Ethan West stared at the sunrise from the deck of his small cabin overlooking a misty lake in the Pacific Northwest. The morning light shimmered across the water's surface, painting it with streaks of gold and crimson. His breath was steady, controlled, as he finished the last of his morning exercises—a series of pull-ups that left his hands raw but his mind clear. To anyone watching, he would have seemed like a man at peace, but those who knew Ethan understood the truth: his calm was a discipline born from years of chaos.
At thirty-three, Ethan was already a legend in the Navy SEALs. Among his peers, he was known for his sharp instincts, tactical brilliance, and an uncanny ability to sense danger before it struck. There was a reason his callsign had been Oracle. But to Ethan, the moniker felt more like a burden than a badge of honor. He had retired from active duty six months ago, citing a need to "find himself." The truth, however, was far more complicated.
Ethan’s last mission was in the dense, humid jungles of Southeast Asia—a covert operation to extract a kidnapped diplomat from a well-hidden insurgent camp. It was supposed to be a textbook mission: infiltrate under the cover of darkness, eliminate the hostiles, secure the target, and exfiltrate before sunrise.
But the jungle had other plans.
Hours before reaching the target, Ethan’s team stumbled upon a clearing littered with animal carcasses, their bodies arranged in strange, ritualistic patterns. Some of his teammates muttered about local superstitions—stories of vengeful spirits haunting the jungle. Ethan dismissed the chatter, focusing on the mission. Yet, as they moved deeper into the undergrowth, an unshakable feeling of being watched settled over him.
When the ambush came, it wasn’t from insurgents. It wasn’t even human.
Ethan could never fully explain what they encountered that night. Shadows moved faster than the eye could follow. Bloodcurdling screams and laughing echoed through the jungle, disorienting the team as they scrambled to form a defensive perimeter. Whatever attacked them was relentless, tearing through their lines with a ferocity that left no time to think—only to react.
In the chaos, Ethan relied on his instincts, leading the survivors to higher ground and holding off the unknown assailants long enough for an extraction team to arrive. The diplomat was never found, and several of Ethan’s closest teammates didn’t make it out. The official report attributed the incident to a rogue wildlife attack exacerbated by insurgent traps. But Ethan knew better.
The encounter haunted him.
Ethan’s retirement wasn’t the peaceful transition he had imagined. While his superiors praised him as a hero, the whispers of what really happened on that mission never left him. Some called him unnecessarily paranoid; others hinted that the pressure of combat had finally broken him.
Back in the US, he bought the lakeside cabin to escape the noise—both external and internal. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as he filled his time with physical training, survival exercises, and long hikes into the wilderness. But no matter how hard he pushed himself, the memories remained. Every night, the same dreams returned: flashes of the jungle, the guttural growls of unseen predators, and the unrelenting sensation of being hunted.
It was during one of these restless nights that Ethan began noticing the patterns.
The attack in the jungle wasn’t the first time Ethan had encountered the inexplicable. He thought back to other missions: the time his team found an abandoned village in Eastern Europe, every building charred black yet eerily intact. Or the rescue op in the Middle East, where they recovered hostages who spoke of shadowy figures that dissolved into ash when touched by sunlight. At the time, Ethan had chalked it up to fear-induced hallucinations. But now, he wasn’t so sure.
Something was out there—something that defied logic and reason. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, it seemed to follow him.
As Ethan completed his final pull-up, he dropped to the ground, his boots crunching against the gravel path leading to his cabin. The early morning chill bit at his exposed skin, but he welcomed the discomfort. Pain was a reminder that he was still alive.
He moved to his outdoor training area—a makeshift obstacle course built from logs, ropes, and rusted metal he’d salvaged from a nearby scrapyard.
Ethan’s solitary exile was by choice, though he sometimes questioned whether it was the right choice. After leaving the Navy SEALs, there hadn’t been anyone to welcome him back into civilian life—no wife, no children, no family waiting with open arms. His parents had passed away ages ago in a car accident, and his younger sister had succumbed to a rare illness when they were still teenagers. And what few friendships he’d forged in the military had been tempered by the understanding that attachments could be dangerous in their line of work.
His cabin was the perfect retreat for someone like him. Tucked away miles from the nearest town, it offered a kind of isolation that allowed Ethan to focus solely on maintaining the physical and mental edge he’d spent years honing. His days were structured with the precision of a military schedule, starting with a morning workout and followed by weapons drills using the small collection of firearms he kept locked in a reinforced shed behind the cabin.
