Maya's body screamed in protest as she forced herself upright. Her stomach still churned with the remnants of the poison.
Her head throbbed. But she couldn't stay on the floor. She couldn't afford to stop moving.
She staggered toward the small, cracked mirror mounted on the wall. Her reflection stared back at her—hollow-eyed, bruised.
A ghost wearing her face but it wasn't her face that caught her attention. It was the blood.Dark red dripping from beneath her uniform.
[Drip....Drip....Drip]
She looked down. The fabric of her shirt was stained—a small, spreading patch of crimson just below her ribs.
The one that had barely stopped bleeding before the poison had torn through her system.And now— It's bleeding again.
Her hands trembled as she pressed against the spot. The pain was sharp, immediate. She winced.
I have one uniform left. One. If I bleed through this one too—
She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe.
If I wear it tomorrow and it tears open during training—if I start bleeding in front of the Instructor—if Dr. Veyron sees—
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.
She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection again.
Her gaze was hollow but there was something else there too. Something cold. Calculating.
Think. I can't ask for help. I can't ask for a new uniform. That would be a sign of weakness.
I can't let the wound stay open. That would be a death sentence. So—
Her eyes drifted to the small shelf beside her bed. The place where she had hidden the few belongings they allowed her to keep.
The diary.
She moved toward it slowly, her legs barely supporting her weight. Her fingers traced the worn cover. She opened it.
And there—pressed between the pages, hidden like a secret she had almost forgotten—was a small, thin needle. And a length of coarse thread.
I kept it. I kept it hidden. They never found it.
She stared at them, her mind raced.
I can sew the wound closed. It won't be perfect. It won't be clean. But it will stop the bleeding. It will keep me alive.
She picked up the needle with trembling fingers. It was cold. Small. Unforgiving. She looked at the thread. She looked at her bloodstained uniform.
She looked at the mirror—at the hollow, haunted child staring back at her.
~~
Mahi's voice raw and desperate. "NO! MAYA, DON'T—DON'T DO IT! PLEASE, BABY, PUT THE NEEDLE DOWN! !"
Mahim stepped forward, his voice cracking with a father's desperate plea."MAYA! LISTEN TO ME!
DON'T DO THIS! YOU DON'T HAVE TO HURT YOURSELF! "
His voice broke."PLEASE, MY CHILD! PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO YOURSELF!"
Fahad was pacing, his hands running through his hair, his voice frantic.
"SHE CAN'T DO THIS! SHE CAN'T, SHE'S FIVE YEARS OLD! SHE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO SEW A WOUND! SHE'LL KILL HERSELF!"
He stopped, turning toward the screen as if Maya could hear him.
"MAYA, STOP! PLEASE! WE BEG YOU! WE'LL DO ANYTHING! JUST WAIT!"
Naya was sobbing, her voice trembling with terror.
"MAYA, NO! THAT'S NOT THE WAY! THAT'S NOT—YOU'LL HURT YOURSELF MORE! YOU'LL—"
She couldn't finish.
~~
The needle trembled in Maya's fingers. Her hands were shaking—not from fear, but from exhaustion.
From pain. From the sheer, overwhelming weight of everything she had endured.She looked down at her own torn flesh.
The wound beneath her ribs was still bleeding.... She pressed the needle against the edge of the wound. Her breath caught, she pushed.
The needle pierced her skin,a sharp, searing pain that shot through her entire body like lightning. Her jaw clenched. Her fingers tightened around the needle.
But she didn't stop... She pulled the thread through. The rough, coarse material scraped against her raw flesh.
She could feel every fiber, every strand, every agonizing millimeter of it moving through her skin.
Her eyes watered, her throat tightened but not a single sound escaped her lips, she pushed the needle through again.
Another piercing stab. Another wave of fire racing through her nerves. Her free hand pressed against the cold floor, nails digging into the concrete.
Still—silence.
She pulled the thread. Tightened it. Felt the wound close just a little more.
Her vision swam. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead and dripped onto the floor.
Don't stop. You can't stop. If you stop—you'll bleed out. You'll die. And then they win.
She pushed again and again and again.
Each stitch was a battle. Each pull of the thread was a war she fought with herself. Her body was trembling violently. Her teeth were clenched so hard she thought they might crack.
But she made no sound.
