The sun barely rising over the horizon when Ethan received the order to go to the briefing room for a special history lesson.
Ethan sat in one of the base’s smaller briefing rooms, the sterile walls illuminated by soft, artificial lighting. The room was empty save for a table and a set of chairs, one of which he occupied. A faint hum of machinery filled the air, a reminder of the advanced technology powering every corner of The Division’s operations.
He glanced at his watch. It had been three days since his arrival, and the whirlwind of training sessions and simulations had left little time for anything else. Yet here he was, summoned without explanation.
The door hissed open, and a tall woman in a fitted suit strode in. Her presence immediately commanded the room. She carried a slim tablet under one arm, and her sharp gaze landed on Ethan as if she were already evaluating him.
“Mr. West,” she said crisply, extending a hand. “Dr. Alina Ho. I head The Division’s Historical and Archival Division.”
Ethan rose, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, her demeanor professional. “Ethan West,” he replied. “Though I guess you already know that.”
Dr. Ho gave a faint smile. “Of course. Please, sit.”
As they both took their seats, Dr. Ho placed the tablet on the table and tapped it lightly. A holographic projection sprang to life, displaying a rotating globe surrounded by glowing symbols Ethan couldn’t identify.
“You’ve been with us for a few days now,” Dr. Ho began, her tone brisk. “You’ve seen glimpses of what we do, but not the full picture. My job is to ensure you understand what you’ve become part of.”
Ethan leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “I’m listening.”
“Good,” Dr. Ho said, swiping her tablet. The projection shifted to show grainy footage of a war-torn city. “Let’s start with a simple fact: The Division exists because the world changed in ways most people will never comprehend.”
The footage zoomed in on a crumbling building, where shadowy figures moved unnaturally through the rubble. Ethan squinted, unsure of what he was seeing.
“This was Berlin, 1945,” Dr. Ho explained. “The end of World War II. A time of chaos and destruction—but also something else. The sheer scale of death and suffering during the war acted as a catalyst, unleashing forces that had long been dormant.”
Ethan frowned. “Forces? You mean...?”
“Supernatural phenomena,” Dr. Ho confirmed. “Creatures, entities, energies—things that defy scientific explanation. What you’re looking at is one of the first documented sightings of a shadow wraith. It was feeding on the lingering despair in the area.”
Ethan sat back, letting her words sink in. The footage changed to show a group of soldiers cautiously approaching the building, their weapons drawn. The scene cut off abruptly as static filled the screen.
“The soldiers you just saw?” Dr. Ho continued. “None of them made it out. The official report blamed the collapse of the structure, but we know better.”
“And this is why The Division was created?” Ethan asked.
Dr. Ho nodded. “In 1946, the United Nations established The Division as a covert organization tasked with investigating, containing, and, when necessary, eliminating supernatural threats. Our work is hidden from the public, but it has shaped the modern world in ways you can’t imagine.”
Ethan stared at the projection, now cycling through images of strange symbols and faded documents. “Why the secrecy?”
“Because humanity isn’t ready for the truth,” Dr. Ho replied, her voice firm. “The existence of these phenomena would shatter the foundations of society—religion, science, politics. Panic would spread faster than any creature we’ve faced. Our job isn’t just to fight the unknown. It’s to keep it hidden.”
Ethan nodded slowly, understanding the weight of her words.
Dr. Ho tapped her tablet again, and the projection shifted to show a timeline of significant Division operations. “That’s what we’ll cover today: how we began, what we’ve faced, and why you’re here now.”
The briefing was just beginning, but Ethan already felt the enormity of what he had stepped into. The Division wasn’t just an organization—it was a shield, standing between humanity and the things that lurked in the dark.
The holographic timeline flickered, and images of post-World War II landscapes filled the space between Ethan and Dr. Ho. Bombed-out cities, barren battlefields, and shattered homes flashed in rapid succession, each one a stark reminder of the war’s devastation.
Dr. Ho leaned slightly forward, her hands clasped as she spoke. “The Second World War wasn’t just a human tragedy. It was a turning point for the supernatural. The scale of death, fear, and destruction during those years unleashed forces that had been dormant for centuries.”
Ethan watched as the images shifted to eerie, grainy footage. In one clip, a spectral figure drifted through a destroyed village, its form flickering like smoke. Another showed a soldier firing his rifle wildly into the darkness, only for a shadowy shape to consume him entirely.
“These forces—what were they?” Ethan asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Some we had names for: wraiths, revenants, and lesser demons,” Dr. Ho replied. “Others defied even our oldest myths. They thrived on the chaos, drawn to the suffering like moths to a flame. Some fed on human emotions—grief, anger, fear. Others were opportunistic predators, taking advantage of the world’s distractions.”
