K

Snow blanketed the earth in suffocating silence, thick and untouched—except for the heavy boots of patrolling soldiers grinding it underfoot. The cold was vicious, biting through gloves and bone. Every breath turned to smoke.

"Hey..."

A soldier’s voice cracked through the hush, hoarse from hours in the frost.

"I think I saw something..."

"What did you see?"

The one with three medals on his chest stepped forward, voice sharp and alert. A seasoned man—eyes sunken, instincts honed.

"A girl?"

The younger one pointed ahead, squinting into the mist. The others turned.

And yes—there she was.

A lone figure, half-collapsed against a jagged tree stump near the border fence.

Skin pale, almost translucent under the snowlight.

Hands gripped a splintered wooden rod like a weapon or a lifeline—maybe both.

Black tactical gear clung to her frame, hugging an athletic figure built for speed, not warmth.

Her hair—a wild mane of greyish white—cascaded in tangles down her shoulders, blending with the storm.

Her lips… red.

Too red.

Like blood on ice.

None of them moved for a moment.

"What do you think?"

One finally whispered, eyes fixed on the stranger.

The officer with the medals groaned and adjusted his rifle strap.

“Rescue her.”

Before the soldiers could reach her, her knees buckled.

She collapsed into the snow like a broken shadow.

The cold had sunk deep into her bones. Thirst, exhaustion, and frost sealed her senses shut.

And then—

Darkness.

---

Fire crackled softly.

The world returned as flickers of pain and flickering light.

She flinched when the torch’s beam hit her face, eyes fluttering open just enough to reveal stormy grey seas beneath half-lowered lashes.

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Until vision slowly returned.

The room was small—wooden walls, the scent of smoke and sweat.

A cabin.

She was lying near a fire, warmth licking her skin like it didn’t belong.

And surrounding her?

Soldiers. Armed. Watching.

“Speak, woman!”

A voice like gravel over stone barked at her.

“What were you doing at the border alone!?”

She turned her head slowly, dazed.

The one speaking wore three medals—two silver, one gold. His name badge read:

Anthony Brown.

Fitting.

Like the surname he wore, the man had a mess of dark brown curls, damp from snow, sticking to his temples.

Eyes like hardened amber—sharp, unrelenting, dissecting her with every glance.

Her lips cracked as she whispered, voice thick and unmistakably British:

“I... I don’t know.”

He squinted. “You don’t know?”

Snap.

His hand reached for the whip laid casually on the side table like a tool, not a threat.

“How the hell does someone end up at the damn border and not know what they’re doing?!”

She tried to sit up—tried to speak—but the pain in her head throbbed too loud.

She blinked harder, trying to focus, but every edge of the room blurred.

“Believe me…”

Her voice wavered. Soft. Raw.

“I only remember being thirsty… and dying…”

CRACK!

The whip struck before her words could fully land.

A choked cry escaped her lips as the leather carved into her back.

Her body jolted violently, instinct kicking in. She raised her hands to defend—

But stopped.

Mid-motion.

They wouldn’t move.

Her wrists were bound.

And not just tied—professionally restrained.

Looped and knotted with precision.

Like someone had done this a thousand times.

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths.

The fire popped beside her.

The soldiers watched.

“What is your name?”

The question came not from the commander, but the younger soldier standing behind him. His voice was quieter—controlled, but no less firm.

She turned her head slowly, eyes locking on the man.

George Evan.

His name badge gleamed faintly in the firelight.

Her gaze scanned him with instinctive precision.

Clean-shaven. Alert posture. A little less cruel in the eyes—but still part of the machine.

Something flickered in her mind.

A memory.

A flash of—

No.

She swallowed it down. Buried it under layers of mental ice.

“Katherine…”

The name barely left her lips, soft and cracked like the surface of her soul.

But before she could say more—

CRACK!

Another slice of the whip lashed across her back.

Pain bloomed. Hot. Radiating.

She gasped, breath caught in her throat.

“I’m speaking!” she snapped, the words bursting out of her in a rare burst of emotion.

Anthony stepped closer.

His boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor as he crouched just beside her face.

“Be quick with your words, woman,” he growled, voice thick with disdain.

“We have a thousand more things to do than listen to your stammering lies.”

She clenched her jaw.

Bit the pain down.

