After reaching the base, I had them collect their assigned gear and tools. Without delay, we began our first round of training. From 3:00 p.m. to nearly midnight, I pushed them hard. Then we returned to camp briefly to swap equipment and grabbed only our sleeping kits and hygiene gear before heading toward the sanatorium on the hillside.
Seven or eight hours of intensive drills had told me what I needed to know. I could already size up these soldiers—physically, mentally, and by discipline.
By 1:00 a.m., we arrived at the facility's gate. The mountain trail was deathly quiet, moonlight dripping through the branches of old beech trees. We carried only what was necessary, and we weren't worried about theft—nobody but soldiers could make it out here.
I stopped at the gate, watching their faces. What I saw wasn't just exhaustion—it was the look of men realizing they weren't as tough as they thought.
"Hungry?" I asked aloud.
No one answered. Then one soldier staggered toward the stone pillar and vomited violently.
Once he caught his breath, I said, "Doesn't matter. You probably couldn't eat anyway. Wash up and get to sleep. Tomorrow won't be easier."
They said nothing. One by one, they dragged themselves up the stairs and disappeared into their rooms.
It was well past curfew—no lights, no fires, no sound. I made my way to my room. The air was better than it had been earlier, less dusty. I groped in the dark for any kind of light source, but there was none.
I took out my notebook and pen, trying to scribble by moonlight, but the words bled into shadow. Then I remembered the old journal I'd found earlier. I lit a shallow metal basin and began tearing out pages to burn, one by one, using them for light.
As I wrote, something strange hit me. I'd been sweating for hours, and the fire's heat should have kept me drenched. But now—I was completely dry. The cold was creeping in from the walls, sharp and unnatural, like I'd stepped into a freezer.
I opened the door. A wave of warm air rushed in. I stepped out, stepped back in, again and again. The temperature difference was staggering.
"Old house," I muttered. But deep down, I knew better. As a special operator, I had been trained—by Osprey himself—to detect and respond to... anomalies.
I didn't know what was happening yet. But I knew it wasn't right.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the old iron crucifix Osprey had given me. It was a countermeasure, not symbolic but functional—at least according to the classified manuals we'd been exposed to. I gripped it tightly, muttering a Latin prayer we were trained to recite. Then I re-lit the basin, blade in one hand, fire in the other, and began searching the room.
The file cabinet's glass was shattered, but its doors were still locked. I pried them open—empty.
Next was the wardrobe. The paint had peeled, hinges rusted. A hidden lock resisted, so I stepped back and kicked the door clean off.
The fire in the basin had dimmed. I reached for the old notebook to tear more pages and noticed—photos.
Tucked between pages, a dozen black-and-white ID-style photos. I held them closer to the fire.
And froze.
The people in the photos were in uniform, sitting formally. But their faces—were gone.
Their skin looked like melted wax. No eyes, just folds. No nose, just holes. No mouth, only a dark, circular void.
Same background for each: the western wall of the sanatorium, blue cloth backdrop.
These weren't casual shots. These were records. ID photos.
My blood ran cold.
I flipped to the back of the notebook. There was a group photo—seven women in white shirts, numbers printed across their chests: 1 to 7. They smiled, held hands. One of them was the nurse I saw in the drawer earlier.
I turned to the wardrobe again, pulled out one of the white uniforms. A large number "1" was stitched across the chest. I reached for the second shirt—and my knife struck something hard.
Not wood. Not metal. Glass.
I parted the garments. Behind them was a large frame, hidden deep inside the wardrobe.
In the mirror, the nurse was there again. But now, her face was pale, her eyes lifeless.
And behind her stood another figure.
A man with no face.
His head wrapped in something like rotting flesh, featureless, wearing a uniform. Standing with his hands behind his back.
I'd gone too far.
I burst from the room and shouted, "Form up!"
No response.
I opened each door, found every man unconscious. Deep, unnatural sleep. I grabbed one, slammed him to the ground, kicked him hard—nothing.
Something was holding them.
I rushed downstairs, filled a basin with cold water, and started dousing them.
Minutes passed. Finally, one stirred.
He blinked and asked, "What day is it?"
I kicked him. "Water. Wake the others."
"Yes, sir!"
"Wear your crucifix. Recite the prayer. You remember it."
"Yes, sir!"
We went one by one, waking them.
Each time, the first thing out of their mouth was the same:
"What day is it?"
You can call it exhaustion, low blood sugar, altitude sickness. Or you can call it what it is.
But that night, I knew one thing for sure—
Something lives in this place.