A group of soldiers in black and grey tactical armor stood in front of a white car—a stretch limousine. The door opened slowly, and the reporters facing the soldiers held their breaths.
A man disembarked from the vehicle, his attire just as meticulous as the vehicle's appearance: sleek, white, and armored despite the ordinary appearance of a high-end suit. His tuxedo gleamed in the daylight, a beacon of sharp elegance as he strode down the red carpet with six soldiers flanking him on each side.
One of the reporters in a blue shirt managed to gather the courage to stretch his microphone toward the man in white, hoping for a chance to ask a question. But before he could utter a word, a soldier grabbed his wrist tightly, preventing him from getting closer.
"Let him ask just one question," the man in white said in a flat, unamused tone. The strict soldier hesitated but finally let go of the reporter's arm. The reporter was still in shock, but he had to compose himself. There were major reporting companies around, and he was from a small, unknown one—yet he was the one allowed to speak.
"Mr. White, what can you say about the incident in Denton City? Do you believe it was really a bright light that caused 14 people to go missing, or was it something else you're covering up?" The man spoke professionally despite his nerves.
Mr. White smirked at the question. He was amused, at the very least, which was rare. He shouldn't be surprised by the effort reporters put into asking questions, yet he was still stunned that they could force out the answers they wanted.
"We don't have any information at the moment, but rest assured it isn't anything the government cannot handle." His voice was calm, like he had rehearsed the line—collected, with a sharp edge that promised no further discussion.
"But sir—"
"Enough!" the soldier barked, stepping forward with an intimidating stare, reminding the reporter that he was only allowed a single question.
"No, let him speak," Mr. White interjected, waving a hand dismissively. The soldier affirmed and retreated grudgingly.
"Does this have anything to do with terrorists?" The other reporters murmured at his question. It was a bold one—the kind that might uncover the truth—but it also felt like it was coming from a place of frustration, the kind of question reporters only dared to ask when they knew they had nothing left to lose.
Mr. White didn't respond. He simply smiled—a faint curve of amusement—before turning away and heading toward the building entrance. His silence was enough of an answer—or at least, it was meant to be.
Inside the building, the atmosphere was tense.
In the boardroom, the air was thick with anxiety. Several high-ranking officials exchanged uneasy glances, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. The faces around the table looked either pissed or nervous, but no one dared to speak openly about what had just happened. It was a far cry from the carefully orchestrated media appearance outside.
Mr. White strode in, his presence commanding the room.
"Now that the press has been pacified," Mr. White began, adjusting himself in his seat, his voice calm but sharp, "let's talk about the next steps. We need to send our agents into the spirit gates to look for the missing individuals from Denton City. If they're still alive, we need to bring them back."
A few of the others at the table shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting around. One of the higher-ups, a woman in her late fifties, cleared her throat before speaking.
"Sending in Traversers... that could expose a lot more than we're ready for. If we're not careful, this could turn into something far worse. Are you sure about this?"
Mr. White met her gaze with a cold smile. "Madame Yelena, I'm sure. We'll cover the situation. But we need people on the ground. As for the families of the missing, compensation and incentives will be arranged—bribes, hush money if necessary."
Another man, clearly troubled by the turn of events, leaned forward. "And if we don't find them? Or worse, if things go south?"
"We cover it up," Mr. White said, his voice unwavering. "The less the public knows, the better. We'll make it disappear like it never happened—like we always do." A murmur of agreement passed through the room.
---
The sun—if it could even be called that—hung low in the strange purple-tinted sky, casting a surreal hue over the forest. The trees were jagged and alien, their branches arched like claws, creaking under some unseen pressure. The ground felt spongy, and every shadow stretched too long.
The group pressed on through the underbrush, the only sounds being labored breathing, the soft squish of moss underfoot, and the occasional groan from Sandra. She limped beside Mark, her blood soaking through a makeshift bandage torn from his shirt.
"Remind me again why we have to move?" Devin began, his voice hinting he was about to start a complaint later on.
"She's bleeding. The blood might expose our location to whatever creatures exist in this hell," Mark said without looking back as he pushed on, aiding the injured woman.
"I still can't believe this is all real. What if I'm just in a really bad dream?" Devin said, avoiding some tree branches.
"It clearly doesn't feel like one," Sandra muttered, and the group went silent for a while. It was like this ever since. Every time Sandra talked, the group grew silent in pity for her—but she definitely didn't like the pity they offered.
The trees became denser, and the air heavier. Then they heard it: low growls—several of them—coming from almost every direction. Emerging from the shadows were creatures that looked like wolves… if wolves had glowing white eyes, elongated limbs, and fur that writhed like smoke. Their ribs jutted out sharply, exposed as if malnourished, but their pace was fast and coordinated.
The group broke into a sprint. Branches snapped behind them. The creatures were faster.
Devin ran harder than he thought he could. Behind him, the injured woman tripped with a panicked cry. He turned, just for a moment, seeing her crawl, reaching out.
His thoughts came cold and sharp.
I need to save her. I might be hallucinating, but am I really hallucinating? If I go back, I die too if this is all real.
The wolves were closing in. She was reaching out to him, her face pale and desperate, and—
He ran.
He couldn't risk his life for a stranger. One of the wolves had gotten hold of her legs, and Devin couldn't live with the pressure. He turned back. Instead of feeling afraid, he felt somehow excited and amused. He felt a rush.
