Part 1

The hangar smelled like floor wax, jet fuel, and anxiety. It was inspection day at Naval Base Coronado, and for me, that just meant staying out of the way.

For three years, that’s all I’d been. A ghost.

My name is Thaddius Merik. “Tad” to the few people who ever bothered to speak to me. I’m 40, but the gray at my temples and the lines etched around my eyes tell a story of a much older man. I was the maintenance worker in Hangar 7. The guy who came in at 0400, before the sun painted the sky gold and orange over the sleeping giants of the fleet.

My life was a grid. A pattern. I pushed a mop in perfect, measured strokes. My turns were perfect right angles. It was a discipline that came from a life I’d buried 17 years ago, a life that officially ended in a fiery crash in the mountains of Afghanistan.

I was invisible, and that’s how I stayed alive. That’s how I kept my daughter, Ren, alive.

Today, the tension was thicker than usual. You could taste the panic coming off the young recruits. They rushed around, polishing boots and straightening ribbons, their movements jerky and scared. They were terrified of one man.

Admiral Bridger Harlo.

I knew Harlo. Not as the janitor, of course. I knew him from Kandahar. I knew him as the man who pinned the Trident on my chest, his eyes like chips of ice, even then. He was a legend, a man whose reputation was a shock wave. And he was about to walk this floor.

I kept my head down, pushing the mop, following my invisible grid. I was just part of the scenery. A worn-out piece of government equipment, same as the mop handle in my calloused hands.

The heavy metal door banged open. Lieutenant Rowan Collins strode in, his uniform so crisp it could cut glass. He was young, 28, a rising star. He was smart. Too smart.

“Morning, Merrick,” he said, a sharp nod. More than I usually got.

“Lieutenant,” I replied, my voice quiet, rough from disuse. I didn’t look up.

He paused. I could feel his eyes on me. I kept mopping.

“You were military once,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

My rhythm didn’t falter. “A long time ago.”

“What branch?”

“Does it matter?”

He was about to press, I could feel it, but the main doors opened again, and the hangar flooded with enlisted personnel. The moment was broken. Collins was pulled into his duties, and I faded back into the concrete.

I moved around them, a ghost in their midst. I anticipated their movements before they took a step, shifting my bucket an instant before a rushing recruit would have tripped over it. A 19-year-old kid—Wilkins, his tag read—slammed into my shoulder. “Watch it!” he muttered, not even looking back.

I said nothing. I just went back to work.

Across the hangar, Commander Elias Fenway entered. 54, career man, silver hair. He looked like he’d seen it all. His eyes scanned the room, professional, detached. Then they landed on me.

For a split second, something flickered. Recognition? Confusion? He masked it instantly, turning back to his colleagues. But he’d seen something.

It was getting hot. The bodies, the nerves, the rising sun. I unbuttoned the cuff of my work shirt, just to roll up the sleeve.

I stopped. My hand froze on the button.

I couldn’t.

With deliberate slowness, I re-buttoned the cuff. Tightly. Sweat beaded on my brow, but I kept it buttoned. Fenway was watching me. I saw his eyes narrow. He knew that was a strange move.

I was almost done, moving to the back wall. As I adjusted my old wallet, a weathered photograph slipped out and landed face-up on the floor. I snatched it, my heart hammering. But it had been visible for a second. A group of men in desert camo, faces blacked out with marker, in front of a helicopter.

I shoved it deep into my pocket just as the massive hangar doors began to groan open.

The world went silent.

Sunlight spilled in, framing the silhouette of a man who was ramrod straight, immaculate, and radiated an authority that sucked the air from the room.

Admiral Bridger Harlo.

“Attention on deck!” someone yelled.

Every sailor snapped to rigid attention. Their spines went straight. Their eyes locked forward.

Everyone except me.

I kept mopping. Head down. My only duty was to the grid. I moved slowly backward, into the shadows along the wall, trying to become one with the concrete.

Harlo began his inspection. It was a performance. A brutal one. He moved down the line, his voice a clean, sharp blade.

“Your boots, Petty Officer Thompson,” he boomed. “Did you polish them with mud?”

“No, sir!”

“Then perhaps you’d care to explain why I can’t see my reflection in them.”

“No excuse, sir.”

“Indeed.”

He was looking for a target. A real one. He was in rare form, as Fenway had warned Collins. He needed to tear someone apart.

