DARKNESS DOESN'T HIDE THINGS.

People do.

They tuck secrets into closets, under beds, behind locked doors—then kill the lights like that finishes the job.

A soldier stands motionless in his barracks room, listening to boots scuff past the doorway. In the dark, he carries a secret like a ruck he doesn't remember packing.

Then, a hologram projector comes to life in the corner. A low spectral blue light hums before it fully forms, coughs once, then steadies.

The beam widens, peeling back a curtain no one asked to open.

He thinks about how it would happen.

Not if, but how.

How the light will shine on his secret one day.

Dust motes ignite in the air like slow-falling ash, and he watches them drift, thinking, someone would notice something small first. A detail he missed. Something that doesn't add up the way it should. A question asked at the wrong time, by the wrong person.

He runs through the possibilities the way he's done a hundred times before, each one ending the same way.

Exposure.

It won't shout. It won't accuse.

It will simply show what he's been hiding.

The walls in the room begin to surface from the void. Cinderblock. Painted the exact shade of off-white that tries not to offend anyone. Pocked with old thumbtacks and tape residue.

That's the problem with light. It doesn't wait for understanding. It gives you an outline of facts before you ask questions.

It turns the unknown into something tangible.

And sometimes... the light itself is manufactured.

His uniform resolves in slow gradients, a gray digital camouflage pattern, the pixels rippling like static on a forgotten channel. The Roman numeral III on his chest catches the light for a beat. Then his eyes sharpen—dangerous, like he's standing inside a truth meant for anyone but him.

He reaches into the hologram, and his sleeve rides up just enough for the light to catch ink beneath the cuff. Not enough to reveal it fully. Just a suggestion—lines, angles, a cipher that never quite presents itself.

Hidden, waiting, just like him.

His jaw clenches. There's anticipation there, tangled with desperation.

Wires snake across the floor, coiling neatly at the edges where his fingers have traced their paths a hundred times. Data chips sit in their slots, tiny indicators pulsing in steady unison like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to any living thing.

After weeks of stolen minutes and sleepless hours, calibrating, backtracking, and cursing under his breath... his project comes to life. Every inch optimized for one purpose:

Network access.

"Let's start small," he murmurs, as much to steady himself as to set a boundary.

A breath.

A pause.

Then—

launch_ghostline -s adaptive -r quantum_shift

The code slips in like dusk.

For half a second nothing happens.

Then the projection flickers—like the system noticing him.

After another beat, it steadies.

Welcome PV3 Locke, Rune.

A list of active connections unfurls in mid air. The hologram flares brighter as names and IDs scroll past—each tethered to a soldier's downtime: competitive VR combat, private chatrooms, endless public profiles.

Ads flicker at the edges—combat gear upgrades, news about The Haze Syndrome, and a sponsored banner for the next scavenger hunt. The tagline pulses in bright amber, an invitation disguised as an opportunity.

But the data itself doesn't move along clean routes or fixed addresses. It refracts—jumping between access points in shifting flickers. Appearing where it's needed, lingering just long enough to be true, then vanishing before it can be pinned.

That's DomeNet's infrastructure.

For Rune, it means there's no door to kick in—only currents to slip into. Breaking in is impossible.

Becoming part of it?

That's what Ghostline does.

Rune's eyes track the feed. He stills completely—no tapping fingers, no restless breath. Just watching. Waiting for his body to remember what his mind hasn't done in months.

And then a pattern emerges.

The same woman's face spills across multiple feeds. DomeNet's current obsession.

Rune scrolls past her without slowing. Whatever spell she has on the barracks doesn't touch him.

He's not here for fantasy—he's here for seams—activity buried deeper, darker: encrypted pulses tucked behind permissions he's never been granted.

Three beats. Pause. Three beats.

Rune's chest tightens.

That was a mystery worth solving. Not glamour. Not distraction. The signals that could mean restricted files, covert comms, something that isn't supposed to exist. Those channels had always been just out of reach.

The itch to dig has always been there—sharp and insistent.

But he stops himself.

Too much, too fast, and the system will feel him.

He watches the encrypted pulses breathe against the display. His heartbeat answers once—quick, betraying him.