The cabin itself was simple: a one-bedroom layout with a kitchenette, a small living area, and an even smaller bathroom. The walls were bare, save for a few maps and tactical diagrams pinned up like decorations. A bookshelf held an assortment of field manuals, survival guides, and a few well-worn novels. There was no television, no internet. If Ethan needed to stay connected to the outside world, he relied on a satellite phone he kept for emergencies.
Ethan's days were a series of predictable schedule. After training, he often ventured into the surrounding wilderness, practicing navigation and survival techniques. The dense forest and winding trails provided an endless playground for someone who thrived on self-reliance. He hunted and foraged for food, not out of necessity but as a way to stay sharp. Every now and then, he would hike to the nearest town to stock up on supplies, but these trips were brief and utilitarian. Most of the time. he avoided small talk with the locals and never lingered longer than necessary.
During the evening, his days were even quieter, spent in the dim light of his cabin with a cup of black coffee and a notebook where he jotted down thoughts, observations, and memories. This was his private ritual, one that had started in the weeks following his last mission. At first, the notebook was a way to process the trauma—to put into words the horrors he couldn’t speak about. But as the pages filled, it became something else: a record of the unexplainable.
Ethan flipped through the notebook one evening, his fingers tracing the faint pencil marks on the worn out pages. Each entry,each writing represented a moment that had never made it into official reports, often dismissed or ignored by his superiors. He stopped on one page—a hastily written account of the abandoned Eastern European village he and his team had stumbled upon during a reconnaissance mission.
The village had been eerily silent, every building marked with the same blackened scorch marks as though consumed by fire. Yet there were no signs of smoke damage, no lingering smell of burnt wood or ash. The team found no bodies, no personal belongings—just the haunting emptiness of a place abandoned in a hurry. As night fell, strange noises began to echo through the surrounding forest: guttural growls and whispers that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Before the sun the next morning even arrived, they left, their report attributing the phenomena to local legends and hysteria resulting in mass evacuation. Ethan himself had never believed that explanation.
He flipped to another page, this one detailing a rescue mission in the Middle East. The hostages had been found in a cave, malnourished and terrified. When asked what had happened, they spoke of shadowy figures that seemed to dissolve when exposed to sunlight. The official report called it a psychological response to captivity. Ethan again wasn’t so sure.
The pattern was undeniable. These events weren’t isolated incidents but pieces of a larger puzzle he couldn’t yet see. And then there was the jungle—his last mission as a SEAL. The memory of that night made his skin crawl, even now. Whatever they had encountered wasn’t human, and it had hunted them with a calculated precision that suggested intelligence. It wasn’t just fear that drove Ethan to leave the military; it was the realization that he was fighting battles he didn’t understand.
Living alone at the cabin doesn’t give Ethan necessary cash to get by.
Occasionally, Ethan accepted freelance work. Private security firms and intelligence agencies often sought out former SEALs for high-risk operations, and Ethan’s reputation made him a top choice. The money was good, and the work was familiar, but again it never offered the same sense of purpose he’d found in the Navy.
More often than not, these contracts brought him face-to-face with reminders of the strange and unexplainable. In one instance, he was hired to escort a research team into the Amazon rainforest. Their objective was to study an unexplored region rumored to hold significant archaeological value. The researchers spoke in hushed tones about ancient myths and curses, stories Ethan dismissed as folklore. But when the team’s lead archaeologist disappeared one night without a trace, leaving behind only a half-filled journal containing incomprehensible symbols, Ethan was forced to reconsider.
Each contract left him with more questions than answers, fueling his obsession with understanding the phenomena he had encountered. His notebook became a catalog of these events, each entry connected by the underlying theme of the unknown. He felt like a man walking a tightrope between two worlds: the rational, ordered life he’d been trained for and the chaotic, supernatural reality he couldn’t escape.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a deep orange glow across the forest surrounding Ethan’s cabin. He sat at the small table in his living room, his notebook open before him, its pages covered in hastily scribbled notes and fragmented sketches. A half-empty cup of black coffee sat beside it, long gone cold. He stared at the last entry—a rough drawing of the strange symbols found in the Amazon, paired with fragmented memories of the inexplicable events that followed.
