The Ghost of Glenidge Academy

PART 1: The Silence Before the Storm

The air inside the cockpit of an AH-64 Apache isn’t like air anywhere else on Earth. It smells of recycled oxygen, hot electronics, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline. It vibrates. It hums with a lethal frequency that rattles your teeth and settles deep into the marrow of your bones until you can’t tell where the machine ends and your own body begins.

For the last ten years, this vibration has been my heartbeat.

“Shadow Lead, this is Base. You are clear for approach. Welcome home, Commander.”

The voice in my headset was crackling with static, but warm. I keyed the mic, my thumb brushing the switch with a muscle memory that had been forged in fire.

“Copy that, Base. Shadow Lead is on final. Good to be back.”

I banked the helicopter, feeling the G-force press me gently into the seat. Below me, the coastline of Washington State was a jagged tear of ink against the silver moonlight. To anyone else, it was just geography. To me, it was the line between two worlds.

Behind me lay the desert. Behind me lay Yemen. Behind me lay a six-hour extraction under sustained enemy fire where the sky had turned to ash and the ground had tried to swallow twelve Marines whole. I had kept this bird in the air when physics said it should have fallen. I had watched tracers zip past the canopy like angry hornets. I had learned that fear isn’t a wall; it’s a door, and you either walk through it or you die standing in front of it.

But ahead of me? Ahead of me lay something terrifying in a completely different way.

I wasn’t just flying back to base. I was flying back to the past.

I glanced down at the digital display, checking my fuel levels, but my mind drifted to the tablet secured in my flight bag. It sat there like a loaded gun. It didn’t contain mission intel or enemy coordinates. It contained an email chain.

A notification. A forward. A joke.

“They sent her an invitation,” the first message had read, written by a ghost from a life I thought I had buried. “Not because we want to see her. But because we want to see if she still looks like a tragedy.”

I narrowed my eyes behind my visor. The world below was peaceful, glittering with the lights of suburbia, unaware of the predator moving silently through the clouds above.

They called me the “Class Loser.” The “Ghost.” The girl who ate lunch alone in the art room because the cafeteria was a minefield she didn’t know how to navigate. They thought I was still that girl. They thought I was coming to their reunion to stand in the corner, wearing a thrift store dress, desperate for a scrap of their attention.

I adjusted the collective, leveling the Apache out.

They were expecting a ghost. They were about to get a hurricane.

---

The Invitation

 

The invitation had arrived three days ago, pinging onto my personal device while I was debriefing a training exercise. I remember the setting perfectly: the sterile gray walls of the briefing room, the smell of stale coffee, the quiet camaraderie of my crew packing up their gear.

I picked up my phone, wiping a smudge of grease off the screen with my thumb.

Subject: You’re Invited! Glenidge Academy Class of 2015 – 10 Year Reunion.

My first instinct was to delete it. Glenidge Academy was a lifetime ago—a different dimension where status was currency and I had been bankrupt. I hovered my finger over the trash icon.

But then, another notification popped up. A forward.

It was from Marin Kovar. I hadn’t spoken to Marin in a decade. She was one of those girls who existed in the gray area of high school social hierarchies—not mean enough to be a leader, not brave enough to be a defender. She just… existed. Watching.

The subject line of her email was different: I think you should see this. I’m sorry.

I opened it. And my blood, which had remained cool while navigating surface-to-air missile threats in the Middle East, suddenly ran ice cold.

It was a screenshot of a group chat. The inner circle. The “Royals” of Glenidge.

Bridger Castellan: Wait, wait. What about Elowen? Sloan Devo: [Laughing Emoji] Oh my god. Elowen Ashby? I forgot she even existed. Does she still look like a drowned rat? Paxton Ree: The girl who ate lunch in the art room? Are you serious? Lennox Foust: This is perfect. We send her an invite. She shows up thinking people actually want to see her. We get to remind everyone how far we’ve all come. The contrast alone would be… chef’s kiss.

I read the messages twice. Then three times. I could hear their voices.

Bridger, with his hollow charm and the kind of smile that promised trouble. Sloan, who treated life like a photoshoot and people like props. Paxton, the lawyer in training who wore skepticism like armor. Lennox, the tech genius whose ego was bigger than his bank account.

They were planning my humiliation like it was a gala event.

Bridger: I’m adding her to the list now. Cascadia Grand Estate. Black tie required. She’ll show up in something from a Goodwill bin. Paxton: If she shows up at all. Sloan: Oh, she will. People like Elowen always show up. They always hope things have changed.

