I didn't know how deep the problem ran. But I knew it was serious.
"All of you, sweep the facility thoroughly. I want every piece of paper, every journal, every photograph, every scrap of information brought to me."
"Yes, sir!" the soldiers barked.
Before anyone moved, a sharp, rhythmic dripping sound broke the silence.
Drip... drip-drop... drip... drip-drip...
No one could tell which room it came from—it sounded like it was everywhere at once.
"Leak somewhere?" one of the soldiers muttered.
No answer.
Another voice spoke up, quieter this time. "You hear the pattern? It's... regular."
I'd noticed it too. There was a rhythm. Not just random dripping. I signaled everyone to stay quiet.
I started transcribing mentally.
"Where is my face?" That was the first pattern.
Then the drops changed. A new sequence, faster now.
"Kill them all."
It could have been coincidence. But no one breathed.
Suddenly—BANG—a pipe burst in the courtyard. Water hissed out, the valve completely blown.
"Someone get down there and shut it off!" I barked.
One soldier jumped from the second floor and ran.
Meanwhile, the dripping resumed in a frenzied, almost pleading rhythm:
"Where is my face? Where is my face..."
I didn't wait. I rushed to my room and retrieved the photos from the notebook.
"Everyone! Check your rooms. Bring any notebooks, any documents, any photos—especially ID photos. Move!"
They fumbled through drawers, flipping mattresses, lighting matches, tearing the place apart.
They didn't know exactly what was wrong—but they all sensed it. The sanatorium wasn't right.
Soon, two more notebooks surfaced. I didn't open them. I recognized the same weight, the same pattern.
We didn't wait until daylight.
We packed the evidence and made for the special forces base immediately. I handed everything to the unit commander. He flipped through the photos and frowned. Then we both took it straight to the group commander—the officer overseeing the entire westward relocation.
His expression changed as he turned the pages. He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he issued his orders:
"Do not speak of this to anyone. I'll report it through secure channels."
The sanatorium was sealed off that night. Big red letters were sprayed on the gates:
RESTRICTED MILITARY PROPERTY – DO NOT ENTER
I resumed training. Drills, obstacle courses, field survival. I threw myself into it. The others did too. For a while, it felt like the sanatorium was just a fever dream.
But then the deaths started.
The first was an explosion. A soldier guessed the blast radius wrong—no shrapnel, but the force tossed him into the air. He landed on a rock. Died instantly.
No one thought much of it. Accidents happen.
Then three men went missing during a routine exercise. They were found two days later inside a mountain cave. No wounds. No signs of trauma.
Dehydrated. Dead from thirst.
Another collapsed mid-run. Autopsy showed his Achilles tendon had been severed long ago. Somehow, he hadn't noticed—until his body gave out.
Too many, too fast.
The commander couldn't ignore it anymore. He remembered what I'd told him.
He left for the capital.
Two days later, orders came down. The entire unit would be relocated back east. The relocation was over. I was reassigned to Wind Team again.
Months passed.
Then one day, Osprey called me in.
"Falcon. Step outside with me."
We exited the compound. His tone was casual, but his eyes weren't.
"You saw something back there, didn't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"HQ just called. The Group Commander put in a special request. For you."
I frowned. "The sanatorium?"
"Maybe. Maybe not," he said. "Doesn't matter. I'm coming with you."
We flew to HQ. I was escorted to a conference room. Six of my trainees were already there.
"Say only what you know," Osprey whispered. "No speculation."
I nodded.
That evening, I was questioned by two men in dark suits. Not soldiers. Probably from Internal Affairs—or something else.
They asked direct questions: who found the photos, when, who saw them.
I answered. Truthfully.
They handed me two non-disclosure forms. I signed.
The Group Commander also spoke to me. Again—only facts, no interpretation.
Afterward, I was instructed to remain on base for further briefing.
Two weeks later, the same agents returned.
"Do you remember the exact location of the sanatorium?" one asked.
"Yes."
"You're known as Falcon, team leader of Raptor Team. That right?"
"Yes."
"There's an assignment. You'll be escorting two civilians back to the site."
"Who?"
"You'll be briefed."
"Don't I need Osprey's clearance?"
"He already signed off. You're going."
The next morning, I boarded a military transport plane. We landed at a forward base near the mountains.
Two men accompanied me.
The first was Dr. Henry Lowell, a weapons specialist in his early sixties. Slender build, round glasses, worn tweed coat. He carried a leather notebook, scribbled in it constantly. When we met, he smiled politely and said, "Call me Henry."
The second was Cain Mercer, mid-thirties. Sharp suit, dark sunglasses, missing part of his left pinkie. A black rosary hung from his wrist, and he kept muttering under his breath.
We didn't talk much. They weren't soldiers.
Dr. Lowell was from the Advanced Weapons Division. Mercer worked with a lesser-known agency: Department of Esoteric Threat Response.
I'd heard whispers of them. Paranormal containment, relic retrieval, psychological warfare—depending who you asked.
It took us a day and a half to reach the mountain. Rain had made the trail slick, but passable.
"That's the ridge," I said, pointing. "Sanatorium's just past the saddle."
Dr. Lowell sat on a rock, wheezing. "God, I miss chairs."
Mercer scanned the tree line, muttering in Latin again.
"This place has tension," he finally said. "The kind of tension that lingers in bone."
Lowell raised a brow. "You mean seismic activity?"
"No," Mercer replied. "Lines of force. Subsurface channels. You'd call them 'leylines.' They're... corrupted."
Lowell looked unimpressed. "All I see is forest."
Mercer smirked. "You don't have to see a virus to catch one."
We continued. I stayed quiet. I didn't care what they believed. I was there to keep them alive.
By dusk, we reached the sanatorium. The gate seal had been torn. Someone had been here.
Dr. Lowell began cataloguing everything—rusted tools, enamel basins, even mildew samples from the toilets.
Mercer wandered off with his suitcase. Said he needed to "test the perimeter."
By nightfall, we regrouped at the tent.
"You find anything?" I asked.
Mercer wiped sweat from his brow. "Someone's altered the flow here. This place... it's been prepared."
"Prepared for what?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Lowell chimed in, "I ran tests on the biological matter. Some samples are... off."
"Define off."
"I'd rather not guess."
Mercer reached into his coat and pulled out a folded cloth. Inside was a silver crucifix inlaid with obsidian runes. He placed it in a circle of salt and began whispering in Latin.
Lowell watched, disturbed. "What... what is that?"
"Not for you," Mercer replied. "Just... stay in the light."