The single bulb flickered to life, hanging like a spotlight in the middle of the decaying warehouse ceiling. Dust particles swirled through the air like moths circling a flame. The illumination revealed an unsettling scene: cold concrete walls, iron piping snaking along the corners, and in the center—chained to a steel chair—was a man in regal attire.
Silk-lined sleeves, gold embroidery, and polished black shoes—now scuffed and dirtied from being dragged. His mouth was gagged, and his eyes held the fierce panic of someone who was not used to fear. Lord Alaric Trenshaw, envoy of the British Parliament, looked nothing like the refined diplomat he'd been this morning.
A shadow moved in the gloom.
Footsteps echoed across the floor as a figure emerged into the ring of light. Clad in a black hooded cloak, black jumpsuit, and a tight-fitting face mask that concealed everything except two glowing green eyes, the silhouette exuded sharpness and poise. Every movement was deliberate. Precise.
The figure knelt slightly, gloved hands reaching up to remove the gag.
A gasp tore from Lord Trenshaw's mouth as he coughed and sucked in air. "You—you—"
A voice cut in. Feminine, low, and unwavering.
"I don't have much time, Mr. Trenshaw," the figure said. "So spare me the dramatics. Why are you here? In Ridgecliff."
He glared at her, defiance lacing his tone. "And why am I supposed to tell you? You bitch."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, smoothly, the masked woman drew a small, silver knife from her belt and pressed it against the envoy's neck. A hair's breadth from slicing. Her voice dropped into a whisper.
"Try that again, and I'll open your throat so fast the room won't hear your last words."
Trenshaw's bravado withered. He gulped audibly.
"P… please. Spare my life. I just—I came here to discuss something with Mayor Guerio. That's it."
The blade didn't move. The green eyes blinked once.
"Discuss what, exactly?"
"It—it's about Lagooncrest Island," he stammered.
A pause.
Now that got her attention.
The figure leaned in slightly. "What about Lagooncrest?"
Trenshaw hesitated. Then panic cracked him open like a shell. "We received intel… about a scientist. A lunatic rumored to be on that island. One who had access to certain… experimental compounds. I was sent here to explore the potential fallout. Possibly—possibly to create leverage in our dealings with France. It's classified! I can't say any more—please—!"
The blade vanished from his neck. She took a step back.
"Save the political garbage," she said coolly. "I'm not a French spy. I don't need your dirty plans. I just needed to know if your government's attention was really on this place."
He blinked, confused. "Then… who are you?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she pulled out a small communicator device from a belt pouch and turned her back to him. The glowing green screen activated with a ping.
"Chief Tyson," she spoke into it.
The connection was rough but stable. A man's voice came through. Gruff, aggressive, and immediately enraged.
"Who is this?" Chief Tyson asks.
"The one you are finding." She said.
"Whoever you are—you've made a grave mistake. Kidnapping a Parliament envoy? Do you have any idea what storm you've stirred?!"
The masked woman didn't flinch.
"I'm not here to play games with your politics, Chief. I've acquired the information I needed. Your guest is unharmed. You'll find him inside the old Ashton textile warehouse, sector B12."
"Unharmed?!" Tyson roared. "Do you think this will be brushed under the rug?! We'll find you! You'll be hunted like a—"
She cut the call without another word.
With one final glance at Trenshaw—still gasping, still shaken—she vanished into the shadows of the warehouse, swift and silent.
Thirty minutes later, sirens filled the night.
---
The Rescue
Red and blue lights painted the streets around the warehouse district in strobes. Officers swarmed the perimeter, guns raised, floodlights sweeping every corner.
Lord Trenshaw was found exactly where the voice said—still tied, still alive, but wide-eyed and pale. Paramedics quickly secured him as officers surrounded the scene.
Assistant Sheriff Robert Kühl arrived just as Trenshaw was being helped into a protective vehicle.
He jogged to the side of Chief Tyson, who stood at the edge of the warehouse doorway, arms crossed and teeth grinding behind his jaw.
"Any sign of the perp?" Robert asked.
Tyson shook his head. "Nothing. She's long gone. Left no prints, no tech signature. Clean escape."
Robert raised a brow. "She?"
"Voice modulation can't hide pitch and breath patterns. It was a woman. And she didn't want ransom. Didn't ask for any terms. Just questions."
"Questions?" Robert's face darkened.
"She interrogated him about why he came here," Tyson continued. "Says she doesn't work for France. Called herself a rebel. Just wanted to know if Parliament was focused on Lagooncrest."
Robert's eyes narrowed. "So this was a message."
Tyson exhaled. "Maybe. Or maybe something deeper. But she's not just some angry protestor. She knew exactly who she was targeting. She picked Trenshaw out of a sea of bureaucrats. That takes precision."
Robert looked back at the ambulance where Trenshaw sat hunched inside, his hands trembling. "She got what she wanted. Now we're just holding the pieces."
Tyson gave a grunt. "Still… I don't like it."
Then he turned to the forensics team nearby.
"I want Trenshaw scanned. Inside and out. No assumptions. We check for implants, audio bugs, nano-trackers, poisons— EVERY FUCKING THING. Don't let him so much as sneeze without us knowing what caused it."
Robert watched as the team mobilized quickly.
As the controlled chaos of procedure took over, Robert stepped aside into the shadows of a nearby alley. The adrenaline was wearing off, but the tension hadn't.
He sighed deeply and leaned against the wall.
"Brendon," he muttered to himself, "If you were here…"
He shook his head.
"This whole thing—maybe it wouldn't have happened."
Robert had known Brendon for one year. Knew his instincts, his reflexes, the way he could track someone with nothing but a hunch and a footprint. He knew how Brendon thought… how he felt things that most officers missed.
But Brendon had been gone from Ridgecliff for weeks now, tangled up in his own mess at Lagooncrest. Ever since that file surfaced. Ever since the rumors about that island grew louder.
Robert rubbed his eyes, but then froze.
A flicker passed through his mind—like a match struck in the dark.
That shadow figure. From earlier, during the Town Hall break-in. The one who took down two guards and vanished with Trenshaw. Robert had caught a glimpse—not a clear one, but enough.
The way she moved.
The glint of green from her eyes.
The lean structure, the blade in hand, the silent resolve.
"I've seen her before…" he whispered.
But no matter how he tried to conjure the memory, it danced just out of reach. A name. A face. A place. He knew it was buried somewhere in his past, like a name scratched off an old file or a half-finished report.
The rebel… isn't new.
She is a ghost returning.
Robert straightened up.
"Come back soon, Brendon," he murmured.