“And no one knew how to fight them?”
“Not at first,” Dr. Ho admitted. “That’s why the early years of The Division were so critical. We had to learn on the job, often at great cost.”
The projection shifted again, this time showing a crumbling church surrounded by thick fog. “This is St. Gertrude’s Abbey in Belgium, 1945,” Dr. Ho said. “It was one of the first documented cases of a haunt manifesting during the war. Local legends spoke of restless spirits tied to the abbey’s dark past, but it wasn’t until the war that they became violent.”
The footage showed a team of soldiers cautiously entering the abbey, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. Moments later, the screen distorted, and faint screams echoed before the recording abruptly ended.
“Only one soldier survived that mission,” Dr. Ho continued. “His account was dismissed as trauma-induced hysteria. But it caught the attention of a group of researchers who would later form The Division’s founding council.”
Ethan leaned forward, his curiosity growing. “So, The Division wasn’t military from the start?”
“No,” Dr. Ho said, shaking her head. “Its origins were far more eclectic. The founding members included scientists, occultists, anthropologists, and even a few religious leaders. They understood that the phenomena we were facing couldn’t be addressed with brute force alone. We needed knowledge—both ancient and modern.”
The projection now displayed sketches of early containment devices, handwritten notes on supernatural taxonomy, and blueprints for experimental weapons.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the images. “Looks like a lot of trial and error.”
“You have no idea,” Dr. Ho replied, her tone darkening. “In those early days, The Division’s mortality rate was over seventy percent. For every breakthrough, there were countless failures—missions that ended in tragedy because we didn’t know what we were up against.”
The next image showed a document stamped with the Division’s insignia. The words “Operation Blackthorn” were scrawled across the top.
“This mission took place in the Black Forest of Germany,” Dr. Ho explained. “Our team encountered an entity we now classify as a Feral Geist. It took three squads to subdue it, and even then, only two operatives made it out alive. But that mission taught us how to create the first field-grade containment devices.”
Ethan sat back, his mind reeling. “So the war didn’t just change the world—it changed everything.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Ho said. “The lines between reality and myth blurred, and The Division was born to stand at that intersection. Without us, the supernatural would have run unchecked, and the world you know would look very different today.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
The projection now displayed a map, its surface dotted with glowing markers. “These are some of the early hotspots for supernatural activity,” Dr. Ho continued. “Germany, Japan, Eastern Europe, the Pacific Islands—regions where the war’s devastation created fertile ground for anomalies.”
Ethan’s eyes lingered on the markers. “And now? Are things better, or worse?”
Dr. Ho’s expression darkened. “It depends on how you define ‘better.’ We’ve contained many threats, but the phenomena haven’t stopped. In some ways, they’ve evolved. The world is still fragile, Ethan. That’s why we exist.”
Ethan nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of her words. He was beginning to see the bigger picture—the enormity of The Division’s mission and the stakes involved. This wasn’t just about fighting monsters. It was about protecting humanity from a truth it couldn’t handle.
“Where do I fit into all this?” he asked finally.
Dr. Ho’s lips curled into a faint smile. “You’ll see soon enough. For now, let’s continue.”
Dr. Ho adjusted the holographic display with a swipe of her hand. The map of supernatural hotspots dissolved, replaced by the emblem of the United Nations encircled by The Division’s insignia—a globe surrounded by seven stars.
“In 1946,” Dr. Ho began, “the United Nations recognized that the phenomena we faced weren’t isolated incidents. They were global threats, and the response needed to match their scale. Thus, The Division was established under a secret mandate, with the support of key member nations.”
Ethan studied the insignia, its design simple yet evocative. “Seven stars. What do they represent?”
Dr. Ho’s eyes flickered with something akin to approval. “Sharp question. Officially, they represent the seven continents, symbolizing our global reach. Unofficially... they have deeper ties to ancient star lore. But that’s a lesson for another day.”
She tapped the tablet again, and the hologram shifted to a document marked with the words Top Secret. “The Division was granted full autonomy, answerable only to a select group within the UN. We operate in the shadows, without interference from politics or bureaucracy. That independence is what allows us to act quickly—and quietly.”
The display changed again, this time to show images of covert operations: agents in tactical gear infiltrating remote locations, helicopters hovering over dense jungles, and researchers examining strange artifacts.
“The mandate is simple,” Dr. Ho continued. “Investigate, neutralize, and contain. But the execution is anything but straightforward.”