I felt his eyes flick to me. Once. Twice. Just a glance. But it felt like a sniper’s laser.

I kept my head down. Don’t see me. Don’t see me. I’m not here.

He finished with the last recruit, his criticism sharp enough to draw blood. The inspection was over. He should have moved to the equipment section.

He didn’t.

He turned. He changed direction. He started walking purposefully, his boots echoing on the concrete, straight toward me.

The entire hangar held its breath. The silence was absolute. He was walking toward the maintenance man.

“You,” Harlo called out, his voice echoing. “Maintenance.”

I stopped. I had to. But I didn’t look up. “Sir,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He circled me. A predator. I could smell his cologne, the starch on his uniform.

“You look awfully squared away for a janitor,” he announced to the room. “Standing there with perfect posture while real sailors get dressed down.”

The humiliation was a tactic. A tool to see if I’d break. I kept my eyes on the floor.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

“Merrick, sir.”

“Look at me when I address you, Merrick.”

I raised my eyes. Slowly. I let them be empty. A dull, stupid, civilian gaze.

He studied me. His eyes were sharp. Too sharp. They dropped from my face to my carefully buttoned sleeves.

“Those sleeves,” he said, pointing. “What are you hiding under there? Got any ink worth looking at, or just the cartoon stuff?”

Nervous chuckles rippled through the sailors. I didn’t respond.

His expression hardened. This janitor wasn’t playing the game. He wasn’t cowering.

In a move so fast I almost reacted—I almost dropped into a defensive stance—he knocked the mop from my hands. It clattered, the sound exploding in the silent hangar.

I didn’t move. But for a split second, I had. My feet had shifted. My weight balanced. My hands had come up, relaxed but ready. A perfect combat stance.

I’d seen it.

He’d seen it.

His eyes narrowed. The game had changed. This wasn’t mockery anymore. This was an interrogation.

“Show us your tattoo, maintenance man,” he commanded, his voice a hammer. “Let’s see if you’ve got something worth the uniform you’re pretending to wear.”

This was it. My cover. My life. My daughter.

I stood motionless. Across the room, Commander Fenway looked sick. He knew this was wrong.

The silence stretched. It became unbearable.

Finally, I bent and set the mop aside. And then, with deliberate, agonizing slowness, I began to roll up my sleeve.

Part 2

The cheap cotton of my work shirt fought me. The cuff was tight. The room was so quiet I could hear the blood roaring in my ears.

I unbuttoned the cuff. I began to fold the fabric.

A faded black line appeared. An eagle’s wing.

I saw Harlo’s expression shift. The mockery was gone, replaced by a flicker of confusion.

The sleeve rolled higher. The full wingspan of the eagle was visible now, stretched wide.

“Stop!” Harlo ordered. His voice was sharp. Urgent.

I didn’t stop. My eyes were locked on his. This was his game. I was just finishing it.

I folded the sleeve one more time.

There it was. Etched in my sun-weathered skin, faded but unmistakable. A gold trident, crossed with a dagger.

The SEAL Trident.

Whispers exploded through the hangar. But Harlo wasn’t looking at the Trident. He was staring, his face rigid, at what was beneath it.

A jagged scar, old and white, cut through the ink. But the characters were still legible.

ST9. Phantom.

Admiral Harlo’s clipboard slipped from his fingers. It hit the concrete with a loud, echoing clatter.

No one moved.

The Admiral’s face had gone the color of ash. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

He had.

“Where,” he whispered, his voice so low no one else could hear it, “did you get that?”

I met his gaze. The dull, stupid janitor was gone. He was looking at me now.

“From you, sir,” I said, my voice just as quiet. “You pinned it yourself. Kandahar. 2008.”

The words hit him like a physical blow. He stumbled back a half-step.

“That operation is still classified,” he hissed, his eyes darting around at the watching sailors.

“So am I,” I replied.

I began to roll my sleeve back down. Methodical. Precise.

“I have floors to finish, sir.”

That simple act—of re-buttoning my cuff, of dismissing him—broke his freeze.

“That wasn’t a request, Chief,” he snapped.

The rank. He’d used the rank. The whispers in the hangar died instantly.

I finished the button. “I’m not in your chain of command anymore, sir. I haven’t been since Kbble.”

The name of that mission. The one that officially never happened. The one that killed 16 men. The one that killed me.