Devin's life was far from what you'd expect from a random passerby you stop on the road, but yet it was plain. Mundane. Ordinary. His family wasn't poor, nor were they super-rich, but his father had a large share in a construction company, which he would later inherit a portion of. He was the son of a multi-millionaire, so to say.
To some people, he had it all—but to him, they meant totally nothing. He was nihilistic in nature, as he felt little to no attachment to life. Money? What was the point of it if he could die at any moment due to uncertainty?
His life? Pointless. Because, at the end of the day, it was meaningless in the grand scheme of things, and him trying to matter was nothing more than futile struggles that meant nothing in the face of a gun.
But despite it all, he loved seeking thrills in the things of life. But what could possibly excite someone of his philosophy? The unknown. The unexpected. He used to date a lot—not necessarily because he loved them or some sentimental reason. No. It was because when they wanted to end the relationship or reject him, it was usually unexpected. Hence, giving him temporary thrills.
But it still wasn't enough. He resorted to drugs, as they gave him a crazy perception of the world. He could use them to escape his mind and live in an uncertain world—but still, it felt hollow. At the end of the day, he knew the illusions were only temporary.
He shook his head and ran at the mist-furred wolf, bending down to pick up a rock, which he hurled at the wolf. It recoiled, but the rock wasn't enough, and he was just one person. He looked for more stones and began throwing them with a grin on his face. His life was in danger, he was throwing it all away for a stranger, but it didn't matter. It was thrilling.
The couple, on the other hand, didn't even look back to see if they were being followed—they just kept running from their share of the wolf pack. They heard a soundless burst of energy ripple through the woods. Mark looked back to see what had happened.
One of the wolves was yanked sideways—no, pulled by force. Its body slammed into a tree trunk with the weight of a speeding car. Another was disemboweled mid-air.
Figures emerged from the trees.
Three of them. Sleek black tactical armor layered with faint glowing lines that pulsed gently—like veins of electricity under skin. Their movements were too precise, too fluid, like they weren't walking but gliding.
One carried a staff that split into two blades with a snap and sliced through a creature mid-sprint. Another raised a pistol-looking weapon and blasted, taking one of the wolves down.
The wolves didn't stand a chance against these people.
Mark turned to the one who seemed like the leader. "Who the hell are you?"
"Rescue," the figure replied flatly, a low, metallic voice muffled by the helmet. "We'll take you out. But we need to wait."
"What?" Debbie asked.
The leader pointed at the figure now kneeling beside a pulsing crystal embedded in a mechanical stand. It glowed faint blue, slowly brightening with rhythmic pulses.
"Charging the gate crystal. Opens a stable portal back home."
"Wait. What of Devin and the injured woman? You guys need to go back for them!" Mark called out to the agent, and the agent shot him a cold glare.
"We didn't see any other people. The mist wolves got to them before we did," the agent said lowly.
Mark didn't want to believe it, but he had to. He thought about how bizarre the creatures in this place were and compared them to Devin—an average male—and an injured woman.
So they waited for the crystal to charge up.
Mark broke the silence. "How do you move like that? I didn't even see you coming."
Two of the agents glanced at each other. One of them chuckled behind the helmet. No answers came.
The crystal brightened. A soft hum filled the air, and space itself rippled ahead of them—parting like water to reveal a circular gate of light.
"Move," the leader ordered.
They stepped through warily.
The forest was gone. Replaced by the steel and glass of a city that felt alien after everything. Sirens in the distance. Cars on wet roads. Civilization.
"We're back!" Debbie began tearing up and hugged her boyfriend tightly.
Armed escorts met them at the gate's edge and immediately funneled them into an armored van. No questions answered. Just a smooth, rehearsed handoff. They were taken to a building—grey, unmarked, official in that way where the lack of identity was its identity.
Inside, a conference room. Paperwork.
A government official with perfect hair and a warm, sterile smile handed them both a clipboard.
"NDA. Sign it. You'll be compensated generously. Seven figures. Enough to change your life."
"Seven figures on a whim? To do what?" Mark asked with a skeptical look.
"I can assure you, we are with the government and we mean no harm. The money would be yours if you sign the agreement never to mention the occurrence in 'that place' publicly. If you'd like, you can run the contract by your lawyers." The man smiled.
Debbie's hands trembled. "People died in front of me. That man… he saved our life. You want me to pretend it didn't happen?"
"We're not asking you to forget. We're offering therapy. Security. Money. Whatever you need, we'll adjust the contract to your terms. You can't change what happened… but you can start again. Only if you sign the contract to ensure your safety."
The couple looked at each other for a moment. They were either communicating with their eyes or too stunned to speak. The amount was life-changing, and they each got their share.
Debbie wasn't particularly interested in moving on knowing three people died for her. Mark nodded to her, then signed his contract, and Debbie cried as she signed hers.
"Great! According to the contract, we'll monitor you for a while to prevent a breach of contract." The man collected the clipboards from them and looked at them as if he was inspecting their signatures.
"Isn't that only meant for criminal suspects?" Mark's eyes slanted in suspicion.
"I can assure you. It is fair that we see to it that the contract isn't violated in return for a life-changing amount of money," the man answered with practiced ease. "Proceed to that counter and give them your account details."