Something about the cadence feels familiar. Three beats. Pause. Three beats. Like someone knocking from behind a wall. Like a song he used to know but can't quite remember how to hum.

Frustrating.

Tempting.

He doesn't press.

He's not the same operator he used to be, and one wrong move draws the kind of attention he can't afford.

A soft ping snaps at the edge of the projection.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just precise—like a finger tapping glass.

TASER TRAINING.

Rune's lips curve—just barely.

Ghostline worked. He built it to connect without colliding. To bridge networks without crossing lines.

He shuts it down, gathers his gear, and steps into the hallway. The door slides shut behind him with a soft hiss. The weight of his equipment settles into his shoulders as he moves down the corridor toward the exit.

One day, he thinks, he'll get the chance to dive deeper.

Outside, the simulated sun hangs high—too steady, too perfect—casting heat that presses down like the real thing. The dome's air smells clean in a way air never should. Even the breeze feels calibrated.

Soldiers flow past in practiced rhythm. Boots on pavement. Laughter clipped short. A drone skims overhead and slows—just a beat—its lens angling as if it recognizes the shape of him. Cameras track in silent arcs from poles and eaves, not hunting threats so much as hunting deviations.

Rune keeps his pace even. Keeps his face neutral. Gives the system nothing to grab.

The trick to keeping a secret isn't hiding it.

It's making sure no one ever thinks to look.

Above, the sky is flawless. No haze. No distance. If he stares too long, he can almost feel where it's fake—the soft seam his brain wants to ignore.

This place is called a refuge. A safeguard against whatever waits outside the dome.

But protection and containment share a wall.

Rune adjusts the strap of his gear, sweat gathering beneath his uniform. Engineered or not, the heat doesn't care.

As the training facility comes into view, he finds the same thought rising—quiet, stubborn:

Maybe the real illusion isn't the dome.

Maybe it's the idea that anyone inside it is free.

Especially a soldier.

He approaches the entrance to the training facility. A sleek steel column embedded in the doorframe releases a subtle hum. Cool air brushes his skin as a wash of deep magenta 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.

PV3—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. He pushes forward, his curiosity battling the unshakable feeling of being scrutinized.

Inside the training room, the change is immediate.

Sleek, metallic walls. Soft lighting that refuses to cast real shadows. Digital posters line the walls, each one displaying a prominent military figure, their names and accolades scrolling beneath their stern, determined faces. Equipment racks are tucked away, nearly invisible against the smooth surfaces. 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 intimately. Its yellow casing is bright against his dark shirt, like a warning sign dressed as routine.

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 a beat too long, then looks away.

Whatever happened to him, he carried it here.

Rune joins the group, his eyes briefly meeting those of his comrades, all sharing the same unspoken understanding.

This is going to be intense.

He clicks it once—just a polite snap of electricity—and every conversation dies.

"Who's first?"

The instructor's coarse, textured voice cuts through the silence.

No one moves.

The taser hangs in his hand like a tool that's been used too often to be just a tool. He rolls it once in his palm—lazy, practiced—then lets his gaze rake the formation. It doesn't just scan. It chooses.

"Well?"

Rune's pulse is loud in his ears, out of place against the sterile hum of the room. He leans toward the soldier beside him, keeping it low. "I kinda want to go."

The soldier snorts under his breath. "Yeah, but do you really wanna take the first shock? It's full strength. I'm waiting till it's... worked in."

"Eh," Rune murmurs. "I just want it done." His eyes lock on the taser, but his feet remain firmly rooted, restrained by the invisible chains of hesitation. Before he can decide, the soldier in front of him lifts their hand.

The corporal's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite anything friendly, and motions for the soldier to approach.

"Looks like buddy's taking one for the team," the soldier beside Rune whispers.

The volunteer steps out.

Private Lowe appears beside them, swinging his camera strap over his shoulder like it's part of the uniform. The lens already trained on Rune, like Rune's the moment and not the soldier walking to the instructor.

The soldier beside Rune mutters, "Why is combat camera here? He better not bring any attention to us."

Lowe grins. "Sup Locke? You shaking or what?"

"A bit." Rune keeps his voice low. "I was about to step up, but he beat me to it."