I sat there in the briefing room, the phone trembling slightly in my grip. Not from sadness. Not from shame. But from a sudden, sharp clarity.

Sloan was right about one thing. People do hope things have changed. But she was wrong about what had changed.

I closed my eyes and the memories hit me like shrapnel.

---

The Ghost of the Past

 

Ten Years Ago.

The hallway of Glenidge Academy was a gauntlet. To walk from History to Calculus was to navigate a corridor of judgment. I kept my head down. That was rule number one: don’t make eye contact. If you don’t look at them, maybe they won’t see you.

I was pale, too thin, disappearing inside a sweater that was two sizes too big because I wanted to hide my body. My glasses were oversized, swallowing my face. I carried my books against my chest like a shield.

“Ghost.”

The word was whispered as I passed a group of lockers. I didn’t turn around. I knew who it was. Bridger.

I reached my locker, number 304. I dialed the combination with shaking fingers—18-24-06. The metal door creaked open, and I stared.

Spray-painted across the inside of the door, in thick, dripping red letters, was the word: GHOST.

The paint was still wet. It smelled toxic. It ran down the metal in uneven streaks, pooling at the bottom near my boots.

Behind me, the laughter started. It wasn’t loud or raucous. It was that low, simmering snicker that is infinitely worse because it implies a shared secret that you are on the outside of.

I stood there, freezing. I could feel Sloan’s eyes on my back. I could picture her smirk, lips glossed, head tilted.

Don’t cry, I told myself. Do not give them the satisfaction.

I grabbed my Calculus textbook, Flight Dynamics and Aeronautical Engineering (a book I read for fun, hidden inside a romance novel dust jacket so no one would ask questions), and slammed the locker shut.

I turned. They were all there. The Quartet.

Bridger leaned against the wall, tossing a crumpled piece of paper in the air. Sloan was whispering something to Paxton, who swirled a water bottle like it was a snifter of brandy. Lennox checked his watch, looking bored.

“Nice locker decoration, Ashby,” Bridger called out. ” really captures your essence.”

“Invisible,” Sloan added, her voice light and airy. “But taking up space.”

I walked past them. I focused on the tile pattern of the floor. Left foot, right foot. Breathe.

Later that day, in Mr. Henderson’s class, the tests were returned. Mr. Henderson placed my paper face down on my desk with a small, approving nod. I turned it over.

98%.

I felt a tiny spark of pride. Just a flicker. I folded the paper neatly.

Then, a projectile hit the back of my head. Hard.

It was a crumpled ball of paper. It bounced off my skull and skittered across the floor. I didn’t turn around. I knew what it was. I could hear Bridger groaning behind me. He had gotten a 72%. To him, my success wasn’t just an annoyance; it was an insult.

I left the ball of paper on the floor. I didn’t throw it back. I didn’t complain. I just folded myself smaller, trying to occupy less of the world so they wouldn’t have anything to target.

The final straw—the memory that burned the hottest—was Career Day.

The gymnasium was filled with booths. Law firms, medical schools, tech startups. The students of Glenidge were destined for greatness, or so we were told. They crowded around the prestigious tables, shaking hands, practicing the networking skills their parents had paid thousands of dollars to instill in them.

I walked to the far corner, near the fire exit. It was the only booth with no line.

U.S. Navy Recruitment.

Behind the table sat a recruiter in dress whites. He looked bored, maybe a little out of place among the high-society options. But when I approached, he sat up straighter.

“Can I help you, Miss?”

I looked at the pictures on his table. Ships cutting through waves. Jets launching from decks. And there, a helicopter. An ugly, beautiful, insect-like machine bristling with weapons.

“That,” I whispered, pointing. “What does it take to fly that?”

The recruiter looked at me—really looked at me. He didn’t see the oversized sweater or the thick glasses. He saw the intensity in my eyes.

“Math,” he said. “Discipline. And a refusal to quit. You have to be smarter than the machine and tougher than the mission.”

“I can do that,” I said.

From across the gym, I heard it. The mimicry.

Bridger and Sloan were watching me. Bridger snapped a mock salute, exaggerating the motion, his hand flapping against his forehead like a dying fish. Sloan doubled over laughing, clutching Paxton’s arm for support.

“Captain Ghost reporting for duty!” someone shouted.

My face burned. The recruiter’s jaw tightened. He looked over my shoulder at them, then back at me.

“Ignore them,” he said quietly. “Wolves don’t lose sleep over the opinions of sheep.”