Straightened her spine the best she could, despite the ache.

“Katherine Darnell.”

She said it in one breath. Cold. Steady.

Like it was always her name.

"Now..."

Anthony straightened, voice sharp and final.

"Before I hand you to the Security System, Katherine—speak. Everything you can in ten minutes."

He crossed his arms.

Waited.

Ten minutes passed.

She said nothing.

Only stared at him. Silent. Still. Eyes dead like fogged glass.

George smirked and looked away, voice low enough to not piss off his superior—but just loud enough to sting:

“Feisty.”

Finally, Katherine broke the silence. Her voice was quiet. Hollow.

“I have nothing to say.”

“I remember nothing. Not even how I got here in the first place.”

She looked down.

Her tactical gear had ripped slightly along the thigh. The cold kissed her skin through the tear, but she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t care.

Anthony scoffed, pacing slowly.

“She’ll speak under pressure, then.”

He gave a nod.

One of the soldiers stepped forward without a word, grabbed Katherine’s arm with zero gentleness, and yanked her up.

Her feet scraped the wood floor as she stumbled to stand.

And still—those grey eyes stayed fixed on Anthony.

Unblinking.

Unbothered.

Cold as the grave.

George leaned lazily against the table, arms folded. His expression unreadable, but his gaze never left her.

“I suggest we hand her over to the Security System,” he said calmly.

“They’ll handle this better. We have no clue if she’s a terrorist… or just a lost tourist.”

“Or both,” Anthony muttered.

Hours had passed.

Long, cruel hours.

They called it “pressure.”

She called it boredom.

---

The interrogation chamber was dim, lit only by a flickering overhead bulb. Concrete walls absorbed the screams that never came.

Katherine was on her knees now.

Arms spread wide, wrists bound and suspended above her head by thick ceiling chains.

Rope coiled across her arms, her torso—tight enough to restrict movement, but not enough to silence her breathing.

That was the only sound left now.

Her breathing.

Ragged. Sharp. Deliberate.

Her once-white hair now tangled and stained—matted with blood in places where skin had broken.

A fresh bruise bloomed across her bottom lip.

Her pale skin was littered with blooming violets and angry reds, a canvas of quiet resistance.

But her eyes—those cold, storm-grey eyes—still stared ahead with terrifying stillness.

Anthony paced behind her, boots slamming the floor with every turn, frustration building like a storm about to snap.

He wasn’t used to this.

Interrogations ended in hours.

Not stand-offs with ghosts.

---

George leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, observing.

“She’s sick…” he muttered.

“Cold, thirst, maybe a concussion or internal bleeding—could’ve scrambled her memory.”

Anthony stopped mid-pace and turned.

“Or else?” he spat.

George raised an eyebrow, jaw tight. He didn’t want to say it, but the silence demanded it.

“Or else… she’s trained. Too well.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed.

“Who the hell takes this much of a beating and stays silent?”

“It’s already dawn, for fuck’s sake.”

His voice cracked through the room.

But Katherine didn’t flinch.

She just blinked slowly. A single drop of blood slid from her lip to her chin—and she didn’t even bother to wipe it.

The cold floor burned like ice beneath her skin.

She stirred, barely conscious, sticky with her own blood.

The ropes were gone.

Well—most of them.

She wasn’t bound anymore.

Not tightly.

Just one thick rope remained—looped around her neck like a leash.

Like a message.

She sat up slowly, bones aching, arms trembling.

The blood smeared across her back and arms had started to dry in streaks.

“Classy,” she muttered to herself, voice hoarse.

“Britain didn’t change at all.”

A sharp laugh slipped past her lips—crooked, bitter.

She shook her head, eyes unfocused but burning.

The pain didn’t scare her.

It reminded her she was still alive.

---

Outside the cabin, muffled voices argued against the howl of the storm.

She leaned her head back against the wall, letting the words bleed through the cracks.

“He’s coming himself.”

A pause.

“Who’s coming?”

“Him.”

“The Director?”

“Ssh! Don’t say it loud.”

“He’s got loyalists stationed here. Watching. Listening.”

“Yeah. The Ghost Hunter is coming himself.”

---

Katherine blinked slowly, her breath forming faint clouds in the air.

Of course.

Of fucking course.

They were handing her over to him.

The ghost hunter.

The past that she buried alive.