Simon "Ghost" Riley

[Mexican Special Forces Base, Sonora. 03:47 local time.]

Sand crunches under combat boots as Captain John Price steps out of the helicopter. The air here is different—heavy, smelling of diesel and desert. Two men meet him: Colonel Alejandro Vargas and his second-in-command Rodolfo, whom his people simply call Rudy.

"Captain," Alejandro extends his hand. The handshake is firm, without unnecessary pomp. "Thanks for flying out so quickly."

"You said it was urgent," Price scans the command post: maps on the walls, monitors flickering, tired faces of analysts. "What do you have?"

Alejandro gestures toward the table. On the screen—a flow diagram, red lines heading north.

"Three months," he begins, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "For three months, we've been observing an anomaly. The volume of synthetics crossing our border has increased by two hundred percent. But the problem isn't the numbers."

Rudy steps closer, jabs a finger at a point on the map.

"The problem is, it's not our product. The cartels have nothing to do with this. We've intercepted shipments, interrogated the couriers. Not one has connections to Mexican structures."

Price narrows his eyes.

"Then whose is it?"

"American," Alejandro pulls several photos from a folder. "Lab-grade. Purity—ninety-six percent. This isn't cooked in basements. This is pharmaceutical production."

In the photos: white bricks, packed with surgical precision. The labeling is scratched off, but remnants of the label are discernible—a logo Price hasn't seen before.

"We traced the chain," Rudy continues. "The product goes through shell companies, transits through Canada, then back to the States, and only from there, to us. Why such a complicated route? To cover tracks."

Alejandro brings up a satellite image. Forest. Upstate New York. Amidst the greenery—a barely noticeable clearing and the roofs of buildings.

"Object 'Eidolon'," he says. "Formerly owned by the pharmaceutical corporation 'VirtuChem'. Officially—abandoned since 2019. Unofficially—satellites are picking up heat signatures, cargo transport every two weeks, perimeter security."

Price is silent for a minute, studying the images.

"Drugs that aren't from cartels, coming through an object that can't possibly be abandoned. And what's our angle here?"

Alejandro meets his gaze.

"Because this isn't just drugs, Captain. We took samples. Chemical analysis showed impurities that shouldn't be there. Psychotropics. Neuromodulators. A compound not designed for getting high. It's designed for..." he hesitates, searching for the word, "control."

Silence falls over the room. Only the hum of the air conditioner is audible.

"I need your guys to take a look," Alejandro finally says. "My people don't have jurisdiction up north. And this," he nods at the images, "smells like something old. Something we might not want to know about, but need to."

Price pulls out a satellite phone.

"Laswell," he says into the receiver. "Dig up the archives. I need everything on Project 'Eidolon' and the company 'VirtuChem'. And get in touch with base, have them get Ghost and the others ready. Looks like we're going on a mushroom hunt."

---

[Aboard a C-130, approaching US airspace. One hour later.]

The plane smells of kerosene, metal, and sweat. Along the sides—gear, ammo crates, equipment. Ghost sits apart from the others, his back against the cold fuselage. The skull on his mask stares into nothing. In his hands—a tablet with documents.

Opposite him, Soap. Stirring a ration pack that clearly doesn't deserve such attention. Gaz is dozing, head dropped to his chest. Price stands by the porthole, staring into the darkness beyond the glass.

"Alright, gentlemen," Price turns to the squad. His voice is steady, but there's steel in it. "Situation briefing. Target: Object 'Eidolon', upstate New York. Former 'VirtuChem' lab, officially abandoned. Unofficially, someone's cooking drugs there that then go through Mexico, even though the Mexican cartels have nothing to do with it."

Soap raises an eyebrow.

"Cartels have nothing to do with drugs moving through their territory? Sounds like bullshit."

"Sounds like they're not cooking just any drugs," Price replies. "Alejandro sent the analysis. Complex compound. Neuroactive. Not designed to get people high, but to make them do what they're told."

Ghost looks up from the tablet. Even through the mask, you can feel his focus sharpen.

"MK-Ultra," he says quietly.

Price nods.

"Exactly. Laswell pulled the archives. 'VirtuChem' was a CIA contractor back in the seventies. Officially—developing tranquilizers. Unofficially—a subcontractor for the MK-Ultra program. Supplying the chemicals for the experiments."

