Ephemeral Echoes: Ghost's Enchantment

✧₊⁺ 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓣𝔀𝓸: 𝓖𝓗𝓞𝓢𝓣 ✧₊⁺

Shepherd has set us up for this mission.
I am blaming him for this mess.

I am standing on the side of a road, full gear heavily weighted on my body. In front of me, the current recruit is laying on the ground, multiple soldiers and officers kneeling around him as they inspect his body.

It's a crime scene.

Apparently, a terrorist we're onto called 'Hassan Zyani', part of a terrorist organization named 'Al Qatala', has been unnoticeably operating in an empty asylum.
It's been empty to the outside, at least.

We don't know for how long this has been going on, but it's to no suprise that we've had to travel all the way to the outskirts of urzikistan for this. 

The recruit is resting on the hard pavement, a knife in his chest and his throat slit widely.
Precisely from ear to ear, to be exact. Whoever's done it, has done it impulsively.

It was a quick, rage- driven act of violence.

The recruit must've silently separated himself from the rest, therefore seemingly exposing himself to something that would lead to his death.

If someone working for Hassan, one of his left-hand men or an active member of Al Qatala has made this mess, then that would mean that they must've had to be here to murder him.
He was found dead and perhaps murdered about thirteen minutes ago.

They're still here.
They're still-

I charge towards the entrance of the asylum, passing the gate in a quick pace.

"Ghost!"

I can hear Soap shout out to me from behind, confusion in his voice as he tries to understand me.

I don't stop.

Chatter quickly fades away, my mind shutting everything out.

Hassan.
Hassan.
Hassan.

I rush through the first floor, checking all rooms.
Nothing.

The only trace of anyone involved is a room full of technical equipment.
There's computers, radios, trackers..

This kind of equipment isn't cheap.
They must've been here for a while.

My mind jumps from conclusion to
conclusion, connecting the dots while I check the room.
As my eyes quickly scan the desks, they come across what seems like a notebook page.
I grab it, hoping for some kind of hint.

It's a letter.

unfortunately for me though, it's arabic.
Fuck!
They knew most of us wouldn't be able to read it.

I read the signature.
'H.Z.'
Next to it, there's two more initials, thickly underlined with multiple exclamation marks surrounding it. 'V.G.', the initials read.

Something of Importance.
Perhaps someone.

'H.Z.' Hassan.
Hassan Zyani.

As I pull my glove- covered hand back from the letter, I accidentally touch the paper.
Suddenly, the ink on it is smeared all over the bottom of the letter.

It's fresh.

Hassan signed it because it's from him.

but to who?

There's so many ideas rushing through my mind. So many thoughts. So many possibilities. I can't stop myself from assuming, I can't stop my mind from making assumptions that might only be half- true.

The Ink.
It's fresh.
He's here.
He must be.

He's-

A loud bang enters my ears as the door to the technical room seals shut.