Just a Scratch

Opening his eyes.

It took a few disorienting moments for Felix to realize he was lying on the cold, metallic floor of the mothership. For a fleeting instant, his mind struggled to piece together why he was there, like an old computer trying to reboot after a system crash. His vision blurred, and his head pounded as he tried to push himself up. The second he lifted his face from the ground, a wave of dizziness hit him, threatening to drag him back down.

His thoughts were scattered, sluggish, as though his brain had been forced to process far more than it could handle. He patted his forehead, trying to clear the fog in his mind, and then the memories began to surface, fragment by fragment.

Today was the day of the routine report. Felix had come to the mothership to deliver a mission briefing to his superiors. Everything had been normal, routine even—until it wasn't.

He was on his way to the hangar when he encountered them.

The infected.

It was like stepping into a horror film, the kind you couldn't escape from. Without warning, a group of infected had surged into the corridor, their eyes wild, faces twisted into grotesque masks of rage and hunger. Felix had fought back with everything he had, but he was quickly overwhelmed. He remembered the feeling of hands clawing at him, the suffocating pressure as they pinned him down. The last thing he saw before everything went black was a face—contorted, monstrous—mere inches from his own, eyes filled with madness.

The shock of the memory jolted him awake. He gasped, the scene flashing vividly in his mind. Instinctively, he turned his head, and that's when he saw it.

A woman's face.

Her hair was tangled and matted, partially obscuring her features, but what was visible was worse than any corpse. Her eyes were wide open, vacant, yet filled with a frozen terror. Her mouth was agape, teeth bared as if she had died mid-snarl, trying to devour him.

A scream bubbled up from his throat, raw and panicked. Felix scrambled backward, reaching for his gun, only to find the holster empty.

But then, as his heart pounded in his chest, he noticed something—she wasn't moving.

The woman was dead.

One of the metal walls had cracked open, and jagged steel bars had burst forth, impaling her through the chest. Her body was contorted in an unnatural, horrific pose, limbs twisted, fingers splayed as if she were frozen mid-lunge. She looked more like a grotesque sculpture than a human being.

Felix's breath came in ragged gasps as he took in the scene around him. The hallway was a slaughterhouse. Corpses of the infected lay scattered, some dismembered, others decapitated. Blood soaked the floor, pooling in rivers that crisscrossed the corridor.

His pistol, the one that should have been in his holster, was lodged in a crack in the wall, its clip spent and empty.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze to his hands. They were drenched in blood.

His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. What had he done? What had been done to him?

---

The mothership docked at the base without further incident, but the tension among the crew was palpable.

In the conference room, high-ranking officials gathered, their expressions grim. The atmosphere was thick with unease. When the door opened, and Professor Miyazaki entered, his head wrapped in a mummy-like bandage, a ripple of surprise spread through the room.

"Professor Miyazaki?" Dr. Hines began, his voice tinged with disbelief. "I heard you were…"

"Shot in the head? Don't worry, I'm fine. Just a scratch, really," Miyazaki replied with a nonchalant smile, easing himself into a chair as though discussing nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "If the bullet had missed by another two centimeters, even a special person like me might not have been so lucky."

The room was silent, the tension thickening as his words sank in. Many of the officials exchanged skeptical glances. It was hard to fathom how a headshot could result in just a scratch, but no one dared to question him further.

Professor Miyazaki wasn't just any researcher—he was the leading authority on infection events, and his eccentricity was well-known. The Specters, a unique group with physical abilities far beyond those of ordinary humans, possessed extraordinary healing powers. If anyone could survive a headshot with just a scratch, it was Miyazaki.

They quickly moved on to the matter at hand, reviewing the chaotic events that had unfolded.

It was as though the gates of a lunatic asylum had been thrown open, and madness had poured in. A group of infected had infiltrated the mothership, wreaking havoc. But just as the situation seemed dire, a mysterious figure, referred to as "Moon Knight," had appeared on the scene. He had dispatched the infected with brutal efficiency.

