Saskia’s rifle, a sleek black line of metal she’d learned to hold as an extension of her own desperate will, was leveled before she even registered the shift in her periphery. The muddy boot had a scuffed toe, the laces frayed, but it was undeniably a combat boot. Not one of the pristine, polished models worn by Directive enforcement. Too familiar. Too worn. Her breath caught, a cold, sharp shard in her chest. She pivoted, weapon tracking, the action fluid despite the fatigue that leached into her bones. Her eyes, narrowed and scanning for a threat, locked onto a form slumped against the low-slung sofa. Not a threat. A ghost. Calder. He lay crumpled on the worn rug, a dark, expanding stain blossoming on the side of his heavy parka. His head was lolled to the side, chin tucked against his chest, a sheen of sweat and grime across his pale face. One arm was flung out, hand splayed, unnaturally limp. The other clutched his side, knuckles white against the torn fabric of his jacket. He was bleeding, heavily. Saskia didn’t question it, didn't try to unravel the impossible logistics of how he’d survived, how he’d found them. The world narrowed to him, to the immediate, visceral need to keep him alive. The rifle clattered to the floor, forgotten, as she launched herself forward, skidding to a halt beside him. “Calder!” Her voice was a ragged whisper, ripped from a place she hadn’t known existed. She pressed a hand to his neck, searching for a pulse. It was there, thready and weak, but present. A desperate, fragile beat against her thumb. Bram, who had been staring, aghast, from the doorway, snapped into motion. “He’s… he’s alive?” The question was laced with a disbelief that mirrored her own, but his young face was already shifting, a flash of relief battling with raw terror. “Help me get him onto the couch,” Saskia ordered, her voice regaining its edge, a brittle shield against the tremor in her hands. She hooked an arm under his shoulders, the unexpected weight of him almost dragging her down. His body was colder than she expected, despite the blood. Together, they wrestled him onto the threadbare cushions. Saskia ripped open his parka, revealing a makeshift dressing of torn cloth soaked dark red. The wound was a gruesome slash just above his hip, jagged and deep, clearly where a piece of rock or shrapnel had torn through him. It was infected, already showing angry red streaks around the edges. “Go to the bathroom. Top shelf, behind the mirror. There’s a first-aid kit. The big one. Grab the hydrogen peroxide, gauze, medical tape, and the strongest painkillers you can find,” she instructed Bram, her focus entirely on Calder. Her own pain, the wrenching grief she’d carried for days, receded, replaced by a fierce, driving urgency. She began to carefully peel away the blood-soaked fabric. Calder groaned, a low, guttural sound that tore at her. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, glazed with pain and fever. They drifted over her face, her short, messy hair, the smudges of grime she hadn’t had time to wash away. He gave a weak, almost imperceptible smile. “You… you made it,” he slurred, his voice raspy, barely audible. He tried to lift a hand, failed, and let it fall. “City lights… they suit you. Beautiful.” Saskia felt a flush crawl up her neck, hot and unwelcome, even as her stomach lurched with a fierce, protective tenderness. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, pushing down the surge of emotion. “Stay with me, Hest. You’re not getting out of this one by charming me into forgetting you’re bleeding out on my couch.” Her sarcasm was back, a familiar, comforting weapon. Bram returned, arms laden with supplies. Saskia took the peroxide, dousing a clean cloth. “This is going to sting,” she warned, but Calder had already slipped back into a shallow, fitful sleep, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps. She cleaned the wound with meticulous care, gritting her teeth against the grim reality of the jagged edges, the purplish bruising. Her dispatcher training hadn’t covered field surgery, but she’d seen enough grisly reports to know what needed doing. She packed the wound with gauze, taping it tightly, then gave him two of the strong pain pills with a sip of water Bram held to his lips. “He’ll need more than this,” she muttered, looking at Bram. “A real doctor. An emergency room.” Bram shook his head, his gaze darting to the window, then back to the closed door. “We can’t. Not with… them. They’re everywhere, Saskia. We walked right into the central network. The Morvan Directive. We’re in their backyard.” His voice was tight, strained. “I need to set up the upload. Now. While he’s… resting.” Saskia nodded, knowing he was right. Their mission was still paramount, even with Calder’s impossible return. “Do it. I’ll watch him.” Bram went to the small desk in the corner, where the salvaged server drive lay like a dormant predator. He pulled out a tangle of cables and adapters, his brow furrowed in concentration. He connected the drive to her unit's router, the tiny indicator lights on the device winking on. He worked with a desperate, frantic energy, his fingers flying across the holographic keyboard projected from his wrist-mounted interface. Saskia watched him, then glanced at Calder, who was breathing a little more steadily now, though his face remained pale and drawn. Minutes stretched into an agonizing silence, punctuated only by the hum of the kitchen's ancient refrigerator and Calder’s ragged breaths. Then, Bram swore, a harsh, low sound. “No. No, this isn’t right.” Saskia looked over. “What is it?” “The router. It’s… it’s been tampered with. Hardware-bugged.” He pointed to a tiny, almost invisible chip embedded in the side of the device, barely visible unless you knew what you were looking for. “It’s a listening post. A trap. Any data we try to push through here would go straight to them, not out to the public net.” Ice settled hard behind her ribs. “So we can’t upload it?” Bram slammed a fist on the desk, a rare display of raw frustration. “Not from here. Not through their network. We need a hardline. A direct fiber optic connection to the building’s mainframe. It’ll be in the basement. The utility access.” Saskia’s gaze swept the cramped flat, the comfortable trap they’d stumbled into. The city lights, once a beacon of safety, now felt like a spotlight. “So we go down there.” Before Bram could reply, the apartment plunged into darkness. The hum of the refrigerator died. The soft glow of the digital clock on the oven vanished. Total, absolute blackness descended, thick and suffocating. The entire city block had gone out. Then, through the living room windows, five pinpricks of crimson light appeared, dancing across the far wall, then settling, one by one, on Calder’s still form, then on Saskia, then on Bram. Red laser sights.

The Ghost at the Door