Just the soft, wet sound of the needle piercing her skin, and the faint, steady rhythm of her breathing—controlled, measured, deliberate.
~~
No one spoke. No one even breathed.The image of Maya — trembling, sewing her own torn flesh with a needle and thread she had hidden in a diary was burned into their minds like a brand.
Not a single sound had escaped her lips.
Not a cry. Not a whimper. Not a plea.
Just silence. Absolute, terrifying silence.
~~
Maya sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her bloodstained hands. The stitches beneath her ribs throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—a reminder of what she had done just hours ago.
Her body was exhausted. Her mind was frayed. But there was no time to rest. No time to recover.
She looked at the clock on the collar.
[5:00 AM. Training started at 8:00]
She pressed a trembling hand against her fresh stitches. The pain was still there, sharp, burning, relentless but it was manageable. Controlled.
She took a slow, steadying breath and pushed herself to her feet.
She looked down at her uniform. It was stained with dried blood— crusted patches that had seeped through the fabric and hardened overnight.
It was everywhere. On her shirt. On her pants. On her hands. She couldn't show up like this. The Instructor would notice. Dr. Veyron would notice. And if they noticed—
Correction Room. Level Three Or Worse.
She couldn't go back there. She wouldn't survive another round. She moved toward the bathroom—a small, narrow room attached to her quarters.
It was simple. A sink. A mirror. A small shower with cold water. But it was hers.
Code Blue has its privileges, I suppose.
She stepped inside and turned on the water. It was cold—biting, sharp, unforgiving—but she didn't flinch. She had endured worse.
She stripped off her bloodied uniform. It stuck to her skin in places where the blood had dried and hardened. She peeled it off slowly, wincing as it pulled at her fresh stitches.
Then she stepped under the water.
It was freezing—shockingly cold—but she didn't adjust it. She couldn't afford to waste time waiting for it to warm up.
She scrubbed her skin vigorously, washing away the layers of dried blood, dirt, and sweat that had accumulated over the past few days. The water ran red beneath her feet, swirling down the drain like a dark river.
She scrubbed her arms. Her legs. Her face. Her neck.
She scrubbed until her skin was raw, until every trace of blood had disappeared, until she could look at herself in the mirror and not see a battlefield.
Then she looked at her hair.
It was matted. Tangled. Clumps of dried blood had stuck the strands together, forming dark, crusted knots that refused to come loose.
She tried to comb through them with her fingers. They wouldn't budge. She tried again. Harder.
Still nothing.
Her jaw tightened. She reached for the small, dented comb lying beside the sink and began to work through the tangles.
It hurt.
Every pull sent a sharp sting through her scalp, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.She pulled. Tugged. Ripped through the knots with relentless determination.
Strands of hair came loose in her hands—dark, tangled clumps that she let fall to the floor like dead leaves.
But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
Because she had to look presentable. She had to look like nothing had happened. She had to look like she was in control.
~~
The projection flickered and went black.
~~
She finally stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a thin towel. Her skin was clean. Her hair was still damp, but it was detangled now—falling in dark, wet strands around her face.
She walked to her wardrobe and pulled out her last clean uniform. It was simple—plain blue fabric, unadorned—but it was clean.
She put it on slowly, carefully, making sure not to disturb her fresh stitches. Then she stood in front of the small mirror mounted on the wall and studied her reflection.
Her face was pale. Her eyes were hollow, dark circles etched beneath them like shadows. But there was no blood. No dirt.
She looked... normal. Good enough.
~~
For a moment, the room was silent, not because the scene had ended but because what they had just witnessed had left them speechless.
Fahan was the first to speak. He let out a low, shaky whistle—half admiration, half horror.
"Mom... your daughter has some serious guts. I mean—look at her. She's been poisoned, beaten, electrocuted, starved .
And then she gets up, takes a freezing cold shower, washes the blood out of her hair, and puts on a clean uniform like it's just another Tuesday."
He let out a breathless, incredulous laugh.
"That's not just strength. That's—that's something else entirely. That's—"
Mahi cut him off, her voice soft but steady, "That's survival.
She's not brave because she wants to be, Fahan. She's brave because she HAS to be. Because if she stops—if she slows down—if she shows even a moment of weakness—"
Her voice caught.