Ethan sat at his worn kitchen table, the faint glow of his cabin’s single overhead bulb illuminating the pages of his notebook. The entries sprawled across its pages were a chaotic mix of sketches, hastily scrawled notes, and fragmented memories. They were whispers of things that shouldn’t exist—things he couldn’t explain but couldn’t forget either. Each account was a puzzle piece, hinting at something larger, more terrifying, and impossibly real.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast the cabin in twilight, a sharp knock broke the silence. Ethan froze. Visitors were rare this far out, and unexpected ones even more so. His hand instinctively reached for the Glock holstered at his side as he moved toward the door.
Opening it cautiously, he found no one there. Instead, a single envelope lay on the ground. It was thick and pristine, the paper embossed with a symbol that immediately drew his attention: a globe encircled by seven stars. Something about the emblem tugged at his memory, though he couldn’t place it.
Ethan picked up the envelope, glancing around the clearing. The forest was still, the only sound the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Whoever had delivered the letter was long gone. Closing the door behind him, he returned to the table and carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, the words written in precise, bold handwriting:
“Mr. Ethan West,
You are cordially invited to attend a classified briefing regarding an opportunity of utmost importance. Details will be provided upon your arrival.
Location: Building 19, Government Annex, District 4
Time: 0900 hours, March 15
Contact Name: Colonel Marcus Hale
Present this letter upon arrival. Discretion is mandatory.”
Ethan read the note several times, his brows furrowing. To be honest,he didn’t recognize the address, but the tone was unmistakably official. Yet the lack of specific details set him on the very edge. Why him? Why now? And who was behind it?
He flipped the letter over, searching for any additional information, but the back was blank. The emblem caught his eye again, stirring a vague recollection. He’d seen it once before, on a document his commanding officer had hurriedly filed away during his debrief after the jungle mission. It had been a fleeting moment, but enough to stick in his memory.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, weighing his options. The letter’s secrecy and timing were suspicious, but it offered something he couldn’t ignore: answers. The rational part of him screamed to discard it, to stay in the safety of his secluded life. But the other part—the part that had cataloged every strange and unexplainable event he’d encountered—urged him to go.
The government annex building was as unremarkable as it was foreboding. A squat, gray structure surrounded by a chain-link fence, it looked more like a storage facility than a hub of classified operations. Ethan parked his truck in the visitor lot and approached the main entrance, the letter folded neatly in his jacket pocket.
A stoic guard manned the door, his sharp eyes scanning Ethan before nodding at the envelope. Ethan handed it over without a word, watching as the man inspected the insignia and waved him through.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted. The sterile corridors were eerily quiet, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. At the end of the hall, a receptionist directed him to Room 304, her demeanor professional but distant.
When Ethan entered the room, he was met with an air of controlled intensity. A long conference table dominated the space, and seated at its head was a man whose presence filled the room even before he spoke.
“Ethan West,” the man said, rising to his feet. He extended a hand, his grip firm and deliberate. “Colonel Marcus Hale.”
Ethan took in the man’s appearance: late forties, with neatly cropped gray hair and a piercing gaze that seemed to size him up in an instant. Hale wore a tailored suit that somehow didn’t diminish his military bearing. Behind him, a projection screen displayed the same globe-and-stars insignia from the letter.
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“Colonel,” Ethan replied cautiously. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
Hale gestured for Ethan to sit, then took his own seat. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. West. Navy SEAL. Decorated operative. No family, no ties. A man who’s encountered the extraordinary and lived to tell the tale.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”
Hale leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. “I represent an organization known as The Division. We operate under the mandate of the United Nations, tasked with handling threats that defy conventional understanding—monsters, myths, and phenomena most people dismiss as folklore.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “And you think I’ve dealt with some of these… threats?”
Hale’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I don’t think, Mr. West. I know. Take, for example, your tour in Southeast Asia.”
The mention of that tour sent a chill through Ethan. “You’ve been reading my file.”
“Not all of it,” Hale admitted. “Officially, the incident was reported as a routine patrol gone wrong. But your team’s account—what wasn’t in the file—paints a different picture.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened. He’d never told anyone about the woman they’d found deep in the jungle, her face pale as moonlight, her movements unnatural. Nor had he mentioned the chilling laughter that had echoed through the trees, or the way his men had been paralyzed by something they couldn’t see. Only sheer luck—or fate—had allowed them to escape.
“It was nothing,” Ethan said curtly. “Just shadows and fear playing tricks on us.”
Hale didn’t flinch. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. What you encountered was a Pontianak, a malevolent spirit from local folklore. And it’s far from the only one out there.”
Ethan leaned back, crossing his arms. “Why me?”
