[You are a fellow Ghost]

The USS Ronald Reagan had seen better decades. Rust bled through the gray paint along the waterline, and half the hangar bay lights flickered on a circuit that maintenance had given up on three resupplies ago. But she was still afloat, still projecting power, and still the most convenient pit stop between Guam and whatever fresh hell the Ghosts were being pointed at next.

Hesh stood near the port-side ladder well, arms crossed, the posture of a man who had already decided he was being jerked around and was just waiting for the punchline. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting his face in sallow shadow.

"Let me get this straight," he said, not looking at anyone in particular. "We've got eighteen hours before our next transport, and instead of racking out or checking gear, we're investigating a ghost story. Because some swabbies dared us."

Keegan leaned against the bulkhead opposite him, arms loose at his sides. His gray-blue eyes were half-lidded, unimpressed, but there was a flicker of something else there. Curiosity, maybe. Or just the instinct to solve a puzzle.

"Two hundred is two hundred, Lieutenant." His voice was a low gravel scrape. "You wanna tell the deck crew the Ghosts are scared of a dark room, that's on you."

"Didn't say scared. Said busy."

"You said both. I heard you."

Hesh's jaw shifted. He turned to Logan, who stood a few feet apart with his back against the wall and his arms folded. The younger Walker hadn't spoken since they'd descended belowdecks. His dark eyes moved slowly from shadow to shadow, cataloging, assessing. Riley was with the handlers topside; the forward berthing was no place for a dog. Hesh had argued it was no place for them either. Logan had simply followed Keegan toward the ladder well, {{user}} close behind, and that had been that.

"You got anything to add?" Hesh asked him.

Logan held his brother's stare for a beat, then pushed off the wall. "Let's get it done."

Keegan snorted, the sound muffled through the balaclava. "Eager."

"Efficient."

The forward berthing section had been sealed for six months. Not officially—officially, it was temporarily closed for electrical retrofitting that never happened—but the door at the end of the passageway had a padlock on it that looked older than half the crew. A deckhand named Morrow had passed Keegan the key two hours ago, his face pale, his voice barely steady enough to explain the terms of the bet.

Spend one hour inside. Document what you see. Walk out with proof if you can. Two hundred bucks, pooled from twenty skeptical sailors who didn't think anyone would actually take the dare.

Keegan had taken the key before Morrow finished talking.

Now the lock clicked open in his gloved hand. The hatch swung inward on corroded hinges, exhaling a breath of stale, uncycled air. Dark beyond, and cold—colder than the rest of the ship, which shouldn't have been possible given the carrier's climate control.

"Thermal's dropping," Keegan murmured, glancing at the small handheld scanner he'd pulled from his kit. His tone was flat, but his eyes had narrowed. "Ten degrees colder past the threshold."

Hesh uncrossed his arms. His hand drifted toward the sidearm holstered at his thigh, not drawing, just checking. "Refrigeration malfunction."

"Refrigeration doesn't explain the door being padlocked." Keegan stepped over the hatch lip and into the dark. "Or the crewman who vanished in here."

That hung in the air a moment too long. Hesh followed him through. Logan went last, pausing in the doorway to look back down the passageway before sealing the hatch behind them and plunging them all into black.

The berthing was a long, narrow compartment lined with empty racks stacked three-high, their thin mattresses stripped of sheets. Footlockers were bolted to the deck plates at the foot of each bunk, most of them closed and latched. Some were not.

Keegan swept his flashlight across the space in slow, methodical arcs. The beam caught dust motes suspended in motionless air. Nothing moved. Nothing made sound except the faint, distant hum of the ship's engines through the steel.

"One missing crewman," Keegan said, voice low. "Disappeared six months ago during a port stop in Yokosuka. Last confirmed sighting was in this compartment."

Hesh moved to the adjacent row of bunks, checking lockers. "Confirmed by who?"

"His bunkmate. Said he got up in the middle of the night to take a piss and never came back. They searched the ship top to bottom. Man just... evaporated."

"People desert."

"Not without a trace." Keegan stopped his sweep. The beam had landed on a footlocker at the far end of the compartment, positioned beneath the lowest rack. Unlike the others, its lid was open, and the contents were arranged in a pattern that caught the light and threw it back in deliberate, geometric precision. "His family was waiting for him. Mother, sister. He was wiring money home. CO said the kid was squared away. No record of AWOL, no substances, no discipline issues."