"They'll destroy her. They'll break her completely. And she knows that. So she keeps going. Even when it hurts. Even when she's terrified."
She pressed a trembling hand against her chest.
"She keeps going because she doesn't have a choice."
~~
The door to Maya's room slid open with a soft hiss. She stepped out into the corridor, her posture straight, her dark eyes clear and steady.
There was no trace of the agony she had endured just hours ago, she looked... normal.
The others were already there, waiting.
Subject 0014 leaned against the wall, his broad arms crossed over his chest, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
Subject 0011 stood beside him, fidgeting with his glasses, his thin frame vibrating with nervous energy.
Subject 0002 was leaning against the opposite wall, her sharp eyes fixed on Maya with cold, calculating interest.
And Subject 0004 stood slightly apart, his expression unreadable, his arms folded.
Maya smiled faintly, "Good morning."
Subject 0002 was the first to respond. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "Level Three."
Her voice dripping with mock curiosity. "How was it? What kind of hospitality did they show you?"
Maya's smile didn't waver. "Absolutely wonderful, Five-star treatment. I highly recommend it."
Subject 0011 let out a short whistle—a sound of genuine surprise. "Really? That good, huh?"
Maya tilted her head, her expression innocent.
"Oh, absolutely. I didn't sleep a wink all night—they were just so attentive. Always checking on me. Making sure I was comfortable. Truly top-notch service."
Subject 0004's voice cut through the banter, "You didn't follow orders last time. You hesitated. You failed to comply."
He paused, his dark eyes fixed on her. "Today—will you be able to follow orders? Or will you hesitate again?"
Maya's expression didn't change.
"I don't have a choice, do I? If I don't comply, I'll be sent back. And I don't think I'll survive another round."
A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "So yes. I'll comply. I don't have any other option."
Subject 0014 let out a low, approving chuckle.
"Now that's what I like to hear. No point fighting it—you just do what you're told, and you survive."
He pushed himself off the wall, his broad frame unfolding like a bear waking from hibernation.
"But—do you guys know something interesting?"
Maya raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Subject 0014's grin widened. He tapped the collar around his own neck with a thick finger.
"Once you reach Phase One, they install a special system in these collars."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
"If any subject tries to — you know — end themselves... the collar delivers an electric shock. Immediately. "
Maya blinked. "Really?"
Subject 0011 nodded vigorously, his glasses slipping down his nose. "Of course! Did you think we never tried?"
He let out a hollow laugh.
"After everything they put us through—after all the pain, all the suffering—you think we never thought about just... ending it?"
He shook his head slowly. "Of course we did. We all did. But the collar made sure we couldn't."
Maya's eyes moved across the group, her gaze lingering on each of them. "You too?"
Subject 0002 let out a short laugh.
"Twelve times I tried to end it. And twelve times, the collar shocked me back to life. Each time, it hurt more than the last."
She met Maya's gaze, her eyes hard and unreadable."After a while, I stopped trying."
Subject 0014 let out a low, dark laugh.
"Seventeen times," he said, his voice carrying a strange, twisted pride.
"Seventeen times I tried to find a way out. And seventeen times, that damn collar brought me back."
He tapped his own collar, his grin fading into something more somber.
"Eventually, you learn that death isn't an option. So you just... keep going."
Subject 0004 remained silent for a long moment.
Then, quietly, his gaze dropping to the floor:
"Fifteen."
Maya's breath caught. She stared at him—
Subject 0004, the one who always seemed so strong, so unshakable, so composed.
The one who never showed weakness. The one who always followed orders without question.
He had tried fifteen times. Fifteen times, he had reached the edge—and been pulled back by the electric shock of the collar.
She had never seen him look so... broken.
[ AFTER 5 MINUTES ]
The five of them walked in a loose formation through the gleaming white corridors, their footsteps echoing in unison .
The facility was alive with its usual hum — distant machinery, muffled voices, the ever-present buzz of fluorescent lights.
They reached the training hall. The massive doors slid open with a low mechanical groan, revealing a vast room filled with holographic display.
The Instructor stood at the center of the room, her arms folded behind her back, her eyes gleaming with cold satisfaction.
"Good morning, Ghosts of Hell."
The five of them took their positions in a straight line, their postures rigid, their faces carefully neutral.