"Don't sweat it. You'll get your turn." Lowe adjusts the focus ring, calm as ever. "Last thing we have to do before we deploy. Two days."

The soldier beside them mutters, "We'll see who's actually prepped."

Lowe's eyes flick over—just long enough to make it a question.

Rune answers before it turns into something else. "Yeah," he says even, "It's about to get real out there. We all stay sharp."

Lowe's grin snaps back into place, easy and confident. "So after missing out on two chances for action... how hyped are you that it's finally happening?"

Rune watches the volunteer close distance to the instructor. The taser gives that faint, hungry crackle and Rune's stomach tightens like it recognizes the sound.

"Different kind of hype," Rune says. "Now that I'm here... I just want to do the job right."

Lowe smirks, "Third time's the charm, huh?"

Rune huffs a quiet laugh. "Let's hope."

Lowe nods, capturing the conversation through his lens. "Either way, it's gonna be one hell of a story to tell later."

Rune doesn't look away from the mat. "Yeah," he says. "Later."

"Soldiers!" The instructor begins. "When you're tased, expect loss of muscle control. Remember, it's a training tool designed to be uncomfortable but not harmful! You'll be fine."

Then, the instructor turns to the soldier next to him. "Ready?"

"I'm ready, Corporal!"

The taser snaps—sharp, hungry—and the room tightens around the sound.

The corporal's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "We'll see."

Zap!

The soldier's body locks and drops like the floor got yanked out from under him. A muffled thud as he hits the mat. Someone sucks in a breath. Someone else forces a laugh that doesn't land.

"Next!," the corporal says, like he's calling a name off a roster.

His gaze finds Rune and stays there a beat too long.

RUNE INHALES.

The air tastes metallic—ozone and sweat—and the last guy's face is still twisted as he passes, pretending it was nothing.

Rune steps forward anyway. This is a test. He thinks. Both physical and mental.

The corporal takes aim at Rune, and the corners of his lips curl with a subtle satisfaction, studying his volunteer the way you study a knot before you pull it tight. "Eyes closed?"

Rune realizes his own lids are shut and opens them.

"Good," the corporal says. Quiet now. Personal. "Stay widdit. Five seconds. Don't fold."

Behind him, Lowe's voice cuts through—too bright for the moment. "You got this, Locke!"

Rune's mouth almost moves into a grin. Almost.

The corporal brings the taser up. His thumb shifts. Click.

He leans in just enough for Rune alone to hear, "Here's the trick, Private... don't lie to yourself about what you can take."

Then—

Zap!

Rune's muscles seize. His teeth clamp. The world narrows to raw current and the fight not to drop, not to give the room what it wants. He hears Lowe somewhere behind the corporal, camera whirring, like proof matters.

Rune doesn't fall.

The corporal whispers, "Remember, Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional."

The five seconds stretch—one long, ugly second repeated.

When it stops, the air feels colder than it should. Rune drags in a breath and tastes the burn of it.

The corporal laughs under his breath, satisfied. "Good shit, Private."

Rune steps off the mat on legs that don't feel like his. His lungs still hold that metallic bite. The room is still the room—same lights, same bodies—but something in him is awake now.

Not pride.

Hunger.

Lowe steps up to the corporal, casual like he's making small talk, but he keeps his eyes on the taser.

"That looked like quite a shock, Corporal," he says. "Did you turn it up?"

Rune stays close enough to hear, the whispered line still crackling in his skull like leftover current.

Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional.

It sits in him wrong. Not like advice. Like a philosophy.

Rune studies him now—not just as an instructor, but as a man who believes in what he teaches. There's something layered beneath that calculating confidence, something almost personal. This isn't just about training.

What else does he know? What else will he say?

The corporal lets a slow smile build—measured, amused—like he's deciding how much truth to give Lowe in front of witnesses.

"Ensuring the effectiveness of our equipment is part of my job," he says at last. "Want to help me with that, Private?"

He lifts the taser a fraction. Not aiming. Not yet. Just making the offer feel heavier than it should.

Lowe laughs once, short. "Yeah. No. That's against safety regs, and I'm not volunteering for a lightning strike."

The corporal belches a hearty laugh and says, "Sometimes, breaking the rules is the only way to make sense of how something works."