I took the pamphlet. I tucked it into my bag as if it were fragile glass. I turned and walked away, past their laughter, past their mockery.

I walked all the way to graduation, where I walked across the stage to polite, scattered applause. No family to cheer (my aunt was working a double shift). No friends to scream my name. I took my diploma, walked down the stairs, and kept walking.

I walked out of the school gates and I never looked back.

Until now.

---

The Decision

 

Back in the present day, the silence of my quarters at the base felt heavy. I looked at the email on my phone again.

Date: Saturday, October 14th. Time: 7:00 PM. Location: The Cascadia Grand Estate, Seattle.

“Ma’am?”

I looked up. My Petty Officer, a sharp kid named Diaz with eyes that missed nothing, was standing in the doorway of my office. He was holding a clipboard.

“Post-flight checks are green. Bird is ready for the wash rack. You okay? You’ve been staring at that phone for ten minutes.”

I stood up. I was wearing my flight suit—olive green, Nomex, fire-resistant. It was a second skin. On my chest, the leather patch read LCDR E. ASHBY. Below it, the Trident insignia gleamed in the harsh fluorescent light.

“Diaz,” I said, my voice steady. “How far out is Seattle from our current training vector for the weekend navigation run?”

Diaz blinked, his mental map engaging. “Seattle? It’s a detour, Commander. Maybe forty minutes flight time if we push the headwind. Why?”

I turned the phone around and showed him the picture of the group chat. “Because I have an engagement.”

Diaz squinted at the screen. He read the comments about the thrift store clothes. He read the crack about the ‘drowned rat.’ His brow furrowed, then his eyes widened as he looked back at me.

“These people… they’re talking about you, Ma’am?”

“They are.”

“And they don’t know?”

“They have no idea.”

A slow grin spread across Diaz’s face. It was the kind of grin a shark gives before it bites. “Commander, the navigation exercise grants us discretion on refueling points and urban terrain mapping. If you wanted to make a… authorized stop… I think the crew would be very amenable.”

I looked at the invitation again. Black Tie Required.

“I don’t have a dress, Diaz,” I said dryly.

Diaz looked at my flight suit. He looked at the helmet tucked under my arm. He looked at the mud on my boots from the landing zone.

“Ma’am,” he said, “with all due respect… you don’t need a dress. You’re bringing a 17,000-pound accessory with Hellfire mounts.”

I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. It was a rare thing.

“Get the crew,” I said. “We have a new flight plan.”

---

The Approach

 

The sun was setting by the time we reached the airspace over downtown Seattle. The city was a grid of gold and amber fire, the skyscrapers piercing the low-hanging clouds.

I was in the pilot’s seat, the cyclic stick warm in my right hand, the collective in my left. The Apache responded to my slightest touch, a predator waiting for the command to strike.

“Shadow Lead to Crew,” I said over the internal comms. “ETA five minutes. Target is the Cascadia Grand Estate. We are looking for a large lawn, south side of the main ballroom.”

“Copy that, Lead,” Diaz replied from the front gunner’s seat. “I have visual on the estate. It’s… fancy. Lots of expensive cars. Valet parking.”

“Any obstacles?”

“Negative. Large open grass area. Perfect for a dust-off.”

I took a deep breath. My heart rate on the monitor was steady. 65 beats per minute. Ice water.

I thought about Bridger. I thought about the way he used to lean back in his chair, confident that the world was built for him. I thought about Sloan and her camera, framing life to look perfect while rotting from the inside.

They wanted a show? They wanted to see Elowen Ashby?

I pushed the stick forward. The nose of the Apache dipped.

“Let’s go down,” I said.

The descent was aggressive. Controlled, but aggressive. We dropped altitude fast, the cityscape rushing up to meet us. The roar of the twin turboshaft engines began to echo off the buildings.

I wasn’t the girl in the oversized sweater anymore. I wasn’t the girl who flinched when a paper ball hit her head. I was a Lieutenant Commander in the United States Navy. I was a survivor of war. I was the woman who walked into fire when everyone else ran away.

And I was about to crash their party.

---

The Rooftop View (Reconstructed)

 

I didn’t know it then, but while I was descending, they were sitting exactly where I imagined them.

Based on the timestamps Marin sent me later, I know the scene perfectly. It was the golden hour. The rooftop bar of the estate.

Bridger was there, wearing a navy blazer that cost more than my first car. He was holding a tablet, scrolling through the guest list.

