two days, at best. But these families won't sit still for long."

"Redirect their calls to me. I'll deal with them myself."

Just like Logan, Mr Sohn sighed heavily before speaking. "Very well. But I hope you understand the storm you are about to bring upon yourself, Mr Magnum."

Donovan's gaze flickered back to the room where Liora was resting. The doctor and the nurse left the room. As the door opened, he took in her still frame, the slow rise and fall of her chest. His fingers curled into his palm.

'Let the storm come!'

"I always do," he murmured before hanging up.

He stepped inside the room and took a step closer to her, his hand hovering above hers before finally resting against her cheek. It was cold.

A slow breath left his lips, one he hadn't realized he was holding. His voice, when he spoke, was barely above a whisper.

"I'll make them pay, Liora. For every second you suffered. For every tear that fell."

His fingers tightened. "For every damn thing."

With his gaze fixed on Liora, Donovan pressed the third number of the night—one he considered just as crucial as the last.

The line barely rang once before it was picked up.

"Raynor!" Donovan greeted his voice at a blade's edge.

"Donovan!" Raynor responded smoothly, sounding far too relaxed for a man who had just broken a promise. "How's she holding up?"

Donovan's jaw clenched. His irritation ran deep, coiling beneath his skin like a dormant viper ready to strike. Raynor was lucky he was not right in front of him, or else heaven knows they both would have turned the hospital into a wrestling arena.

"Funny you ask," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Considering I didn't see your men at the club as you assured me I would. Strange, isn't it? You dispatch your people, and yet, when I arrive—nowhere in sight." He let the sarcasm settle in, sharp and deliberate.

Raynor let out a low chuckle, unhurried and amused. "You did see them, Donovan," he countered. "They were the ones vomiting blood."

That made Donovan still. He had not thought much of it before as he was busy finding Liora. The men he passed—bent over, blood spilling from their mouths, writhing in agony—he assumed they were just part of whatever mess had unfolded before he got there.

"I thought your men were better than the British SAS," he muttered, disbelief lacing his words.

Raynor only hummed, "Imagine the kind of things they had to endure to keep your woman safe."

Donovan's brow furrowed. "My. Women. Safe?" He looked at Liora's wound, and his jaw was clenched. What safety was he even talking about? It was the door which kept Liora safe…. but again, everyone was on their knees in the room. The situation only deepened the mystery now that Donovan recollected the bizarre scene he came across in Twilight Zone.

Raynor's voice came again, smooth as silk but carrying an undeniable weight beneath it. "Let's talk when we meet, Donovan." And then came a pause, a heavy one enough to leave its mark. "But don't forget your end of the deal."

The call ended before Donovan could respond.

He lowered the phone from his ear, his expression unreadable, his mind racing. Raynor was many things—reckless, sharp, dangerously capable—but he was not the kind of man who accepted losses without reason.

This meant that whatever had happened at that club was beyond Raynor's expectations.

And now, Donovan had to figure out exactly what the hell that was.