Rune stores that sentence without meaning to.

Lowe takes a half-step back. "I'm all set, Corporal. Thanks."

"Consider it a lesson in unpredictability. It's all part of the training. You'll thank me later." The corporal holds his stare a beat too long, then lifts his voice so it becomes official again.

"Next!".

Lowe backs away into the bodies, camera up, grin back on like armor. He turns—scanning—looking for Rune.

But the line shifts. Someone steps between them. Rune is already moving, swallowed by the crowd, taking the weight of the encounter with him.

Rune steadies himself against awall, willing his hands not to tremble as soldiers go down one by one.

Across the room, a framed portrait of Lieutenant Danielle Keyes stares at him with sharp eyes, cropped hair, and a uniform marked with magenta command accents.

The look of someone who survived something most didn't.

Rune pushes off the wall and crosses the room.

The bio beneath the frame swims for a second before it steadies—letters snapping into place as his vision clears.

Footsteps stop beside him.

A young woman's voice says, "There he is. Private Locke checking out another hero gallery."

Rune recognizes the voice, turns, and the room dims around the edges like someone lowered the volume.

Her smile is warm—easy in a way the military rarely allows. It hits him in the chest before he can brace for it.

"Hi, Poston," he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere close.

Poston steps closer to the photo, and the room suddenly feels warmer to Rune.

"What caught your eye about this one?"

"Mongolia."

She blinks, then leans in toward the bio. "Mongolia?"

"Take a look." He gestures to the frame, careful with his hand like he's handling something fragile.

As she reads, he catches himself stealing glances and looking away before she can catches him doing it.

Poston stays focused on the text, but her fingers press together—palm to palm—just once, quick as a reflex, before dropping back to her sides.

She steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Lieutenant Danielle Keyes," she reads aloud. "Lone survivor... against Nefarians... Mongolia." Her eyebrows lift. "Now that's a story."

"Yeah," Rune says, a little too fast. He reins it in. "Imagine odds like that. And still turning the tide."

"I've heard about her," Poston says, voice lowering like this is a shared secret. "My last unit talked about her like she was a ghost story you tell new recruits. They said she was psychic, and that's what kept her alive." A beat. "Moonstones raining down... Ruthless Nefarians everywhere... How else can you move without being seen?"

Rune nods, excitement fluttering under his ribs. "It says she used the terrain and set a counterattack like a trap."

"That area's a forward operating base now," Poston says, then stops mid-sentence as it clicks. Her eyes widen. "Mongolia... that's where we're going!"

"Yeah," Rune says softly. "Exactly."

Poston's hand brushes his arm—light, accidental, but Rune feels it like another shock.

"I just..." Rune clears his throat. "It's incredible. One person's actions can make such a huge impact."

Poston smiles, and the expression carries history with it. "Remember the radio platoon? You were my go-to guy for anything tech."

Rune exhales a nervous chuckle. "Yeah. Those were the days."

"I signed up as a combat medic," she says with a small eye roll. "Instead, I've spent more time with radios than bandages. So, I was glad you were there." Her voice softens. "When we got called to deploy and you couldn't go... I was sad, but it was like you were still out there with me because of everything you taught me."

Pride warms his chest—then something more complicated sits under it.

"I'm glad you didn't forget me," she says, eyes searching his without quite locking.

Rune's breath catches, just for a half second. He covers it with another small chuckle. "You were a quick learner."

"And now you're actually going this time?," she says. "Did you ever find out why you got pulled out of the last deployment?"

"Same as the first time," Rune says. "My security clearance couldn't be verified." He shrugs like it's nothing. Inside, a knot tightens.

Poston's expression shifts—subtle, concerned. "Nothing about your medical waiver?"

Rune opens his mouth, but then an alarm tears through the room.

Not for training. Not routine.

An urgent voice spills from the intercom, calling them to an immediate deployment briefing.

Rune fumbles for words that don't exist. "I... I guess we'll catch up later."

Poston nods, expression unreadable now, but her eyes linger a beat long before she turns away.

They split into the moving crowd, pulled in opposite directions. Rune watches her go, their unfinished conversation hanging between them like a live wire.

Then his gaze returns to Keyes's portrait.

Where are you now? He thinks.