"Thought that all died out in the seventies," Soap scoffs. "Church Committee, scandals, program shutdown."

"Thought so," Price agrees. "But, as you can see, weeds have a habit of growing back."

Gaz opens his eyes but doesn't change his posture.

"What's our objective? Find the lab, clear it, grab documents?"

"Recon first," Price adjusts his cap. "Penetration, data gathering, establishing the MK-Ultra connection. If confirmed—evacuation of samples and documentation. And," he pauses, "there's something else."

Ghost goes still. Price looks directly at him.

"Two years ago, Laswell sent one of her analysts on a solo assignment. Data gathering on a network of chemical component suppliers. Nothing dangerous, simple legitimate undercover work. The analyst disappeared after three days. Body never found. Presumed dead."

The plane is quiet. Only the hum of the engines.

"Laswell ran a cross-analysis on old data," Price continues. "One of the components that analyst was tracking was regularly purchased specifically by 'VirtuChem'. Coincidence? Maybe. But I don't believe in coincidences."

He pulls out a tablet, sends a photo to the main screen.

"{{user}}. Laswell's analyst. Two years KIA status. If they're alive and in there—priority one is evac. Questions?"

Soap looks at the photo. An ordinary face. An ordinary analyst. There are thousands like them.

"If they've been in there for two years..." he starts, but trails off.

"If they've been in there for two years," Ghost finishes for him, his voice like grinding metal, "they're not the same person we knew. But that doesn't mean we leave them."

He sets the tablet aside and looks at Price. Price nods.

"Wheels down in one hour. Get ready."

---

[Forest, upstate New York. 05:23.]

Dawn hasn't broken yet, but the sky has begun to lighten. Thick fog rolls between the pines, visibility nearly zero. Ghost moves first, silently, as a ghost should. Behind him, Soap, watching their six. Gaz brings up the rear.

Object 'Eidolon' emerges from the fog suddenly. An old complex, built back in the eighties: several single-story buildings, a couple of hangars, a comms tower. Walls covered in graffiti, windows boarded up—perfect camouflage. But Ghost notices the details that give it away: fresh paint on the gate hinges, a worn path bypassing the main entrance, faint light from basement windows.

"Bravo-One," Ghost whispers into his headset. "Target acquired. Security—minimum three on the surface, perimeter posts. Moving in from the north."

"Copy," Price's voice in his earpiece. "Keep it quiet."

Ghost vanishes into the fog. Soap watches him go and takes a position by an old oak, covering the main entrance.

---

[Inside the complex, Level B2. 05:47.]

Ghost neutralized the first post in three seconds. The guard never knew what happened, just slumped to the floor, the darkness swallowing him. The second and third went down just as fast, without a single shot. Now he's heading down, to where the artificial heart of this place beats underground.

The corridors of B2 are lined with white tile, like in old hospitals. The light—cold, fluorescent, buzzing. The air is heavy, smelling of bleach, medicine, and something else—sweet, nauseating.

Ghost moves down the corridor, rifle ready. A surveillance camera in the corner—a dark, lifeless eye. Either disabled, or they're already being watched.

He reaches a fork. To the left—rows of doors with small windows. To the right—a sign: "Laboratory. Unauthorized Access Prohibited."

Ghost chooses left.

First door. The cell is empty, but on the floor—a mattress, a couple of paper cups, a crumpled blanket. Second—the same. Third—fresh footprints.

Fourth.

He peers through the window and freezes.

In the corner of the cell, curled up on the concrete floor, sits a person. Clothing—a dirty hospital gown, once white, now gray with grime. Arms wrapped around their knees, head down, long hair covering their face. The person is rocking slowly back and forth, lips moving soundlessly.

Ghost looks at the photo on his tablet. {{user}}. Laswell's analyst. Two years dead.

He opens the door in one silent motion. The person in the corner doesn't react. The rocking continues. Lips whisper something inaudible.

Ghost crouches down a meter away. Doesn't get closer. Doesn't touch. Just waits.

"{{user}}," his voice is quiet, but cuts through the silence like a blade. "I'm here to get you out."

[Level B2, Corridor by the Holding Cells. 05:51.]

Ghost's only answer is silence and the steady rocking of the figure in the corner. {{user}}'s lips continue to move soundlessly, repeating something not meant for anyone else's ears. Their gaze is fixed on the floor, through the floor, through the concrete, through reality itself.

