Chapter 8: Ghost Protocol
The fire roared behind them.
Selene didn’t look back. Neither did Victor.
The wellness retreat—the polished illusion hiding the rotting heart of Project Eleven—burned like a shrine sacrificed to wrath. Flames consumed the memory banks, the walls that had heard screams behind soundproofing, the meditating facade of Director Vale.
But some things survived fire.
And some enemies watched through smoke.
Ghost Protocol Activated.
Victor felt it before he knew it—like a ripple in the atmosphere, a sixth sense honed from a lifetime of walking in blood and silence. The air shifted. The predators were waking up.
They walked through the dark woods beyond the retreat in silence. Selene had ditched her fake identity. The makeup was gone, the robe burned. She was back in her skin—but it fit different now. Stronger. Sharper. Her eyes no longer trembled under pressure.
Victor’s burner phone buzzed.
No number. No ID. Just one word on the screen: “RUN.”
He crushed the phone beneath his boot.
“They know,” he said.
Selene didn’t need to ask who. “How long?”
“Ghost Protocol isn’t a normal contract. It’s not mafia. Not corporate. It’s deeper. Government-level silence. A global cleanup order. They're not chasing us. They're exterminating us.”
“Anyone we know?”
“Everyone we don’t.”
Selene frowned. “Then we need leverage.”
Victor held up the salvaged flash drive.
“Project Twelve. We find it, we find their future plans. We destroy them.”
Selene looked back toward the smoke curling over the trees.
“I thought we already started.”
Victor's phone buzzed again—his real one. The one they shouldn't have access to.
Only one person ever called this number.
The screen flashed: “UNKNOWN SIGNAL: EASTERN MIRROR”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Victor’s jaw clenched. “Change of plan.”
He turned.
“Where are we going?” Selene asked.
“Berlin.”
“Why?”
Victor opened the drive and pulled a still frame from a surveillance feed. Black and white. A woman in a white suit, standing at the edge of a rooftop, wind blowing through her hair.
Selene narrowed her eyes. “Who is she?”
Victor looked at the image like it hurt to breathe.
“Her name’s Aira. She's Ghost Protocol's lead architect. She’s the one they send when erasure isn’t enough. She doesn’t just kill.”
He paused.
“She rewrites you.”
Selene’s silence was thunderous.
“And?” she asked finally.
Victor slipped the image back into his coat.
“And she used to be mine.”
---
Berlin – 72 Hours Later
The city was a mosaic of neon and ash.
Victor and Selene entered under new identities—tattoos altered, accents adjusted, movements reshaped. Every step was calculated. Every blink rehearsed.
The message had come through a ghost satellite on an old channel Victor thought was dead. One word. One code.
“Eastern Mirror.”
It was a dead drop location in East Berlin—a forgotten warehouse buried under decades of Cold War secrecy. Inside, the walls were lined with mirrored panels—some shattered, others still reflecting nightmares from decades ago.
Victor led the way. Selene followed, weapon loose in her palm.
The air tasted of rust and betrayal.
In the center of the room stood a black box.
Victor approached it. Pressed his thumb to the scanner. A hiss.
The box opened.
Inside: a VHS tape, a data chip, and a photo.
The tape read: “Project V – Found Footage”
The photo was a surveillance image.
Victor. Younger. Drenched in blood.
Next to him?
Aira.
Smiling.
Selene leaned in. “Is that you?”
Victor didn’t answer.
He grabbed the tape and chip, then turned—and froze.
A red dot appeared on his chest.
So did another. And another.
Selene tensed. Raised her pistol.
From the shadows, five figures emerged. Black suits. Blank eyes. Identical movements. Not people.
Drones in flesh.
One of them spoke. Female voice. Calm. Controlled.
“Victor. You broke the mirror. Now we fix it.”
Selene whispered, “Who are they?”
Victor narrowed his eyes.
“Replicas. Ghost Protocol’s foot soldiers. Memory-wiped mercs with preloaded personalities. Programmed loyalty. You kill them—two more take their place.”
“Then we make it hurt.”
They moved fast.
Victor shot first, taking out the lead Replica with a bullet through the orbital socket.
Selene followed, executing precision strikes—two headshots, one throat rip. She was feral grace now. Unapologetic. Surgical.
But the last Replica triggered something.
A scream.
Not human.
Selene clutched her head. Collapsed.
Victor turned, but the Replica didn’t attack.
It broadcasted.
A high-frequency pulse filled the warehouse—scrambled signals, spliced audio, memory triggers.
Victor lunged, tackled it, and shoved a blade under its jaw. It collapsed, twitching.
Selene groaned. The scream stopped.
“What was that?” she gasped.
Victor checked the fallen Replica. “A trap. Not meant to kill. Meant to wake up something in you.”
He glanced at the mirrors.
One had cracked.
Behind it, he saw something.
A door.
He pried it open. Inside—another room. Stark white.
A bed. Chains.
Medical monitors still active.
A label above it:
“Subject Twelve – Stasis Chamber.”
Selene stepped inside.
The chains were broken.
The bed was empty.
Victor looked at her.
“They’ve already activated Twelve.”
Selene asked, “And who is Subject Twelve?”
Victor didn’t blink.
“Me.”
She stared. “What?”
Victor touched the chip they recovered. His hands trembled.
“I wasn’t the only Victor. I was the final version. The most successful. But Subject Twelve was the original.”
Selene stepped back. “Then who are you?”
He looked up. Eyes dead cold.
“I’m the echo of a broken weapon.”
Silence stretched.
Selene spoke softly. “Then maybe it’s time the weapon rewrote its purpose.”
Victor nodded.
And the shadows moved again.