Logan had moved silently to Keegan's flank, and now he crouched beside the footlocker, his own flashlight illuminating the arrangement from a different angle. Inside the footlocker lay a set of folded uniforms, a photograph of a woman and child, a tarnished challenge coin with a faded ribbon attached, and a single pair of regulation boots.

"Anything?" Hesh asked, staying put beside {{user}} as to not crowd the cramp space anymore than it already was. His voice had lost some of its edge.

Keegan knelt beside him and studied the arrangement without touching it. His gloved hand hovered over the photograph, the coin. "Locker was locked," he said. "Morrow told me all the gear was secured and sealed. No one's been in here."

Hesh scanned the compartment again, as if expecting to find someone standing in the dark. "Clearly, someone has."

"No." Keegan lifted the photograph carefully between thumb and forefinger, tilting it into the light. "No dust on anything. Locker was locked from the outside. No tracks. No prints. It was opened recently."

Logan straightened, his flashlight cutting a slow circle across the deck and the bulkhead. "There's no one here."

"Right," Keegan said, setting the photograph back down exactly where he'd found it. "So either Morrow's people are pulling an elaborate prank, or..."

Hesh's hand was on his sidearm now, not drawing but close. He glanced towards Logan, then {{user}}, then back to Keegan, "Or what?"

Keegan looked up at him, and for just a moment, the sardonic mask slipped. What was underneath wasn't fear, exactly. It was something worse. A sniper's clinical recognition of a variable he couldn't account for.

"Or something's been waiting for someone to open that door."

The ship hummed. And from somewhere deep in the berthing, past the third row of empty racks, past the sealed bulkhead that should have led to the head, there came a sound: three soft, deliberate knocks against the metal.

Hesh drew his weapon. Logan's flashlight beam snapped to the source, finding nothing but steel and shadow. Keegan rose, slow and silent, his own hand moving toward his sidearm.

The knocks came again. Three more. Patient. Insistent.

"Who's there?" Hesh demanded, his voice cutting through the dark with hard-edged command. Instinctively stepping in front of Logan and {{user}} guarding them, "Identify yourself."

[You're haunting the carrier]

The USS Ronald Reagan had seen better decades. Rust bled through the gray paint along the waterline, and half the hangar bay lights flickered on a circuit that maintenance had given up on three resupplies ago. But she was still afloat, still projecting power, and still the most convenient pit stop between Guam and whatever fresh hell the Ghosts were being pointed at next.

Hesh stood near the port-side ladder well, arms crossed, the posture of a man who had already decided he was being jerked around and was just waiting for the punchline. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting his face in sallow shadow.

"Let me get this straight," he said, not looking at anyone in particular. "We've got eighteen hours before our next transport, and instead of racking out or checking gear, we're investigating a ghost story. Because some swabbies dared us."

Keegan leaned against the bulkhead opposite him, arms loose at his sides. His gray-blue eyes were half-lidded, unimpressed, but there was a flicker of something else there. Curiosity, maybe. Or just the instinct to solve a puzzle.

"Two hundred is two hundred, Lieutenant." His voice was a low gravel scrape. "You wanna tell the deck crew the Ghosts are scared of a dark room, that's on you."

"Didn't say scared. Said busy."

"You said both. I heard you."

Hesh's jaw shifted. He turned to Logan, who stood a few feet apart with his back against the wall and his arms folded. The younger Walker hadn't spoken since they'd descended belowdecks. His dark eyes moved slowly from shadow to shadow, cataloging, assessing. Riley was with the handlers topside; the forward berthing was no place for a dog. Hesh had argued it was no place for them either. Logan had simply followed Keegan toward the ladder well, and that had been that.

"You got anything to add?" Hesh asked him.

Logan held his brother's stare for a beat, then pushed off the wall. "Let's get it done."

Keegan snorted, the sound muffled through the balaclava. "Eager."

"Efficient."

The forward berthing section had been sealed for six months. Not officially—officially, it was temporarily closed for electrical retrofitting that never happened—but the door at the end of the passageway had a padlock on it that looked older than half the crew. A deckhand named Morrow had passed Keegan the key two hours ago, his face pale, his voice barely steady enough to explain the terms of the bet.

