A SOFT, BLUE BLOOM IGNITES THE ROOM.

The hologram projection washes over the barracks room, casting shifting patterns on the bare walls, tight bed, and metal desk.

Rune Locke stands in the corner. The light sharpens his features into angles and shadow. His pale skin becomes a study in contrast—part ghost, part sentinel. His camo uniform catches the shifting glow, pixels of gray rippling like static on a forgotten channel.

Wires snake along the floor, coiling neatly at the edges where his fingers have traced their paths a hundred times. Data chips pulse in a steady rhythm — the heartbeat he's missed for seven months. Cool air drifts in subtle currents, barely cutting the faint electrical heat that clings to the

After days of fine-tuning, calibrating, and cursing under his breath, his project hums to life. The low vibration and electronic glow transform the room into a personal command center. Every inch of space has been optimized for one purpose: network access and monitoring.

He stands still for a moment, letting the familiar hum settle around him. It's been seven months since he's had the chance to use these skills, and yet this—this is where he feels most in control.

As Rune reaches for the interface, the soft glow of the holographic display catches the top of his hand, revealing the faintest hint of ink just beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The cuff shifts slightly as he moves, but the full picture remains out of reach—only a glimpse, a suggestion, like a cipher waiting to be decrypted.

Hidden, waiting, just like him.

His jaw clenches. There's anticipation there, tangled with desperation, flickering in his eyes as he tracks the data streams, cataloging their flow with the focus of someone desperate to regain what they've lost.

"Let's start small," he mutters to himself, his voice low, almost grounding. He doesn't just believe his cyber skills will matter again—he knows it. One day, this knowledge will make a difference. It has to.

He reaches into the blue, fingers steady as the interface blooms open.

launch_ghostline -s adaptive -r quantum_shift

The command executes without hesitation.

Lines of silent code ripple across the holographic display, embedding themselves within the stream of encrypted data. No alarms, no immediate pushback. It works.

DomeNet doesn't route data. It refracts it. Like light through water. There are no fixed locations, no traceable signatures. Appearing where it's needed, moving between encrypted nodes without a linear path. The network flows within a quantum lattice—everywhere and nowhere at once.

For Rune, that means there's no single doorway to force open—only currents to slip into, places to become part of the flow without being noticed.  To break in is impossible. To become part of it... that's what Ghostline does. It rides the wave.

Rune watches the data move, not along fixed routes, but shifting, flickering between access points like reflections on water. There's no direct path, no singular origin—just intersections where information appears, lingers, and vanishes. Where memory could exist if you looked fast enough.

That's why Ghostline works. It doesn't search for an entry point—it becomes one, embedding itself within the natural ebb and flow of the network.

His eyes scan. His jaw shifts again.

He's still.

He doesn't tap fingers. He doesn't breathe heavy. He simply... watches. Locked in. Until his body remembers what his mind hasn't done in months.

The holographic display flares brighter as Rune pulls up the list of active connections within the barracks network. Names and IDs scroll past, each tied to a soldier's activities. Some are immersed in competitive VR combat, others in private chatrooms or the endless scroll of public profiles. Advertisements of their downtime interests flicker at the edges of the feed—combat gear upgrades, MMA fights, and a sponsored banner for the next Scavenger Hunt. The tagline pulses in bright amber, like an invitation disguised as an opportunity.

And then, a pattern emerges. The same face appears on multiple feeds: a model whose images saturate the network.

Rune doesn't dwell.

He filters past the noise, cataloging only what matters. Whatever fascination the others have with her doesn't register with him. She's background noise, irrelevant to the task at hand.

What does catch his attention is the encrypted activity buried within the network.

He pauses, watching them pulse faintly against the display. His pulse quickens for a second. They'd always been just out of reach, their secrets locked behind clearance levels he'd never been granted. But here, now, they were close enough to study. A mystery worth solving—unlike the endless stream of glamour shots the others couldn't stop scrolling through.

These are the channels that intrigue him most, the ones that could indicate secret communications or restricted access files. In a world bound by domes and firewalls, these encrypted channels felt like cracks in the system, whispering secrets waiting to be uncovered. Now, the itch to dig deeper returns, sharp and insistent. But he stops himself. Too much, too fast, and the system might flag his presence.

