The rain fell in steady sheets, turning the gravel roads outside the southern resistance hub into streams of brown. Inside, tension hung thicker than the stormclouds. Kirion stood in the briefing room, eyes fixed on a flickering holoscreen. A face, blurred and distorted by surveillance interference, stared back at him. But even through the noise, the outline was unmistakable.
Long limbs. Sharp jawline. Eyes like fractured glass—calculating, beautiful, cold.
It was her.
Soria.
The mother of his child. The phantom who had walked out of his life in the dead of night and, it now appeared, into the hands of the enemy.
"She infiltrated a medical outpost posing as a field doctor," said Amira, scrolling through logs. "No violence. No theft. She accessed medical files, spoke to the head medic, then vanished. Four hours later, a government strike incinerated the same facility."
Kirion's jaw tightened. "And the medic?"
"Dead. Along with three volunteers."
The silence that followed was bitter. Kirion felt it in his bones—the weight of betrayal, the acidic bite of a truth he had long tried to ignore. But denial had no place here. Soria was alive. She was working with the government. And worse—she was moving closer.
But it wasn't until the next day that the unthinkable happened.
It began with a perimeter breach alarm at Haven-3, the remote training compound where his daughter had been relocated weeks prior for security. The breach had been surgical—hacked entry codes, disabled drones, and no signs of forced entry. Nothing stolen. Nothing broken.
Nothing except Kirion's peace.
When he arrived hours later, panting from the air-drop and running through the cold night, he found her.
Soria.
She was standing at the edge of the training field, dressed in civilian garb. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and for a moment, she looked almost like she had all those years ago—before the war, before the child, before everything fractured.
His daughter stood beside her, arms crossed but not afraid.
"Soria," he said, voice low and rough.
"Kirion," she replied. Calm. Casual. Like a ghost stepping into its old skin.
He moved slowly, unsure of her intent, unsure if the rifle slung across her shoulder was for him. "Why are you here?"
"To see her," she said, glancing at their daughter. "She has questions. I have answers. We both deserve that."
"You lost that right when you left."
"I didn't leave," she said flatly. "I was taken. I did what I had to do to survive."
"Working for them?" His voice cracked with venom.
Her eyes darkened. "You think this is about sides? I'm trying to keep her alive. We're both trying to protect the same girl—you just don't understand the cost."
Their daughter looked between them, confusion rippling across her features like a coming storm.
Kirion stepped forward. "You have five minutes. Then you walk away and never come back."
But Soria didn't move. Instead, she looked into their daughter's eyes and whispered, "You're stronger than both of us. And when the time comes, you'll see things clearly."
Then she was gone—vanishing into the storm like she had so many years ago.
Kirion stood motionless in the rain, feeling the weight of a thousand buried emotions crash against him.
The ghost hadn't just returned. It had left a seed of doubt planted in his daughter's heart.
And Kirion feared what would bloom.