Ghost slings his rifle onto his back. Slowly, very slowly, he extends a hand.

"Listen to me," he says, in that same steady, low voice. "We're getting out of here. Don't think about anything. Just stay with me."

His fingers touch {{user}}'s shoulder. Through the thin fabric of the hospital gown, he can feel how tense the body is, how the bones almost protrude through the skin. Emaciated. Broken. Alive.

{{user}} looks up. Their eyes meet the slits of the skull mask. In those eyes, Ghost sees something he's seen once before—in a mirror, a long time ago, in another life. The emptiness hiding a scream.

The light in the corridor flickers. Once. Twice. Then it dies completely, and a second later, the emergency lights kick in—red, pulsing, urgent.

Somewhere deep in the complex, a siren wails. Low, drawn out, like the howl of a wounded animal.

Ghost's head snaps up. Static hisses in his earpiece, then Price's voice cuts through the interference:

"...Bravo-One... we're compromised... they know... exits are blocked..."

The connection dies. Only crackling static remains.

And then Ghost hears them. Footsteps. Many footsteps. Heavy, steady, synchronized. They echo somewhere in the ventilation shafts, behind the walls, above the ceiling. Approaching from all sides.

He pulls {{user}} up in one motion. Their body is almost weightless, their skin ice-cold, their fingers frantically clutching at his plate carrier. Ghost hoists them over his shoulder like a sandbag and crouches, melting into the shadows.

The footsteps are closer now.

From the red twilight at the end of the corridor, figures emerge. They aren't running, aren't walking—they move with a mechanical regularity, as if every muscle obeys a single rhythm. People in the same hospital garb as {{user}}, but clean. Shod. With neatly trimmed hair.

Their eyes are open. Wide. But there's nothing in them. Absolute emptiness, like dolls, like mannequins. They stare straight ahead, but they don't see. They know where to go.

One of them, a man in his forties, turns his head toward Ghost. Smoothly, without jerking. His lips stretch into a smile that has nothing to do with emotion. Just muscles following a command.

He takes a step. Then another. And another.

Ghost brings his rifle up. Single shot to the head. The body drops without a sound. The others don't even look at their fallen comrade. They keep walking. Step over the body. Empty eyes fixed on Ghost. Or through him.

More emerge from a side corridor. A woman, very young, with a tattoo on her neck. A guy, barely more than a kid, with a frozen rictus that was meant to be a smile. An old man with gray hair, trembling hands, but the same empty gaze.

Dozens. Hundreds. They're filling the corridor.

Ghost retreats, pulling {{user}} closer. Shooting them is useless—they don't feel pain, don't fear death, can't be stopped until the control center is destroyed. And the center is somewhere deep below, where he can't reach in time.

Price's voice crackles in his earpiece again, clearer this time:

"Ghost, get out of there! They've released all of them! The whole level is swarming! Make for the elevator, we're covering!"

Ghost turns and runs. Behind him, the pounding of feet. Thousands of feet, beating in unison. Breathing—steady, mechanical, unwavering, tireless. They won't stop.

Corridors flash by—white walls and red strobes of emergency lighting. Ghost sprints, crouching, dodging burst pipes, leaping over debris. {{user}} on his shoulder doesn't move, doesn't make a sound. Only their fingers, locked in a death grip on the fabric of his uniform.

Around the corner—three of them. Standing right in the path, empty eyes staring into space. Ghost doesn't slow. A sweeping burst, bodies fall, he leaps over them without breaking stride.

The elevator. Doors open. Inside, Soap, covered in dust, rifle at the ready. Seeing Ghost with his burden, he says nothing, just moves deeper inside, making room.

Ghost lunges into the cab. Hits the close button. The doors slide together slowly, too slowly. Through the gap, he can see the running figures, their faces, their empty eyes, their hands reaching for the doors.

The doors seal shut a second before the first fingers touch the metal.

The cab lurches and begins its ascent.

Soap stares at {{user}}. At the emaciated body, the hospital gown, the vacant stare fixed on nothing. Then he looks at Ghost.

"Jesus..."

Ghost is silent. He just shifts {{user}} on his shoulder, finding a better grip. {{user}}'s fingers are still locked onto him in that death grip.

---

[Surface, Forest. 06:14.]

Dawn tears the horizon with a strip of orange. The fog still clings, but it's thinning, revealing the silhouettes of pines and the complex behind them. From underground comes a dull rumble—down there, the movement continues. They are searching. They won't stop.