“Because you’ve seen the darkness in the world,” Hale said. “You know there’s something beyond the veil of what most people consider reality. And because you’re one of the few who survive it.”
Hale stood, walking to the projection screen. With the click of a remote, the image shifted to a world map, marked with red dots scattered across every continent.
“These,” Hale began, “are documented incidents. Unexplained disappearances. Mysterious deaths. Phenomena attributed to monsters, spirits, and other entities most believe are fictional. The Division exists to investigate, contain, and, if necessary, neutralize these threats.”
He pointed to a cluster of dots in Southeast Asia. “Your region of deployment, for instance, has seen a rise in activity over the past decade—cases involving creatures like the Penanggalan, the Demon Tiger, and, more recently, something far older.”
Ethan frowned. “Older?”
Hale met his gaze. “Arabic lore speaks of ghouls—creatures that devour the flesh of the living and the dead. Recently, one of our teams encountered a nest of them in Vietnam. That team lost a man in the process.”
Ethan’s stomach sank. He could sense where this was going.
“We’re rebuilding that team,” Hale continued. “And we want you to join it.”
Ethan hesitated, his thoughts racing. He’d spent years avoiding these questions, convincing himself that the things he’d seen weren’t real. But deep down, he knew they were.
“What happens if I say no?” he asked.
Hale’s expression remained neutral. “Then you go back to your cabin, your notebook, and your unanswered questions.”
Ethan let out a slow breath. “And if I say yes?”
Hale extended his hand again. “Then you start getting answers.”
Ethan stared at the outstretched hand, the weight of the moment settling on him. This was his chance to confront the truth—and he wasn’t about to let it slip away.
He shook Hale’s hand. “I’m in.”
As Ethan followed Colonel Hale through the labyrinth of sterile and white corridors deeper into the facility, his thoughts drifted back to Malaysia—the jungle, the oppressive heat, and the suffocating sense of dread that had gripped him during his last tour there. It was a memory he rarely revisited, but one that had haunted his quiet nights.
The assignment had seemed routine: secure a jungle outpost plagued by unexplained deaths together with the Malaysian Army SOG . The locals spoke in hushed tones about a Pontianak, a vengeful spirit that preyed on men who had wronged women. At first, Ethan had dismissed the stories as superstition. He’d faced insurgents, snipers, and booby traps—real, tangible threats—not ghost stories.
But the details of the deaths were unlike anything he’d encountered. Each body was found with the same grotesque injuries: claw marks across their chests, faces frozen in terror, and their insides hollowed out as if something had fed on them. His team’s local guide refused to accompany them past a certain point, muttering prayers and warning them to leave the jungle before nightfall.
Ethan’s squad had laughed it off. “Jungle madness,” one of them had joked. “The heat messes with your head.”
They’d pressed on, determined to uncover what they assumed was a guerrilla ambush site. As night fell, the oppressive heat gave way to an eerie silence. The usual cacophony of jungle life—the chirping of insects, the calls of nocturnal birds—had vanished.
The first attack came swiftly. One of his men, a rifleman named Trevor, had been on point when a shadow seemed to materialize from the banyan trees. A piercing scream cut through the darkness, followed by the sickening sound of flesh tearing. By the time Ethan reached Trevor, he was gone—his body slumped lifelessly against the tree, his chest torn open.
Panic rippled through the unit. They opened fire blindly into the jungle, their shouts blending with the echo of gunfire. In the chaos, Ethan caught a glimpse of something—pale and gaunt, with long, tangled hair and hollow eyes that burned with malevolence. It moved unnaturally, its limbs twisting in ways that defied human anatomy.
“Fall back!” Ethan had shouted, his voice barely cutting through the din.
They retreated to the outpost, but the attacks didn’t stop. The shadows seemed alive, the air thick with an unnatural energy. The men whispered prayers and curses, their fear palpable. By dawn, three more of his team were dead, their bodies mutilated in the same horrific manner.
When reinforcements arrived, the brass dismissed the deaths as the work of insurgents using psychological tactics. “Guerrilla warfare at its finest,” the debriefing officer had declared. But Ethan knew better. The way the creature had moved, the unnatural silence of the jungle, the sheer terror he’d felt—it wasn’t something any human could replicate.
The memory brought a chill to Ethan till this day, years later. He had buried it deep, chalking it up to a world he wasn’t meant to understand. But Hale’s words had stirred something within him, a need to confront what he’d long tried to forget.