In the aftermath, even the most seasoned agents were left in disbelief. The mothership, which had always been considered impenetrable, felt more like a private playground for this enigmatic intruder. He had not only neutralized the threat but also extinguished a fire near the power cabin—an act that had almost gone unnoticed in the chaos.

Yet, despite their unexpected rescue, there was an unsettling sense that something was deeply wrong. The mothership, a symbol of strength and security, now felt vulnerable, as if it had been exposed to forces beyond their control.

The ability to create dreams, coupled with the appearance of the white knight, had left witnesses shaken.

Professor Miyazaki offered an explanation, suggesting that the white knight might possess a form of dream-manipulation, but some agents believed there was more to it.

"You didn't see it directly," one agent later remarked during questioning, his voice tinged with both awe and dread.

"That thing… I've never encountered anything like it. It's as if your soul is being gripped, your very breath controlled, like your body no longer belongs to you…"

Several agents shared similar experiences, and despite reassurances that it was all just an illusion, their testimonies only deepened the mystery surrounding the Moon Knight.

While the dream system's abilities and the white knight's unearthly presence were concerning, they weren't the most pressing issues.

The core problem was far more insidious—a traitor within their ranks.

"Melanie Chase," Professor Miyazaki stated, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Melanie wasn't just any agent; she held a significant rank within the Ninth Special Service Division. If she had indeed turned traitor, the implications were dire.

Yet, even with her rank, disabling the mothership's alarm system should have been impossible without the highest clearance.

"That's a serious accusation," Minister Hercules said, his voice cautious. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely," Miyazaki replied, crossing his legs as he gestured to the bandage on his head.

"She shot me in the forehead."

The room erupted in a low murmur, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"Melanie is missing. Does anyone know where she is?"

"She's no longer on the mothership. The invasion was likely a diversion, and the dream maker's abilities only added to the chaos. I suspect she left before the dream maker reached the command room."

Miyazaki's voice was calm, almost detached, as he continued.

"I've sent teams to search for her at the ground base and her known residences. But I wouldn't hold out much hope."

The mood in the room grew even darker.

"A senior agent from the Division in league with an infected criminal group," Hercules muttered. "Well, at least the news can't get any worse."

"In fact, it might," Miyazaki said, almost casually.

"What do you mean?" Hercules asked, his brow furrowing.

Miyazaki leaned forward, a hint of secrecy in his expression.

"I've examined the corpses. Most of the invaders were indeed infected, but the masked man who manipulated the dream… he wasn't infected."

The room was filled with confused murmurs.

"Then what was he?" someone asked.

"I believe he was a phantom," Miyazaki replied, his voice firm.

A stunned silence fell over the room.

"A phantom? You mean…"

"Yes," Miyazaki confirmed, his voice deadly serious. "Something similar to our agent Fana and the one separated from Ivan before. The enemy we're dealing with, the organization known as 'the Dead,' may have a considerable number of phantoms among them."

The news hit the room like a bombshell.

Phantoms were far more terrifying than ordinary infected people. Ivan's experience had proven that. While infected individuals were still constrained by human frailty, phantoms were not. They were new entities, separated from the spirit, and the limits of their power were unknown.

And if phantoms possessed abilities as devastating as the dream manipulation witnessed today, the threat was even greater.

"We have bad news as well," Minister Richard interjected, his tone grim. "We checked the items in the warehouse and discovered that one piece of evidence is missing."

"What evidence? Is it important?" Hercules asked.

"No, it's a D-level exhibit, numbered a086," Richard explained. "But if they went to all this trouble, that item might have been their target from the start… it must be significant.

One more thing about this evidence—it may be a coincidence, but a086 was brought back by our

 former operations captain, Link, just before he… defected."

The mention of Link's name sent a ripple of tension through the room.

"Link, the one at the top of our wanted list?" someone asked.

"Of course," Richard replied. "Do you know of any other defected agents named Link?"

Hercules rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "And what's the purpose of this evidence?"

"That's the problem," Richard said, his voice tinged with frustration. "We don't know."

---

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