It visibly rocked him. He recoiled.

“Sixteen men went into those mountains,” Harlo said, his voice dangerously low. “Pentagon records state that sixteen men died there.”

“Pentagon records say a lot of things, sir,” I said, picking up my mop. “Not all of them true.”

Lieutenant Collins, his face a mask of confusion, stepped forward. “Sir, should I dismiss the company?”

Harlo’s eyes were still locked on me, but he was regaining his composure. “Yes, Lieutenant. Dismiss them. Inspection complete.”

The sailors scattered, not walking, running, desperate to be anywhere else.

When the hangar was mostly empty, Harlo turned back to me. “My office. Ten minutes.”

“With respect, sir,” I said, not looking at him, “I’m civilian staff. My shift ends at 1600.”

He leaned in, his control cracking. “Do you have any idea what your presence here could trigger? The investigations it would reopen?”

“I’m just maintaining the floor, sir. That’s all I’ve done for three years.”

“Why here?” he demanded, his voice raw. “Of all the places you could disappear, why choose my base?”

Before I could answer—before I could tell him it was never my choice, that the program placed me here—his aide ran in.

“Admiral, sir! Urgent call from Washington. SectDef himself on the line.”

Harlo’s jaw tightened. He looked at his watch, at me, at the aide. The present was colliding with the past.

“We’re not finished here,” he said to me.

“I never said we were, sir,” I replied.

He strode out, his authority back in place like armor. The heavy door clanged shut.

I was alone. For a moment.

“Chief,” a voice said.

I turned. Lieutenant Collins.

“Just Merrick is fine, Lieutenant.”

“That tattoo,” he said, “The unit designation… ST9 Phantom… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That’s the point of classified units, Lieutenant,” I said, starting my grid pattern again. “You’re not supposed to.”

He watched me, his smart brain processing. “The Admiral… he was shaken.”

“The Admiral has a lot on his mind.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. It was a genuine offer.

I stopped mopping. I looked him in the eye. “Yes. You can forget what you saw here today. For your sake, not mine.”

The warning landed. He paled, nodded, and walked away quickly.

The next one wasn’t so easy. Commander Fenway.

“I knew I recognized you,” he said, blocking my path. “I ran operation support for fifth group in ’09. Saw the after-action reports from Kandahar. Everything was redacted, but the body count was clear. Sixteen operators sent in. Sixteen flag-draped coffins sent home.”

“Sometimes the math doesn’t add up, Commander.”

“Why maintenance?” he pressed. “A man with your training…”

“I like the quiet.”

“And the access,” he countered. “Base maintenance gets you into every secure facility without raising an eyebrow.”

I stopped, my patience gone. “If I wanted access to classified areas, Commander, I wouldn’t need a mop to get it.”

The truth of that statement hung between us. He knew I wasn’t threatening him. I was stating a fact.

Before he could reply, the main doors groaned open again. A non-descript black SUV with government plates rolled in.

A man in a plain black suit got out. He was tall, gray-haired, and moved with the easy, dangerous confidence of federal law enforcement.

He looked past Fenway. His eyes locked on me.

“Mr. Merik,” he called. “Would you come with me, please?”

Fenway tensed. “Who the hell is this?”

“Above your clearance,” I said quietly.

I knew this man. His name was Vickers. He was my ghost-keeper. The man from “the program” that had buried me.

“We need to talk, Chief,” Vickers said as he approached.

“Not a chief anymore, Vickers.”

“Once a chief, always a chief,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. “Vehicle’s waiting. Time-sensitive.”

I didn’t move. “I’m off the books, Vickers. Have been for years. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

He glanced at Fenway, who was still stubbornly present. “This isn’t the venue for this conversation, Chief. Please.”

That one word. Please. It was code. It meant the barrier was down. It meant the world was on fire.

I looked at Fenway. “My shift ends at 1600. Floor still needs finishing.”

“I’ll… I’ll have someone cover it,” Fenway stammered.

I set my mop against the wall and followed Vickers to the SUV. As we walked, he leaned in.

“When was the last time you had contact with Blackwood?”

My step faltered. Just for an instant. “Blackwood is dead. Afghanistan, 2008.”

“That’s the official record. Yes,” he said, opening the rear door for me.

The drive was silent for three minutes. Vickers navigated the base with an easy familiarity.

