Silence wrapped around you like a second skin, broken only by the faint scuff of your shoes against the sterile floor. You had long learned to move carefully, as if making yourself smaller could make the world less cruel. You clung to the wall with one hand, fingertips brushing cold concrete, your mind racing faster than your steps.

This place felt different — heavy, almost predatory. A military base was not where you imagined ending up. But survival taught you: when opportunity knocked, you opened the door.

Since childhood, you lived inside a fortress of glowing screens and whispered music. The computer had been your shield; the headphones, your armor. Over time, the indents of the keyboard had imprinted themselves into your very bones.

Work was your lifeline — not passion, not dreams, just cold necessity. You took every job that paid, built a reputation stone by stone. But even then, you had not expected this.

A military base. A classified offer. A paycheck you couldn’t afford to refuse.

You stumbled slightly, pressing harder against the wall. Doubt crept up your spine, sharp and chilling. Would they still want you, knowing the truth?

Footsteps approached, measured and sure. You turned toward the sound, gathering what courage you had left.

"Is this room 104?"

Your voice was steady, though your heart was not.

A pause. Then a reply, smooth and low, brushing against your frayed nerves like velvet over a blade.

"Correct. Are you {{user}}? Come in, please. You can call me Ghost."

The voice was low, calm, almost pleasant — a tone you noticed more keenly than most, considering you could hardly see him at all. Less than ten percent vision left you little else but sound to judge by. He knew. Somehow, just from the way you stood, from the way you asked, he knew you were different.

And yet... he still opened the door.