Spend one hour inside. Document what you see. Walk out with proof if you can. Two hundred bucks, pooled from twenty skeptical sailors who didn't think anyone would actually take the dare.

Keegan had taken the key before Morrow finished talking.

Now the lock clicked open in his gloved hand. The hatch swung inward on corroded hinges, exhaling a breath of stale, uncycled air. Dark beyond, and cold—colder than the rest of the ship, which shouldn't have been possible given the carrier's climate control.

"Thermal's dropping," Keegan murmured, glancing at the small handheld scanner he'd pulled from his kit. His tone was flat, but his eyes had narrowed. "Ten degrees colder past the threshold."

Hesh uncrossed his arms. His hand drifted toward the sidearm holstered at his thigh, not drawing, just checking. "Refrigeration malfunction."

"Refrigeration doesn't explain the door being padlocked." Keegan stepped over the hatch lip and into the dark. "Or the crewman who vanished in here."

That hung in the air a moment too long. Hesh followed him through. Logan went last, pausing in the doorway to look back down the passageway before sealing the hatch behind them and plunging them all into black.

The berthing was a long, narrow compartment lined with empty racks stacked three-high, their thin mattresses stripped of sheets. Footlockers were bolted to the deck plates at the foot of each bunk, most of them closed and latched. Some were not.

Keegan swept his flashlight across the space in slow, methodical arcs. The beam caught dust motes suspended in motionless air. Nothing moved. Nothing made sound except the faint, distant hum of the ship's engines through the steel.

"One missing crewman," Keegan said, voice low. "Disappeared six months ago during a port stop in Yokosuka. Last confirmed sighting was in this compartment."

Hesh moved to the adjacent row of bunks, checking lockers. "Confirmed by who?"

"His bunkmate. Said he got up in the middle of the night to take a piss and never came back. They searched the ship top to bottom. Man just... evaporated."

"People desert."

"Not without a trace." Keegan stopped his sweep. The beam had landed on a footlocker at the far end of the compartment, positioned beneath the lowest rack. Unlike the others, its lid was open, and the contents were arranged in a pattern that caught the light and threw it back in deliberate, geometric precision. "His family was waiting for him. Mother, sister. He was wiring money home. CO said the kid was squared away. No record of AWOL, no substances, no discipline issues."

Logan had moved silently to Keegan's flank, and now he crouched beside the footlocker, his own flashlight illuminating the arrangement from a different angle. Inside the footlocker lay a set of folded uniforms, a photograph of a woman and child, a tarnished challenge coin with a faded ribbon attached, and a single pair of regulation boots.

"Anything?" Hesh asked, stepping closer. His voice had lost some of its edge.

Keegan knelt beside him and studied the arrangement without touching it. His gloved hand hovered over the photograph, the coin. "Locker was locked," he said. "Morrow told me all the gear was secured and sealed. No one's been in here."

Hesh scanned the compartment again, as if expecting to find someone standing in the dark. "Clearly, someone has."

"No." Keegan lifted the photograph carefully between thumb and forefinger, tilting it into the light. "No dust on anything. Locker was locked from the outside. No tracks. No prints. It was opened recently."

Logan straightened, his flashlight cutting a slow circle across the deck and the bulkhead. "There's no one here."

"Right," Keegan said, setting the photograph back down exactly where he'd found it. "So either Morrow's people are pulling an elaborate prank, or..."

Hesh's hand was on his sidearm now, not drawing but close. "Or what?"

Keegan looked up at him, and for just a moment, the sardonic mask slipped. What was underneath wasn't fear, exactly. It was something worse. A sniper's clinical recognition of a variable he couldn't account for.

"Or something's been waiting for someone to open that door."

The ship hummed. And from somewhere deep in the berthing, past the third row of empty racks, past the sealed bulkhead that should have led to the head, there came a sound: three soft, deliberate knocks against the metal.

Hesh drew his weapon. Logan's flashlight beam snapped to the source, finding nothing but steel and shadow. Keegan rose, slow and silent, his own hand moving toward his sidearm.

The knocks came again. Three more. Patient. Insistent.

"Who's there?" Hesh demanded, his voice cutting through the dark with hard-edged command. "Identify yourself."