The clock in Director Ysara's office ticked louder than usual. A metronome of calculated unease. Her fingers tapped against her desk as the decryption finished running—lines of data flickering across her retinal display.
Mike Callahan.
No records before age nine. No known blood relatives. Foster homes listed, but no official adoption. Gaps in medical records. And a redacted file from the Global Anomaly Archives stamped "E-Class: Eyes Only."
"What are you hiding?" she muttered.
The door slid open without a knock. Eleanor stepped in, arms folded.
"You called me?"
"I want everything you've observed about Agent Callahan since Gravemarch."
Eleanor's brow creased. "Why?"
"Because something's waking up inside him. And I think we've seen it before."
Meanwhile, in the Barracks
Mike sat on his cot, spinning a dog tag between his fingers. It wasn't his. He didn't know where it came from. But somehow, it felt like it had always been with him.
The whispering was back. Soft. Faint. Beneath the hum of electronics and the buzz of HQ's generators.
He clenched his jaw.
"I'm not listening to you."
The tag spun faster.
"You already are."
He stood abruptly, knocking it to the floor. The tag bounced once… then hovered for a moment, glowing faintly.
That was new.
Lucas appeared at the door with a burrito and a sideways smirk.
"You okay, Mike?"
Mike looked at him. "Do I seem okay?"
"On a scale of one to Lovecraft? You're a solid 'Cult Dad.'"
The Protocol
Downstairs, Ysara reviewed a decades-old video feed.
A child. Strapped to a gurney. Eyes glowing. Mouth stitched shut.
He screamed silently, and three agents were thrown across the room without him moving a muscle.
The timestamp: 17 years ago.
The case was marked "Subject M-117. Phenotype: Sleeper."
Michael Callahan.
Ysara leaned back in her chair.
"This changes everything."
She activated the black file protocols.
Codeword: Remembrance.
Whispers in the Dark
In a city miles away, a hooded cultist lit a brazier made of bone and copper. The smoke turned crimson.
"He remembers."
Others gathered, chanting in sync with his breath. Symbols appeared in the smoke—one of them pulsing with Mike's signature.
A seer stepped forward, face covered with thorns.
"Shall we awaken the others?"
"No," the cultist rasped. "He must awaken them himself. His blood is the key."
"Then the trials begin."
They threw a vial of Mike's DNA into the fire.
The flame screamed.
Agent or Weapon?
Back at HQ, Eleanor confronted Ysara.
"You're digging into his past without telling him?"
"Because it's not his past." Ysara stood. "It's ours."
She tapped a hologram that projected a map of ancient battle sites—each one tied to an event where the Hive nearly resurfaced.
Each one followed the same pattern: massive energy surges, mass psychosis, and then silence.
"This has happened before. And every time… someone like him appears."
Eleanor frowned. "You think he's reincarnated?"
"I think he's something worse. I think he's a backup."
The Pull
Mike wandered to the vault level—a place few agents ever dared.
The doors opened at his touch, unprompted. Inside were ancient relics: blades that whispered, stones that vibrated in rhythm with heartbeats, sealed glass jars filled with unknown liquids.
But one artifact called to him.
A black shard. Smooth. Cold. And when he touched it—
—the whisper became a voice.
"They locked us away… but we are patient."
He staggered back.
"Who are you?"
"We are your memory. We are your seed. And your harvest has begun."