Price waits by the hangar entrance. Seeing Ghost emerge from the forest with his burden, he gives a short nod and raises the radio to his lips.

"Gaz, get the bird started. We're coming in."

Ghost moves across the clearing. His feet sink into sand mixed with pine needles. {{user}} grows heavier with every step, but he doesn't slow down. He can't slow down.

Soap watches their six, constantly glancing back at the complex. From there, from the main entrance, figures are already emerging. Slow, like sleepwalkers, but inexorable.

"Faster," Soap grits out.

The helicopter appears from behind the pines. A Black Hawk with no markings, rotors already spinning, whipping up fog and leaves. Gaz is at the controls, eyes fixed on the approaching group.

Ghost reaches it first. The crew chief leans out, reaches down. Ghost passes {{user}} up to him, then hauls himself inside. Soap follows, then Price, last one in, covering their retreat with short bursts toward the tree line where white figures are already flickering.

The doors slam shut. The helicopter lifts off sharply, banking as it gains altitude.

Ghost sits on the floor against the bulkhead, back against the cold metal. {{user}} is beside him on a stretcher the flight medic has already set up. The medic is saying something, but the words are lost in the roar of the rotors.

Ghost looks at {{user}}. At the pale face, the sunken eyes, the lips that still move soundlessly.

He pulls off his mask. Just for a second. Wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Then puts it back on.

Through the porthole, the Eidolon complex shrinks, becomes a dot, vanishes into the fog. But Ghost knows: they'll be back. To where those people with the empty eyes remain on the lower levels. Where the documents are hidden. Where the answer waits to the question of what exactly they did to {{user}}.

The medic sets up an IV. {{user}} doesn't react. Only the fingers on their other hand, the one without the needle, weakly clench into a fist and unclench. Over and over. As if counting something. Or remembering.

Soap offers Ghost his canteen. He takes it, drinks. The water is warm, tastes of plastic, but right now it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

"What about them?" Soap asks, nodding toward {{user}}. "Will they make it?"

Ghost looks at the medic. The medic shrugs—a gesture that speaks louder than words.

"I don't know," Ghost replies. His voice is muffled by the mask. "All I know is, we're taking them with us. And that's not up for debate."

The helicopter climbs into the clouds. Below, the forest, the complex, the empty eyes, and the questions with no answers yet, fade from view.

{{user}}'s fingers continue to clench and unclench. One. Two. Three. Four.

A count that won't stop.

[Walter Reed Military Hospital, Intensive Care Ward. Six hours later.]

The smell here hits your lungs with the first breath. Alcohol, bleach, medicine, and that elusive hospital scent—a mixture of others' pain, fatigue, and a hope that smolders somewhere beneath the ceiling tiles. The corridors are empty at this hour, only nurses gliding silently over the linoleum, and somewhere in the distance, the monotonous beeping of machinery.

Kate Laswell walks first. Her heels click steadily, purposefully, but mid-stride she slows. Stops in front of door number 317, looks at the sign printed in bold: "Restricted Access. Authorized Personnel Only."

Beside her stands Ghost. Mask in place, tactical glasses hiding his eyes, but his shoulders are so tense the fabric of his uniform pulls taut. He doesn't look at the door. He looks at Laswell.

She doesn't turn her head.

"Two years, Simon."

Her voice is steady, but beneath it is something Laswell would never allow herself to show at a briefing. Exhaustion. Pain. Guilt, the kind she's carried since the day the analyst stopped checking in.

"I sent them on a simple reconnaissance. Gather data. No risk, no deep cover, just legitimate undercover work. Three days, and they were supposed to be back with a report."

She falls silent. Ghost is silent too. Waiting.

"We searched. Two weeks. Then a month. Then..." she shrugs, and the gesture says more than words. Then they accepted it. Then they mourned. Then they forgot, because war doesn't wait for anyone to grieve their dead.

"Laswell," Ghost says quietly, but in the corridor's silence, the word hits like a gunshot. "You didn't know."

She smiles bitterly. Crooked, humorless.

"I'm an analyst, Simon. My job is to know. And I didn't know they were alive. Didn't know those bastards were still running experiments on the government's dime. Didn't know..." She stops, swallows, then straightens her shoulders and pushes the door open. "Alright. Let's go."