“How’s your daughter?” he asked, his eyes on the road.

My head snapped around. My hand instinctively went to where my weapon should have been. “You don’t talk about her. Ever.”

“Fair enough,” he said, unfazed. “But you should know, we’ve had eyes on you both. Protective detail. Not surveillance.”

“Since when?”

“Since Noshack resurfaced in Bahrain last month.”

The name hit me like a physical blow. Malik Noshack. The warlord. The butcher. The man I personally put two rounds in the chest of in those mountains.

“Noshack died in those mountains,” I said, my voice flat. “I put him down myself.”

“And yet,” Vickers said, reaching for a briefcase, “he’s very much alive.”

He flipped it open. Surveillance photos. A man in his 50s, lean, weathered, with a distinctive scar running from his temple to his jaw. The scar I gave him.

“Facial recognition flagged him at a private airfield. 97% match.”

I took the photos. It was him.

“This was taken six weeks ago,” Vickers said. “Two days later, former Major General Witson was found dead. Heart attack.”

“Witson,” I said, the name tasting like ash. “Witson was oversight for Phantom Squad.”

“Yes. As was Colonel Dela Cruz. Drowned in his pool three weeks ago. And Commander Hirs. Carbon monoxide ‘accident’ in his garage last Thursday.”

The pattern. A chill I hadn’t felt in years ran down my spine. Noshack was cleaning house. He was hunting the survivors of Phantom Squad. He was hunting me.

“Why now?” I demanded. “Why expose me?”

Vickers pulled the SUV into a secluded spot and cut the engine. He turned to face me.

“Because you’re next on the list, Chief. Along with anyone else who knows what really happened in Kbble.”

“There were sixteen of us,” I said, my mind racing. “Official record says all sixteen died.”

“And the truth?” Vickers pressed.

“The truth stays buried, Vickers.”

“Not anymore. Not with Noshack hunting down everyone. We need to know who’s still alive from your team.”

I reached for the door handle. “I’m maintenance staff. That’s all.”

Vickers’s hand shot out and gripped my forearm. “Your daughter, Ren. Twelve years old. Seventh grade, Lincoln Middle. Science club Tuesdays, soccer practice Thursdays. Walks home on Malberry Street every day at 3:15.”

My reaction was instant. Automatic. My free hand moved in a blur, fingers finding the pressure points in his wrist. He gasped, his grip releasing.

“That was your one mistake,” I said, my voice deadly quiet. “Never. Threaten. My daughter.”

“Not a threat,” he choked out, massaging his wrist. “A warning. Noshack knows, too. We intercepted communication. He has her schedule. Her route. He knows you’re alive, Merrick. He knows where to find you. And he knows exactly how to hurt you.”

The blood drained from my face. My carefully constructed world, the three years of invisibility, the mind-numbing routine—all of it shattered.

“When?” I demanded.

“We don’t know. He’s in the country. Entered through Canada three days ago.”

I checked my watch. My hands were shaking. I forced them to stop. School lets out in two hours.

“We have agents in place,” Vickers said. “She’s covered. But that’s a band-aid. Noshack won’t stop.”

I knew he wouldn’t. I knew what Noshack was. I’d seen his work.

“I need to move her,” I said. “Secure location. New identity.”

“Already in motion. Facility in Montana. Off-grid. Full security.”

“For how long?”

“As long as necessary,” Vickers said. “But you know the only real solution is permanent. Noshack has to be eliminated.”

“You have assets for that. You don’t need me.”

“We don’t have anyone who knows him like you do, Chief. None who tracked him for nine days. None who got close enough to put two rounds in his chest.”

“And clearly missed the heart,” I said grimly.

“An oversight we intend to correct. With your help. Admiral Harlo is being briefed. He’s expecting us both to discuss reactivation.”

“I’m not being reactivated,” I said, my voice flat. “I’ll help eliminate the threat to my daughter. But after that, I’m done. Permanently.”

“That’s between you and the Admiral,” Vickers said, starting the SUV. “My job was just to bring you in from the cold.”

“Consider me defrosted,” I muttered.

As we parked, my phone buzzed. A text. From Ren.

My heart stopped.

I read the message. “Early dismissal today. On my way home. Love you, Dad.”

“School doesn’t do early dismissals,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. I showed him the phone. “Someone’s making a move.”

