Location: Tavaran Desert – Abandoned Resonance Site
The desert stretched endlessly, a sea of heat and silence. Nora wiped sweat from her brow, eyes fixed on the distant ridge where satellite intel had marked a buried bunker—Project Resonance, the last known facility built by Damien's grandfather during the earliest years of the Tavaran covert operations division.
"No security, no patrols. This feels wrong," Cyrus muttered as he scanned the terrain with infrared goggles.
"Not wrong," Damien replied, adjusting the strap on his gear pack. "Just... forgotten. That's even worse."
Beneath the scorched sands lay secrets buried too deep for time to erase. They approached a steel hatch half-buried beneath rust and dust. Nora keyed in the override code pulled from the Architect's final data stream.
It clicked.
With a groan of grinding metal, the hatch creaked open, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending into pitch-black darkness. The air shifted—cooler, metallic, with the faint scent of long-dead machinery.
As they descended, old lights flickered to life one by one, illuminating faded signs: "Project Resonance – Level 1. Authorized Personnel Only."
Cyrus whistled. "If this place has a ghost, I vote we don't stay for introductions."
Inside, the facility felt preserved—untouched. Walls lined with project files, blueprints, even prototype weapons gathering dust. Nora ran her fingers over a faded plaque: "Resonance: Where Frequency Meets Memory."
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
Damien stared at a wall schematic, his eyes narrowing. "It was an experiment. A neural frequency transmitter that could store, manipulate, or even rewrite memory over time—legacy extraction through resonance."
"Sounds like psychological warfare meets Frankenstein," Cyrus muttered.
Deeper inside, they entered what looked like a command room. Screens buzzed to life, showing static-filled logs and fragmented security footage. A recording played:
"If this message is received… it means the Architect failed. The Kane family is compromised. Memory decoys must remain intact. Damien… if you're hearing this, you were never meant to—"
The screen shorted out with a hiss.
Nora's jaw tightened. "Kane family? That's your mother's bloodline?"
Damien's hands curled into fists. "My father never spoke of this. This... goes deeper than either side admitted."
Suddenly, a voice echoed from the hallway—clear, masculine, and hauntingly familiar. "Took you long enough, nephew."
They turned.
An older man stood in the doorway, dressed in combat gear aged by time, his expression unreadable. The resemblance to Damien was unmistakable.
"Uncle Marcus?" Damien breathed.
But Marcus Kane had been declared dead years ago.
"I was dead," Marcus said flatly, stepping into the light, "until they made me a living ghost."