---

Room 317 isn't like a typical hospital room. No bright lights, no bustle, no ordinary patients watching TV or flipping through magazines. Here, there's semi-darkness, silence, and the soft hum of equipment connected to the bed by a web of wires.

{{user}} lies on their back. Arms at their sides, the outline of an emaciated, exhausted body visible beneath the blanket. Skin pale, almost translucent, with bluish veins showing at the temples and wrists. Hair spread across the pillow—dull, lifeless, untouched by proper care for a long time.

Two others are in the room. A nurse, an older woman with tired eyes, adjusts an IV. Seeing the newcomers, she nods and slips silently out the door, closing it behind her.

And then, silence.

Laswell approaches the bed slowly, as if each movement costs her. Stops at the head of the bed, looks at {{user}}. At the face she remembered as alive, energetic, with a quick smile and the sharp gaze of an analyst ready to tear any puzzle apart.

Now that gaze is fixed on the ceiling. Eyes open, but empty. Absolute emptiness, like those in the Eidolon corridors. Only the pupils react faintly to light as Laswell leans closer.

"It's me," she says quietly. Her voice wavers, though she tries to keep it steady. "Kate. Do you remember me?"

{{user}} is silent. Not even an eyelid twitches. Only the fingers on their right hand, the one without the IV, weakly clench into a fist. Unclench. Clench. The same rhythm as on the helicopter. Mechanical. Unstoppable.

Ghost stands by the door. Doesn't come in, doesn't approach. Just watches. Watches {{user}}. Watches Laswell. Every micro-movement, every breath, every shadow crossing a face.

Laswell sits on the chair by the bed. It creaks plaintively under her weight. She reaches out, touches {{user}}'s palm. The fingers are ice-cold, unmoving, unresponsive to the touch.

"Two years," she whispers. "God, two years..."

Ghost takes a step forward. Then another. Stops at the foot of the bed, looks at the monitors. Heart rate: sixty-two. Steady, unwavering, as if the heart beats to a metronome. Blood pressure: normal. Respiration: fifteen breaths per minute. Perfect vitals. Too perfect for someone who survived two years in hell.

"Laswell," he says quietly.

She looks up.

"Look at the numbers."

She looks. For a long time. Then shifts her gaze to {{user}}. To the empty eyes. To the mechanical clenching of fingers.

"What does it mean?"

Ghost is silent. He's not a medic, not an analyst, not a scientist. But he's a soldier, and he's seen a lot. Seen people broken by torture. Seen those driven mad by pain and fear. Seen the emptiness in the eyes of those who can't be brought back.

But he's never seen emptiness like this. Because this isn't madness. This isn't brokenness. It's something else. Something he has no name for.

Laswell looks at {{user}} again. Stares at the face, the eyes, that endless motion of fingers.

"Can you hear me?" she asks. Louder than the first time. "If you can hear me, give me a sign. Anything. Blink. Move a finger. Do something."

Silence.

Only the hum of equipment. Only the clenching and unclenching fingers.

Laswell closes her eyes. For a second, just a moment, allowing herself what she never allows in public. When she opens them again, there are no tears. Only steel and cold resolve.

"I'll find them," she says. Not to {{user}}, not to Ghost. To the space. The universe. Herself. "I'll find everyone who did this, and I'll grind them to dust."

Ghost nods. Slowly, barely perceptibly.

"We'll find them," he corrects.

---

Minutes drag on. Laswell sits by the bed, holding {{user}}'s hand. Sometimes she talks—about what's happened in two years, about new operations, about Soap who constantly asks, about Price who says nothing but checks in every day. About how they will never, ever let this happen again.

Ghost stands by the window. Beyond the glass, pre-dawn Washington, city lights, the darkness where secrets hide. He doesn't turn around, but every second he knows what's happening behind him.

At some point, {{user}} flinches.

Slightly, barely noticeable. Just muscles contracting, just a nerve firing through the body. But Ghost turns instantly, hand going to his pistol grip, even though here, in the hospital, in a guarded room, there's no threat.

{{user}} is looking at Laswell.

Not through her, not at the ceiling, not into emptiness. At her. Directly into her eyes.

The gaze is clouded, not quite focused, but it's a gaze. Conscious. Directed.

Lips move. No sound, only a faint motion, air leaving the lungs.

Laswell leans closer.

"What? What are you saying?"