Vickers was already on his phone. “Surveillance team isn’t responding!”

I was out of the vehicle, running for my own rusted-out sedan.

“Merrick, wait!” Vickers yelled. “We have protocols!”

I didn’t look back. “Your protocols won’t save my daughter!”

As I reached my car, Admiral Harlo himself burst out of the administration building, flanked by security.

“Chief Merik!” he ordered. “Stand down! That’s an order!”

I paused, my hand on the car door. I locked eyes with him across the parking lot. Seventeen years of history—of loyalty and betrayal, of shared blood and classified lies—passed between us.

“My daughter’s in danger,” I said simply. “No order supersedes that.”

His expression shifted. The Admiral was gone. The man was there. He nodded. Once. Sharply.

“Take Vickers,” he commanded. “Full tactical support will follow your lead.”

It was the closest I’d ever get to an apology.

“I’ll drive,” Vickers said, having caught up.

We piled into his SUV. The next few minutes were a blur of screaming tires and tactical radio chatter.

“Surveillance team is offline,” Vickers reported, his knuckles white on the wheel. “Last check-in 20 minutes ago. They’re compromised.”

“Noshack doesn’t leave witnesses,” I said, checking the 9mm pistol Vickers had passed me. It felt too light. Too small for this.

We turned onto Malberry Street. My quiet suburban street.

My stomach dropped.

A black SUV, not ours, was parked in front of my house.

The front door was open.

“Control, we have unauthorized vehicle!” Vickers was yelling into the radio.

I was already out, rolling onto the pavement, the 9mm up. “I’m going in,” I said.

“Vickers, cover the rear!”

The house was silent. Too silent.

“Ren!” I called.

I entered the living room. Her backpack was on the couch. A glass of water on the table, still sweating. She was here.

A scuff from the kitchen.

I moved, weapon raised, every sense on fire. I rounded the corner.

And froze.

Ren was at the kitchen table.

Across from her, smiling, sat Malik Noshack.

“Hello, Phantom,” he said softly. “Your daughter has been telling me about her science project. Very impressive. You must be proud.”

My gun was steady. My mind was screaming. “Stand up. Move away from my daughter.”

Noshack smiled. “I would reconsider. My friend outside your daughter’s window might misinterpret sudden movements.”

As if on cue, Vickers appeared in the doorway, hands raised, blood running from a cut on his head. Behind him, a younger man with a submachine gun.

“Sorry, Chief,” Vickers said.

“Please,” Noshack said, gesturing to an empty chair. “Join us. It’s a family reunion.”

I lowered my weapon. I sat. I placed myself between Ren and him.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” Noshack mused, looking at my terrified daughter. “What her father was. What he did. Has he told you about Kbble? About the hospital?”

“That’s enough,” I said, my voice a razor. “This is between us.”

“On the contrary,” Noshack said. “She is why you are here. Living this lie.”

“Dad?” Ren’s voice was small.

“What do you want, Noshack?”

“Justice,” he said simply. “Seventeen years ago, this man,” he pointed at me, “led an operation into a civilian hospital on faulty intelligence. When they discovered their mistake, rather than abort, they continued. The results were… messy.”

“That’s not how it happened,” I said, my hands clenching.

“Then how did it happen, Phantom? Tell your daughter. Tell her about the children.”

The memories, the ones I kept buried with fire and whiskey, came flooding back. The smoke. The screams.

“We were set up,” I said, my voice shaking with a rage I hadn’t felt in years. “Fed intelligence designed to put us in a trap.”

“A convenient excuse!”

“It’s the truth! We realized it was a setup and were attempting to withdraw when the explosives detonated.”

“Dad?” Ren was crying now.

Noshack laughed. A harsh, dead sound. “Such clean lines. Tell her about the aftermath. Tell her what happened to those who survived the blast.”

“We evacuated as many civilians as we could,” I bit out. “Twelve of my team died trying to save them.”

“Yet you survived,” he pressed. “You and three others. Four phantoms, disappearing into the night while a hospital burned. And now, I find one pushing a mop.”

He leaned in, his eyes burning with 17 years of hate. “I want the truth. Who gave the orders? Who planted the explosives?”

“We didn’t plant them!” I roared. “You think we would… that? You weren’t there! You were safely away, pulling strings, feeding bad intelligence up the chain, making sure we walked into that trap!”