Ethan leaned forward, intrigued. “How does something like this stay hidden? You’re telling me no one’s leaked anything in all these years?”
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Dr. Ho smiled faintly. “Oh, people have tried. But we have ways of managing that. Information is controlled, stories are discredited, and any physical evidence is either confiscated or destroyed. The Division doesn’t just fight monsters—it fights the truth.”
Her tone turned serious as she gestured to an image of a containment breach in progress. “The secrecy isn’t just for the sake of convenience. Imagine if the public knew what was really out there. The panic alone would cause societal collapse. Our job isn’t just to deal with the threats—it’s to ensure humanity never learns how close it is to the edge.”
The hologram shifted to a video feed showing a quiet suburban neighborhood. The camera panned to a house surrounded by police tape. In the footage, a Division team in hazmat suits emerged, carrying what looked like a heavily reinforced metal crate.
“This footage is from 1987,” Dr. Ho explained. “A small town in Indiana reported a series of unexplained disappearances. By the time we arrived, the entity responsible had already claimed five lives. We contained it, erased any trace of its existence, and rewrote the official story to blame a gas leak.”
Ethan frowned, his mind spinning. “And the families of the victims? What about them?”
Dr. Ho’s expression softened. “They grieved for their loved ones, as they would have regardless. But they didn’t have to face the horror of knowing what truly took them. Sometimes, ignorance really is the greatest mercy.”
The display flickered again, showing a world map with glowing lines connecting major cities. “The Division has grown since its inception,” Dr. Ho said. “We now operate out of 23 bases worldwide, with regional teams handling localized threats. But the South China Sea base is unique. It’s where we deal with the most complex and dangerous cases.”
“Why here?” Ethan asked, his brow furrowing.
Dr. Ho’s smile turned wry. “This region is a melting pot of ancient myths and modern mysteries. Southeast Asia’s history is steeped in supernatural lore, and the dense jungles and remote islands provide perfect hiding places for creatures that shouldn’t exist. You’ll see soon enough.”
The conversation shifted as Dr. Ho gestured to a chair in the corner. Cassidy Yen had entered the room quietly and was now seated, her arms crossed as she watched the display with a neutral expression.
“Cassidy,” Dr. Ho said, her tone light, “why don’t you explain your thoughts on how The Division maintains its operational efficiency?”
Cassidy’s eyes flicked to Ethan before answering. “Simple. We’re paranoid. Every file, every artifact, every piece of equipment is tracked, cataloged, and secured. Mistakes aren’t just costly—they’re catastrophic. We don’t get second chances in this line of work.”
Her tone was casual, but Ethan caught the undercurrent of tension in her words.
Dr. Ho nodded. “Cassidy is correct. The Division operates under the assumption that anything that can go wrong will go wrong. That’s why we train as rigorously as we do, and why our technology is leagues ahead of what the public knows exists.”
Ethan glanced at Cassidy, intrigued. “And where does all this technology come from?”
Cassidy gave a faint smirk. “That’s classified, West.”
Dr. Ho interjected smoothly, “Cassidy’s family has been... instrumental in advancing our technological capabilities. But that’s a story for another time.”
The exchange left Ethan with more questions than answers, but he decided not to press further.
As the briefing concluded, Dr. Ho stood and extended her hand. “Welcome to The Division, Mr. West. You’re now part of a legacy that has kept humanity safe for decades. We’ll expect nothing less than your best.”
Ethan shook her hand, his expression serious. “You’ll get it.”
As he left the room, Cassidy fell into step beside him, her demeanor more relaxed.
“So,” she said, glancing at him, “what do you think of the history lesson?”
Ethan smirked. “Sounds like I’ve joined a pretty exclusive club.”
Cassidy chuckled. “You have. Let’s hope you survive the initiation.”
Her words lingered as they parted ways, leaving Ethan with the distinct impression that his journey with The Division was only just beginning.
Ethan’s thoughts were still turning over Dr. Ho’s briefing as he walked through the corridors of the base. The enormity of The Division’s mission was beginning to sink in, but it wasn’t until he arrived at the archive that the true weight of its history came into view.
The archive was a sprawling, dimly lit space that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Rows of shelves held everything from ancient manuscripts to modern case files, while holographic displays hovered above desks, cycling through images and text. It felt like a cathedral dedicated to the unknown.
Dr. Ho waited for him near the entrance, her expression calm but expectant. “This,” she said, gesturing to the expanse around them, “is where we keep the stories that the world must never know.”