“Take a seat,” Hale said, interrupting Ethan’s thoughts as they entered a smaller briefing room. The walls were adorned with maps and photos of unexplainable phenomena: blurry images of cryptids, ancient symbols carved into stone, and aerial shots of desolate areas with inexplicable scorch marks.
Ethan sat, his eyes scanning the room. “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “you said this Division of yours has been around for a while.”
Hale nodded, leaning against the table. “Longer than most people realize. Officially, we were founded in the aftermath of World War II, but our origins trace back to the occult experiments of that era.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Occult experiments?”
“You’ve heard the stories, I’m sure,” Hale continued. “Both the Allies and Axis powers dabbled in the supernatural during the war, desperate for any edge. Most of it was nonsense, but every now and then, they stumbled onto something real. A creature, an artifact, an event that defied explanation.”
Hale gestured to a black-and-white photo on the wall, showing a group of soldiers standing before a massive stone circle etched with strange runes. “When the war ended, the world was left with a mess. Creatures had been summoned, artifacts unearthed, and the veil between our world and the unknown had been thinned. That’s where The Division came in.”
“So you clean up the mess,” Ethan said, his tone skeptical.
“And prevent new ones,” Hale replied. “We operate under the United Nations’ authority, funded by a coalition of nations that understand the stakes. Our mandate is simple: investigate, contain, and neutralize. We’ve faced everything from cryptids to eldritch anomalies, and we’ve done so while staying out of the public eye.”
Ethan leaned back, processing the enormity of what Hale was describing. “And what happens to the people who don’t buy the official explanations? The ones who see something they can’t unsee?”
Hale’s expression darkened. “We have protocols for that. Some are convinced it was a trick of the mind. Others… require more direct intervention.”
The implication hung in the air, and Ethan decided not to press further.
“Each recruit undergoes intensive training before they’re sent into the field,” Hale said, shifting the subject. “We don’t just teach you how to fight; we teach you how to survive when the rules of reality no longer apply.”
“Reality doesn’t apply?” Ethan repeated.
Hale smirked faintly. “You’ve seen it yourself. Creatures that shouldn’t exist. Forces that can’t be explained by science or logic. The Division’s training program is designed to prepare you for those moments. How to recognize threats, how to adapt to them, and, most importantly, how to eliminate them.”
Ethan thought of the Pontianak, the way it had moved, its inhuman speed and strength. “And how many people survive this training?”
“Enough,” Hale said cryptically. “But it’s not just about physical survival. You’ll be trained in cryptozoology, exorcism techniques, artifact identification, and combat strategies for entities that don’t follow conventional patterns.”
“Sounds like a crash course in folklore.”
“It’s a crash course in staying alive actually,” Hale corrected. “And for someone like you, it’s the next step in a life you’ve already started to live.”
Ethan sat across from Colonel Hale, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. He crossed his arms, his skeptical expression betraying his thoughts. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Colonel,” he said, his tone measured. “But I’m not the type to jump into something blind. Why me? Out of all the people you could have picked, why does The Division need someone like me?”
Hale leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze unwavering. “Because you’re not just another soldier, West. You’re a survivor—a man who’s faced the unknown and lived to tell the tale. More importantly, you didn’t crumble under the weight of it.”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not an answer.”
“You’ve seen things most men would deny with their dying breath,” Hale continued, his voice steady. “But you didn’t. You logged them, cataloged them, obsessed over them. That’s why we need you. Not just your skills as a SEAL—though those help—but your mind. You can process the unexplainable without freezing, without questioning what your eyes are showing you. That makes you rare.”
The words struck a nerve. Ethan shifted in his seat, his gaze dropping to the table as he considered Hale’s assessment. The memories of his encounters—the Pontianak, the strange lights in the Afghan mountains, the shadows that shouldn’t have moved in the Iraqi desert—all came flooding back. He’d spent years trying to make sense of them, and now someone was telling him that his obsession wasn’t madness but a qualification.
Hale leaned forward, his tone softening. “This isn’t just about us needing you, West. It’s about you needing us. You’ve spent your life walking the line between two worlds, chasing answers you can’t find. The Division can give you those answers.”
The room fell silent as Ethan weighed the proposition. His gut told him this was real—that Hale wasn’t some con artist or lunatic. And the promise of answers, of finally understanding the chaos that had touched his life, was too enticing to ignore.
“All right,” Ethan said, his voice firm. “I’ll bite. What’s the next step?”