His hands rest on the interface, and for a moment, he just watches. There's something familiar about the data stream, but he can't put his finger on it, almost like a song he used to know but can't quite remember how to hum. It's frustrating, but Rune doesn't press further. He knows he's not the same operator he used to be, and one wrong move could draw the kind of attention he doesn't want.

A soft ping breaks his focus. Training. The notification blinks in the corner of the display—a sharp, satisfying confirmation.

The system worked. He'd built it to connect without colliding, bridging networks without crossing lines.

Rune's lips curved in the faintest smile.

He gathers his gear and steps into the hallway, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. The weight of his equipment presses into his shoulders as he moves down the hall and towards the exit.

As the hallway swallows him, his thoughts linger on the encrypted channels, their secrets just out of reach. One day, he thinks, he'll get another chance to dive deeper. He has to.

Outside, the simulated sun hangs high in the artificial sky as Rune makes his way to the training facility on foot, the dome's technology mimicking the afternoon heat pressing down on the base. There's a subtle shift in the atmosphere that he can feel deep in his bones. Despite knowing it's all controlled, the weather feels real, almost too real, blurring the lines between reality and the carefully constructed illusion of the dome.

Soldiers move with the practiced rhythm of routine, their boots striking the pavement in near-unison. Automated drones zip overhead, scanning, observing, ensuring order. Surveillance systems monitor every movement, every conversation, every deviation from protocol. Rune knows the cameras aren't just looking for threats—they're watching for patterns, for anomalies, for anything that doesn't fit the model of a controlled, disciplined force.

And yet, for all its order, there's an undercurrent of unease.

The dome is meant to be a refuge, a safeguard against the chaos of the outside world, but Rune feels the weight of its containment more than its protection. There is no horizon here, no true sky—just a projection of one, a carefully engineered expanse designed to soothe the human mind, to make them forget they live inside a structure, not beneath the open heavens.

Rune adjusts the strap of his gear, feeling the sweat gather beneath his uniform. Real or not, the heat is relentless. And as he steps closer to the training facility, he wonders—not for the first time—if the real illusion isn't the dome itself, but the idea that those inside it are truly free.

He approaches the entrance to the training facility, the sleek steel column embedded within the doorframe releases a subtle hum. Cool air brushes his skin as a wash of pale blue light glides over his body from head to toe. In less than a heartbeat, the system devours every detail—biometrics, rank, occupation—rendering his identity into a precise cluster of data points.

THIRD-YEAR PRIVATE
LOCKE, RUNE
ON TIME

The information flashes on a narrow holographic display above the door, already logged into the facility's internal database. The door slides open soundlessly, but the speed of the scan lingers in Rune's mind. How quickly the base reads him, stores him, dissects him—it's both efficient and unsettling. He pushes forward, his curiosity battling the unshakable feeling of being scrutinized.

Inside the training room, the change is immediate.

The sleek, metallic walls are illuminated by soft lighting, casting a faint glow over the space. Digital posters line the walls, each one displaying a prominent military figure, their names and accolades scrolling beneath their stern, determined faces. The equipment racks are tucked away, nearly invisible against the smooth surfaces, giving the room an organized, high-tech feel. Soldiers stand scattered but attentive, their expressions caught between dread and anticipation.

At the front, a military instructor with a predatory gleam in his eye caresses a Taser gun, it's yellow casing is bright against his dark shirt, like a warning sign dressed as routine. His gaze sweeps over the group like a hawk sizing up its prey. There's a scar beneath his right eye—thin, deliberate, like someone wanted it to heal ugly. Not fresh, but it gleams faintly under the sterile light, a permanent reminder of something no one talks about. Rune stares too long, then looks away. Whatever that man went through, he brought it with him.

Rune joins the group, his eyes briefly meeting those of his comrades, all sharing the same unspoken understanding—this is going to be intense. The instructor's presence dominates the room, his focused demeanor harmonizing with the subdued hum of the Taser gun, creating an eerie prelude to the training that is about to unfold.