Veil of Corruption

A dark room, darker than the abyss itself.

A man in a military suit sat inside the room, a single light above his head, the only source of sight.

In front of him, a dark silhouette—so dark, it was impossible to tell if it was man or not.

He asked three questions.

The military man couldn't hear them but somehow understand.

He wanted to speak, but the words wouldn't come.

He became frustrated.

Beside him, he sensed another presence, another silhouette—different from the first.

This new figure knew the answers the military man could not voice.

It spoke for him, to the darkest silhouette.

Military man was happy.

Now, the military man could ease, he could rest.

He closed his eyes and slept.

......

"What a strange dream..." Jaden woke up in his new room, similar in size but undeniably different. The ceiling glowed faintly with a dull amber light—an artificial sunrise filtered through sterile fluorescents. It didn't warm his skin or flicker with life. It simply turned on, like everything else here.

He lay still for a moment; his eyes fixed on the blank concrete above.

By the time he got up, the memory of his peculiar dream had already slipped away. Today was his first day overseeing the departure bay.

A message pinged on his communication device, sent by a friend and colleague. He grabbed it from the table, pressed a few buttons, and spoke into it.

"Good morning, Carter."

 .....

Lieutenant Carter was giving his new colleague a tour of the departure bay.

''Behind the security panel is the buffer zone, which is used for isolation. You cannot directly monitor it from the control room; you have to manually check for any issues. While it's the maintenance team's responsibility to conduct audits, it's still good for you to be aware.''

Carter led Jaden to the door, a simple, lockless entryway. Jaden frowned at the lack of security at such an important entrance.

"This is the entrance to the buffer zone," Carter explained to Jaden.

Carter turned the knob and pushed the door open effortlessly, stepping into the dark expanse beyond. Jaden followed closely behind.

Inside, heavy machinery rumbled, with pipes hissing and pumps churning. The air was steaming hot, filled with the mechanical clatter of rotating gears.

As Jaden exited the sweltering buffer zone, he asked, "Why isn't there a lock on the door?"

"No need," came the reply. "The buffer zone's sole purpose is to provide heat and block the wind from the departure area. It doesn't serve any other function. Even if someone wanted to cause trouble, what could they do? Freeze the supply corps? Don't worry about the logistics unit. The military has plenty of ways to handle such situations."

"Wouldn't it be better to at least take precautions?" Jaden insisted.

Carter joked, "That's a good idea. Why don't you buy a lock for this door?"

Jaden, not taking it as a joke, replied, "I will, and that's better than losing heat insulation in the departure bay, hindering the logistics of the operation."

The departure bay was merely a station to monitor the supply corps before they were sent back from the Greywell military station. Its functionality didn't really hinder operations—maybe it left the supply corps stranded against the mountain's cold winds, but that wasn't much of an issue. They could always stay in their vehicles for warmth.

"Alright," Carter said, not wanting to argue.

After finishing his tour of Departure Bay with Carter, his friendly and outgoing guide, he found a bench near an unplugged vending machine and took a seat. Carter had a cheerful nature and an extroverted charm, always answering questions with kindness and patience. Polite and genuine, he was the kind of person everyone could easily admire. Since it was Jaden's first day, he was told to take it easy and given the day off. He was also advised to meet the locksmith at the maintenance station to sort out his lock, which would give him a chance to interact with the maintenance team.

"At least introduce me to the guy," Jaden sighed, sitting on the bench with an unplugged cord lying near his foot.

After a moment, Jaden stood up, straightened his back, and headed toward the maintenance station. He didn't need a guide—he already knew the locations of most stations in Greywell. It was just that his work had never required him to venture out and explore the other stations on foot.

Jaden approached a narrow door equipped with an ID scanner. Retrieving his ID from the datapad, he held it up to the scanner.

"Welcome to Maintenance Departure, Lieutenant Jaden."

With a soft hiss, the door slid open, releasing a breath of recycled air tinged with the scent of grease, burnt insulation, and cold metal. The workshop stretched ahead—low ceilings crisscrossed by thick pipes, illuminated by flickering fluorescent strips. Distant clinks and grinding hums echoed through the bay like the groans of a half-sleeping beast. On the far wall, a board of faded plastic displayed the names of the maintenance crew. Jaden paused, his gaze flicking across the stenciled lines until one caught his eye:Locksmith: James Muller.

The smithing room was set apart in the eastern corner, separated by a reinforced sliding door mottled with rust and fingerprints. Unlike the brighter central bays, this corner seemed to hoard shadows. He pushed through.

Inside, the air was denser—warmer, drier, and heavy with the sharp tang of molten alloys and singed carbon. Sparks danced briefly from a nearby workbench, vanishing into the darkness like fireflies.

And there sat James Muller.

He looked less like a man and more like a relic the workshop had forged for itself—lean, wiry, and wrapped in layers of utilitarian wear. His posture bore the slow collapse of years bent over stubborn locks and fragile mechanisms. A mechanical eye glowed dully, its iris rotating with a faint whirr as it focused on Jaden. The other eye, faded and bleached almost grey-blue, didn't blink.

His hands were unforgettable—long, precise, and callused. Scar tissue mapped his knuckles like a cartographer's work, and strips of dark, oil-stained cloth wrapped each finger like protective seals. Integrated into the gloves he wore were tiny instruments: lockpick filaments, torque rods, and some slender needle-thin device Jaden didn't recognize.

Muller's hair was pulled tightly back, strands silver with age and speckled with soot. The narrow contours of his face were marked by time and accident: a shallow gouge across his jawline, a fused scar just above the brow, lips thinned by silence more than speech.