Hale smiled faintly. “Welcome to The Division.”
The next day, Ethan found himself on a military transport plane, headed toward an undisclosed location in the South China Sea. The flight was uneventful, save for the palpable curiosity that gnawed at him. Hale had provided little information about the base, only that it was The Division’s primary hub for operations in the region.
As the plane descended, Ethan caught his first glimpse of the island. It was small but lush, its dense tropical foliage concealing much of its interior. But what stood out was the fortified facility nestled along the coastline—a sprawling complex of steel and concrete that bristled with antennas, radar dishes, and defensive emplacements. The place looked like a fortress, and for the first time, Ethan realized just how seriously The Division took its mission.
A sleek black helicopter ferried him from the airstrip to the base itself. As they flew over the jungle, Ethan noted the almost surgical precision with which the facility had been built. Every structure seemed designed for maximum efficiency, blending into the natural landscape while maintaining an aura of impenetrable security.
When the helicopter touched down, he was met by a stoic-looking operative in tactical gear who silently guided him through the facility’s labyrinthine corridors. The deeper they went, the more Ethan felt the weight of what he was stepping into. This wasn’t just a secret organization—it was a world unto itself.
The briefing room was a stark contrast to the sterile corridors Ethan had walked through. It was spacious yet utilitarian, with a large tactical table at its center and screens lining the walls, each displaying live feeds of different regions across the globe. A man stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding.
“Captain Ying Wei,” the operative introduced him before departing.
Captain Ying was a striking figure, his sharp features and intense gaze immediately drawing Ethan’s attention. He exuded an air of authority, the kind that came from years of experience and unshakable confidence.
“West,” Ying said with a thick accent, extending a hand. “Good to finally meet you.”
Ethan shook it, noting the strength in the captain’s grip. “Likewise.”
Ying’s eyes scanned him, as if sizing him up. “We’ll see if you live up to the stories Hale’s been telling. For now, just keep your ears open and your mouth shut. You’ll learn faster that way.”
Ethan smirked faintly. “Understood.”
Seated at the table was another figure—a woman with short, dark hair and a calm demeanor that immediately put Ethan on edge. Her piercing eyes seemed to dissect him with a glance.
“Anna Keen,” Ying said, gesturing to her. “Our sniper and lore specialist. If you want to survive in this line of work, listen to her.”
Anna gave a curt nod but said nothing. Her silence was unnerving, but Ethan got the sense she was simply observing, gathering information about the new recruit without offering much in return.
“And where’s this Cassidy Yen I’ve heard about?” Ethan asked, his tone casual.
Ying’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “You’ll meet Cassidy when she wants to be met. For now, her work speaks for itself.”
It didn’t take long for Ethan to understand what he meant. The facility was teeming with advanced technology—everything from state-of-the-art weaponry to augmented reality interfaces that Ethan had never seen before. It was clear that whoever Cassidy was, her influence was everywhere.
The day concluded with an orientation session that felt more like a crash course in a new reality. Ethan joined a small group of recruits in a dimly lit auditorium, where a holographic projection of Colonel Hale flickered to life.
“Welcome to The Division,” Hale began, his voice resonating through the room. “You’ve been chosen because you possess the skills, mindset, and resilience to face the threats most people can’t even comprehend. This isn’t just a job—it’s a calling.”
The hologram shifted, displaying images of creatures and phenomena that defied explanation: a towering Wendigo stalking a snow-covered forest, a massive sea serpent breaching the waves, a shadowy figure standing at the edge of a desolate village.
“These are the enemies you’ll face,” Hale continued. “Some are ancient, others new. All of them are dangerous. Our mission is to contain and neutralize these threats before they destabilize the world. Your training will prepare you to adapt to any scenario, no matter how impossible it seems.”
The recruits were then led through a series of training modules, each offering a glimpse into the challenges ahead. Ethan watched as holographic targets transformed into monstrous forms, testing the recruits’ ability to think and react under pressure. In another room, an instructor demonstrated weapons designed specifically for supernatural combat, from silver-edged blades to guns that fired rounds infused with holy water.
By the time Ethan reached his barracks, he felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation. The Division’s badge sat on the table beside his bed, its insignia—a globe surrounded by seven stars—glinting in the dim light. He picked it up, running his thumb over the engraved surface.
His life had already changed in ways he couldn’t have imagined, but this was just the beginning. As he stared at the badge, a single thought consumed him: I’m not walking away from this.