She led him to a central table where a holographic projection flickered to life. A map of Europe appeared, dotted with red markers. “The Division’s first missions were nothing short of chaotic,” Dr. Ho explained. “We had no established protocols, no standardized equipment—just raw determination and a willingness to learn through failure.”
Ethan crossed his arms, studying the map. “And those failures cost lives.”
“Many lives,” Dr. Ho confirmed. “But each one taught us something invaluable. Take Operation Blackthorn, for instance.”
The map zoomed in on Germany, focusing on the dense expanse of the Black Forest. The hologram shifted to show grainy black-and-white footage of a team moving cautiously through the trees.
“In 1947, reports of disappearances and strange lights in this area drew our attention,” Dr. Ho said. “Locals spoke of a spirit called the Schwarzkopf, or Black Head—a malevolent entity that protected the forest. Most dismissed it as folklore. But when an entire hunting party vanished, we decided to investigate.”
The footage shifted to show the team approaching a clearing, their movements slow and deliberate. Ethan noticed that their gear looked primitive compared to what he had seen on the base—basic firearms and crude containment devices.
“We encountered what we now classify as a Feral Geist,” Dr. Ho continued. “It was a spectral predator, capable of disorienting its prey with illusions before striking.”
Ethan frowned. “How did they deal with it?”
“They didn’t,” Dr. Ho said grimly. “The Geist overwhelmed them. Out of twenty of them, only two operatives survived, and they were barely coherent. But their accounts provided us with crucial information—its weaknesses, its patterns of movement. That knowledge allowed us to develop our first field-grade containment devices.”
The projection shifted again, this time showing a sleek, cylindrical device glowing faintly.
“This prototype,” Dr. Ho said, “became the foundation for the technology we use today. Every failure brought us closer to understanding the threats we face.”
The next mission she detailed took them to the Pacific Islands, where strange sightings around volcanic craters had been reported. The hologram showed aerial footage of jagged cliffs and roiling smoke.
“This is from Operation Pele, named after the Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes,” Dr. Ho explained. “We encountered a creature we now classify as a Lava Wyrm—a massive, serpentine entity that feeds on geothermal energy. It had been dormant for centuries until seismic activity reawakened it.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “How do you fight something like that?”
“You don’t,” Dr. Ho replied. “Containment was our only option. We created a seismic resonance field to force it back into dormancy and sealed the crater with reinforced barriers. The entire operation took weeks, and we lost a dozen agents in the process.”
As the hologram cycled through more missions, Ethan began to grasp the sheer variety of threats The Division faced. Each one seemed more bizarre and deadly than the last—creatures made of living shadow, ancient relics that bent reality, entire towns that disappeared overnight.
“What I’m seeing here,” Ethan said slowly, “is that you’ve been learning on the fly for decades. Adapting with each encounter.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Ho said. “The supernatural doesn’t play by our rules. It’s chaotic, unpredictable. We’ve survived because we’ve embraced that chaos and learned to adapt.”
Dr. Ho’s tone shifted as she gestured to a final display. It showed a classified document stamped with the words Operation Silent Fang.
“This mission,” she said quietly, “is where we lost one of our founding members. Dr. Edmund Yen. His research was pivotal in developing The Division’s first operational guidelines. Without him, none of this would exist.”
Ethan’s eyes flicked to Cassidy, who had appeared in the doorway, watching the display with a carefully neutral expression.
“Yen,” Ethan repeated, glancing between Cassidy and Dr. Ho. “As in Cassidy Yen?”
Dr. Ho nodded but said nothing more. Cassidy smirked faintly, her eyes meeting Ethan’s.
“Let’s just say the family business is complicated,” Cassidy said.
Ethan decided not to press the issue, though his curiosity burned. Dr. Ho concluded the briefing, her expression somber. “The Division was built on sacrifice, Mr. West. Every artifact, every protocol, every success—it all came at a cost. Remember that as you continue your journey here.”
Ethan nodded, his respect for the organization deepening. “I won’t forget.”
As they left the archive, Cassidy fell into step beside him, her usual sarcasm softened.
“So,” she said, glancing at him, “what’s it like knowing you’ve joined a team that’s been fighting the weirdest war in history?”
Ethan smirked. “Let’s just say I’m ready for the next chapter.”
As Ethan walked alongside Cassidy back toward the main section of the base, the weight of everything he’d just learned lingered heavily in his mind. The Division wasn’t just a military operation; it was an intricate web of history, sacrifice, and mysteries. And Cassidy Yen seemed to be entangled in all of it.
“You don’t talk about it much, do you?” Ethan asked, glancing sideways at her.