"Good morning , Instructor. "
The Instructor began to pace slowly in front of them, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
"Today marks the beginning of your advanced training. You have survived the physical trials. You have endured the psychological breaking.
You have proven that you possess the resilience required to move forward but resilience alone is not enough.
To become truly effective, to become weapons worthy of the name — you must be trained in more than just combat."
She turned and began walking again, her voice carrying through the hall.
"From today onward, you will receive separate, specialized training. Each of you will be pushed to your limits, not just physically but mentally, strategically and intellectually."
Subject 0014 raised an eyebrow. "Separate training?"
The Instructor's lips curved into a thin, cold smile. "It means that each of you will be trained according to your strengths. Your weaknesses. Your potential."
She gestured toward the holographic displays, which flickered to life, showing streams of data and images.
"Subject 0014, you have raw physical power. You will be trained in heavy weapons, demolition, and close-quarters combat. You will learn to become a force of destruction."
Subject 0014's grin widened. "Now that's what I'm talking about."
The Instructor's gaze shifted to Subject 0002.
"Subject 0002 — you possess exceptional agility and precision. You will be trained in infiltration, assassination techniques and silent elimination.
You will learn to move unseen and strike without warning."
Subject 0002's cold smile returned. "Finally. Something worth my time."
The Instructor turned to Subject 0011.
"Subject 0011, your mind is your greatest asset. You will be trained in strategy, logistics, and psychological warfare.
You will learn to anticipate your enemy's moves before they make them."
Subject 0011 adjusted his glasses, a flicker of nervous pride crossing his face, "I... I can do that."
The Instructor's gaze settled on Subject 0004.
"Subject 0004—you are a tactician. You will be trained in battlefield command, resource management, and adaptive strategy.
You will learn to lead—even when the odds are against you."
Subject 0004 gave a single, silent nod.
Finally, the Instructor turned to Maya. Her eyes lingered on her for a long moment before she spoke.
"Subject 0017B,you are different from the others. You possess a rare combination of adaptability, intelligence, and resilience. You will be trained in all of it."
She paused.
"Combat. Strategy. Espionage. Economics. Politics. You will learn to understand the world beyond these walls.
Because one day, you will be sent out into that world."
Maya's heart skipped a beat. "Sent out?"
The Instructor's smile widened.
"Did you think you would spend your entire life in this facility? No — you are being trained for a purpose. A mission. A role that extends far beyond these walls."
She gestured toward the holographic displays, which showed images of cities, governments, and global maps.
"You will learn how nations operate. How economies function. How power is gained—
And how it is lost. You will learn to read people, to manipulate situations, to become a ghost that moves through the world unseen."
Subject 0014 let out a low whistle. "So we're not just soldiers—we're spies?Politicians?"
The Instructor's smile sharpened.
"You are whatever the mission requires you to be. That is the true power of the Ghosts of Hell. You are not limited to one role —
You Can Become Anything. Anyone."
Subject 0011 swallowed hard. "That's... that's a lot to learn."
The Instructor's eyes glinted. "Indeed it is. But you have the capacity. You have the potential. And you have no other choice."
She turned and began walking toward the massive display at the front of the room.
"Your training will be divided into phases. Each phase will focus on a different discipline. Today—we begin with politics and economics.
You will learn how nations are built—and how they can be broken."
Subject 0002 let out a low, dry laugh. "Politics. Wonderful. I've always wanted to learn how to manipulate world leaders."
The Instructor glanced back at her.
"Then you will enjoy today's lesson. Because by the time I'm finished with you—you will be able to bring a nation to its knees with nothing more than words."
The holographic displays flickered, showing images of ancient empires, modern governments and global power structures.
The Instructor's voice echoed through the hall:
"Welcome to your new reality, Ghosts of Hell. Today, you begin your transformation into something greater than soldiers.
Something greater than survivors. You will become the architects of the future, whether you wish to be or not."
The five of them stood in silence, their eyes fixed on the displays, their minds racing with the weight of what they were about to learn.
And Maya—standing at the center of it all—felt something stir inside her.
They're not just training us to fight. They're training us to rule. To control. To become something more than human.
She looked at the others, her fellow ghosts and saw the same flicker of understanding in their eyes.
We're not just surviving anymore. We're becoming something else. Something dangerous.