The Ghosts Who Were Present

The sky over the Westbrook Military Base was a cold steel gray, echoing the tension that thickened with every step the agents took past the guarded entrance. The flags whipped in the sharp wind, boots thudded in rhythm, and the air reeked of gunpowder, sweat, and buried truths.

Kiaan Verma, flanked by Zid and Rehaan, moved with purpose across the base grounds. Unlike civilians, the three didn't flinch at the stares of towering guards or the echo of training gunfire in the background. This wasn't just another inquiry—it was a search for the ghosts hidden among the living.

They entered the main control office where senior officers and supervisors had already gathered. Their stern faces straightened even further upon Kiaan's arrival.

Zid stepped forward first, confidently flashing his old base ID with a smirk. "Been a while, Captain Morris," he greeted one of the supervisors. "Still yelling at recruits louder than the firing range?"

The officer chuckled and nodded. "Zid—you were a handful. And who's this? MI5?"

"Secret division," Kiaan cut in sharply, presenting his credentials. "And we're here on official orders from the highest end. I need full cooperation—and silence."

The laughter faded. The officers stood straighter.

"What's the nature of this visit?" another officer asked, though tension thickened behind his question.

"A seminar," Kiaan said. "Held here last year. Hosted in partnership with international training units. We need the list of every soldier or cadet who attended that seminar."

Rehaan stepped beside him, scanning a dusty file cabinet and nearby computer terminals. "They don't have the attendance," he said, flipping through old files. "Nothing's logged. It's like the event didn't happen."

Kiaan didn't flinch. "I knew that. But we're not here for data—we're here for memory. Whoever attended knows they did. And they'll react when they hear the word."

He turned to the supervising officer.

"I want an announcement made. All cadets aged 19 to 23, report to the central assembly hall immediately. Tell them it's regarding last year's international seminar. No questions asked."

The officers exchanged wary glances but obeyed. Within fifteen minutes, the loudspeaker buzzed, echoing across the base with the call.

Kiaan walked briskly to the large hall, his coat swaying behind him like a curtain of silence. Rehaan elbowed him lightly.

"You know," Rehaan grinned, "you're also twenty-one. They're gonna think you're just the hothead overachiever among them."

Zid snorted from the side. "Yeah, should we sign you up for drills while we're at it, Captain?"

The officers accompanying them stifled chuckles.

Kiaan didn't smile. But the flicker in his eye said he heard them.

"Mock all you want. But the killer's hunting people my age. And the next target may already be in this room."

By the time they reached the hall, nearly fifty young male cadets had assembled—lined up, postured, suspicious, confused. The energy was palpable.

Kiaan stepped up on the platform. The projector behind him lit up with the haunting images of the three previous victims. Murmurs filled the room. Some recoiled. Some froze.

He raised his voice, sharp and commanding.

"If any of you recognize these faces—Maya Bishop. Victor Gable. Isaac Drewe—then you were there. You attended the seminar. This isn't an interrogation. This is a matter of survival."

Eyes widened. One boy in the back clenched his jaw.

Kiaan noticed.

"You remember what happened there. You remember who was missing. Or who didn't belong. I need your statements. Quietly. Personally. If you lie, you may die."

Zid watched the crowd carefully, eyes scanning for flinches, pupils dilating, fists tightening—tells.

Rehaan whispered beside him, "Someone's hiding something."

Zid nodded. "More than one."

And Kiaan's gaze was already narrowing in.

"We're not just hunting a killer," he murmured to himself. "We're peeling back a buried operation. And someone in this base knows why those kids died."