Noshack froze. “You think… I was involved?”

“You were never loyal to anyone but your handlers, Noshack,” I spat. “Triple agent from the beginning. CIA thought they turned you, but you were SVR all along.”

His composure cracked. “Interesting theory. Unprovable. Everyone who could confirm it is dead. Except the four phantoms.”

“Three now,” I corrected. “Witson, Dela Cruz, Hirs. Your handiwork.”

“Justice takes many forms,” he shrugged.

“That wasnS’t justice,” I said. “It was execution.”

“As your team executed 27 civilians in that hospital!” he roared back. “Including my sister! And her two children!”

The room went silent.

The sirens in the distance were the only sound.

“That’s what this is,” I whispered, the pieces clicking into place. “Not justice. Revenge.”

“My sister was a doctor,” he said, his voice breaking. “She stayed. They were innocent.”

“Yes,” I said, my own anger fading. “They were. As were the 12 men on my team who died trying to save them.”

For a split second, I saw it. A crack in his armor. Doubt.

He reached into his jacket. I tensed. He pulled out a tablet.

He swiped. A classified document. The mission brief for Kbble.

“Where did you get this?” I breathed.

“I have friends,” he said. “And I have the complete set. The body cam footage. The comms logs. Everything your government buried.”

He swiped again. A new document. This one had Russian intelligence markings.

“And these,” he said. “The original orders. Straight from Moscow. Orders to plant explosives in a civilian hospital and trigger them during an American SF op. To ensure maximum casualties.”

I stared at the screen. At the photo of the man who signed the order. Colonel Victor Yagorov. The Russian military attaché. Our primary intelligence source.

“Yagorov…” I said. “He fed us the intel.”

“And planted the explosives,” Noshack finished. “He set us both up. He made me the scapegoat. He made you the war criminals. And for 17 years… I believed it. I hunted you.”

The sirens stopped. The house was surrounded.

“Malik, we need to move,” his man at the door urged.

“What do you suggest?” I asked, my mind reeling.

“A trade,” Noshack said. “These files. This evidence. For my freedom. I disappear. You get the truth.”

“Dad,” Ren said, her voice quiet but firm. “What’s the right thing to do?”

I looked at her. My daughter. She wasn’t a child anymore.

I looked at Noshack. “We tell the truth,” I said. “All of it. No more lies.”

He studied me. Then, he nodded. “Agreed. But how…?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Admiral Harlo stood in the kitchen doorway. Behind him, my kitchen was full of SEAL operators, Noshack’s man already in cuffs.

“Admiral,” I said.

“I received your package this morning,” Harlo said to Noshack, nodding at the tablet. “The complete files. Very thorough.”

“I am nothing if not methodical,” Noshack replied.

Harlo looked at me. “The house is secure. Ren needs to be moved.”

“I don’t understand,” Ren said. “Why do I have to go?”

I knelt in front of her. “Before I worked maintenance, I was in the military. It was… complicated. Some people from my past have resurfaced. Until we sort it out, it’s safer for you to be away.”

“Will you be with me?” she asked, the fear back in her eyes.

I looked at Harlo. He gave a single, sharp nod.

“Yes,” I said, taking her hand. “The whole time. No more separations.”

As we left, Noshack called to me. “Phantom. I would have killed you today. Without hesitation.”

“I know,” I said. “I can’t say I would have done differently.”

A moment passed between us. Two warriors, two fathers, two victims of the same lie.

We were driven to the airfield. As we passed Hangar 7, I saw Harlo standing by the entrance. He watched our vehicle. And then, he raised his hand in a crisp, perfect salute.

I returned it. Muscle memory.

“Dad,” Ren asked as we boarded the transport, “were you really one of the most lethal men in the world?”

I looked at my daughter, her hand in mine, and thought about the question.

“I was very good at a very specific job,” I said. “A job I never wanted you to know about.”

“Is that why you became a janitor? To hide?”

“Partly,” I admitted. “But also because… after all the chaos, there was something appealing about creating order. About making things clean again.”

She smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder. “Like my science project.”

“Exactly like that,” I said, a smile finally touching my own lips.

The engines roared. As the plane climbed into the sky, I looked down at the base, at the life I was leaving behind. The ghost in Hangar 7 was gone.

“What happens now?” Ren asked.

I held her hand. “Now,” I said, “we start over. Together.”