“Talk about what?” Cassidy replied without missing a beat, her tone casual but guarded.
“Your connection to all of this,” Ethan said, gesturing vaguely as if to encompass The Division’s legacy. “Dr. Ho practically spelled it out back there. You’re not just a tech expert—you’ve got roots here.”
Cassidy chuckled softly, though there was no humor in her voice. “Roots, huh? That’s one way to put it.”
They entered a quieter corridor, the hum of the base’s machinery softer here. Cassidy paused by a viewport, staring out at the dense jungle surrounding the island.
“My family’s history with The Division isn’t exactly a bedtime story,” she said after a moment. “As I’ve told you before ,my grandfather, Dr. Edmund Yen, was one of the founding members. Brilliant guy. Obsessed with solving problems no one else could even begin to understand.”
Ethan leaned against the wall, his interest piqued. “And that’s why you’re here?”
Cassidy smirked faintly, her gaze still fixed on the jungle. “Partly. But it’s not like I had a choice. Growing up, The Division was always... there. Stories, files, strange artifacts locked in cases. It was like living in a museum for the weird and dangerous.”
She turned to face Ethan, her expression more serious now. “But my grandfather’s legacy wasn’t all science and breakthroughs. He made mistakes—big ones. Things that cost lives. He believed in pushing boundaries, even if it meant taking risks no one else would. And eventually, those risks caught up with him.”
Ethan frowned. “You’re talking about Operation Silent Fang, aren’t you?”
Cassidy nodded. “The mission that took him out. He was trying to contain an entity they didn’t fully understand—a being capable of manipulating reality itself. They managed to seal it, but not before it... well, let’s just say it left its mark on him.”
“What happened to him?” Ethan asked, his voice low.
Cassidy hesitated, her usual confidence faltering. “They brought him back, but he wasn’t the same. Physically, mentally—whatever that thing did to him, it broke him. He spent the rest of his life in Division custody, under constant observation. Officially, they said it was for his own safety.”
“And unofficially?”
Cassidy’s smirk returned, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Unofficially, they were terrified of what he might become. Whatever that entity did to him, they were afraid it might spread.”
Ethan let the silence stretch, unsure of what to say. Cassidy seemed lost in thought, her fingers idly tapping against the console beside her.
“That’s a hell of a legacy to carry,” Ethan said finally.
Cassidy shrugged. “It’s not like I asked for it. But here I am, the Yen family’s latest contribution to The Division. Lucky me.”
There was a bitterness in her tone that Ethan hadn’t heard before. It made him wonder just how much of her confidence was a façade.
“And the tech you work on?” Ethan asked, steering the conversation toward safer ground. “That’s part of the family legacy too?”
Cassidy’s expression brightened slightly. “Now that part I actually like. My grandfather may have been reckless, but he was a genius. A lot of the gear we use today started as his ideas. I’ve just... improved on them.”
“Like those drones you’re so proud of?” Ethan teased.
“Exactly,” Cassidy said, her smirk returning in full force. “The old man had the blueprints. I made them better. Smarter. Deadlier.”
Ethan couldn’t help but grin. “You know, for someone who claims not to care about legacies, you sure seem invested in carrying his forward.”
Cassidy rolled her eyes. “Don’t read too much into it, West. I’m just making sure his mistakes don’t get repeated. Besides, if I didn’t do this, someone else would, and they’d probably screw it up.”
Ethan chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”
As they continued walking, Cassidy’s mood seemed lighter, though the conversation had left Ethan with even more questions about her. The legacy of Dr. Edmund Yen loomed large over her, and it was clear she carried the weight of it in her own way.
But beneath her sarcasm and deflection, Ethan sensed a deep loyalty to The Division—and to the team
When they reached the main corridor, Cassidy gave him a sideways glance. “You’re not bad at this, you know.”
“At what?” Ethan asked, surprised.
“Not being annoying,” Cassidy said with a smirk. “Most new recruits ask way too many questions. You’re tolerable.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Ethan replied, grinning.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Cassidy shot back. “Training starts again at 0600, and Ying’s going to have you running until you drop. Better rest up.”
Ethan nodded, watching as she disappeared down another hallway.
As he headed back to his quarters, Ethan reflected on the conversation. Cassidy Yen was a puzzle, but he was beginning to see the picture beneath the pieces. Her connection to The Division wasn’t just a legacy—it was a responsibility, one she carried with a mixture of pride and resentment.
Ethan wasn’t sure how much of that she would ever share, but one thing was clear: Cassidy’s past was as intertwined with The Division as her future.
And now, so was his.