“She’s late,” he reportedly said, checking his watch. “Probably couldn’t find a ride. Or she’s walking from the bus station.”

Sloan was taking selfies against the sunset, tilting her head to catch the light. “I hope she didn’t bail,” she laughed, checking her reflection. “I have my camera ready for the ‘Before’ picture. The caption is going to be killer.”

Paxton swirled his whiskey. “Twenty bucks says she turns around at the door. She doesn’t have the spine for a room like this.”

Lennox grinned, that cruel, shark-like grin. “That’s why we invited her. To remind ourselves that no matter how hard business gets… at least we aren’t her.”

They clinked their glasses. A toast to their own greatness. A toast to the “Class Loser.”

And that was when the wine in their glasses started to ripple.

---

The Arrival

 

It started as a vibration.

In the ballroom below the rooftop, the chandeliers began to tinkle. Crystal hitting crystal. A soft, musical warning.

Then came the sound.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It wasn’t the bass of the DJ. It was deeper. It was a rhythmic, percussive pounding that you felt in your chest before you heard it with your ears. It was the sound of air being beaten into submission.

I saw the estate coming up fast on my display. The manicured hedges. The white tents. The guests spilling out onto the lawn, confused, looking up at the sky.

“Crowd is moving,” Diaz reported. “They look… concerned.”

“Steady,” I said. “Lights on.”

I flipped the switch for the external searchlights.

Boom.

Twin beams of blinding white light cut through the twilight, illuminating the lawn like a stage. The dust began to swirl. The downdraft from my rotors hit the ground, kicking up a storm of leaves, grass, and debris.

I saw them. Two hundred people in tuxedos and gowns, covering their faces, their hair whipping in the chaotic wind I was creating.

I flared the helicopter, pulling the nose up to bleed off speed. The Apache hung in the air for a moment, a massive, dark silhouette against the dying sun, roaring like a dragon.

The ground shook. A table overturned. A champagne pyramid collapsed.

I lowered the collective. The landing gear touched the soft earth of the Cascadia Grand Estate lawn with a heavy, confident thud. The suspension groaned, then settled.

I cut the engines to idle. The roar began to wind down, replaced by the high-pitched whine of the turbines cooling.

For a moment, nobody moved. The guests were frozen. The music had stopped. The only sound was the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the slowing blades.

I sat in the cockpit for a second, letting the silence build. I checked my reflection in the console glass. No glasses. No fear. Just the flight suit, the helmet, and the eyes of a woman who had seen hell and flown right back out of it.

“Showtime,” I whispered.

I popped the canopy release. The side door hissed open.

I unbuckled my harness, grabbed my helmet, and stepped out onto the skid. The cool evening air hit my face.

The searchlights were backlighting me, turning me into a shadow against the blinding glare. I knew what they saw. A silhouette. A pilot. A figure of absolute authority.

I jumped down from the skid, my boots hitting the turf.

My crew—Diaz and two others—flanked me instantly, moving with military precision. We walked toward the stunned crowd.

The dust was settling. The guests were lowering their hands, squinting into the light.

And then, I saw them.

Bridger. Sloan. Paxton. Lennox.

They were standing at the very front, near the French doors, their mouths hanging open, their drinks forgotten. They looked terrified. They looked confused.

They looked small.

I walked straight toward them. The crowd parted. It wasn’t a choice; it was instinct. You move out of the way of a tank.

I stopped three feet from Bridger. He was trembling. He looked at my flight suit, at the patches, at the Trident. Then he looked at my face. Recognition hit him like a physical blow.

“E-Elowen?” he stammered, his voice barely audible over the dying whine of the engine.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t blink. I just held his gaze until he looked away.

“You sent an invitation,” I said. My voice was calm, but it carried across the silent lawn like a judgment. “You wanted a show. You wanted a contrast.”

I gestured to the helicopter behind me, a weapon of war sitting on their manicured lawn, and then to the terrified, superficial group in front of me.

“I’m here.”

PART 2: The Theatre of War

The silence on the lawn was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against my eardrums. The only sound was the ticking of the cooling metal behind me and the ragged breathing of the people in front of me.

Bridger was still staring at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish pulled from water. He looked at the flight suit, the mud on my boots, the helmet tucked under my arm. He was trying to reconcile the image of the scared girl he used to throw paper at with the woman who had just landed a gunship on his party.

“I…” he started, then stopped. He looked at Sloan for help, but Sloan was frozen, her phone clutched in her hand, the screen recording a reality she didn’t understand.

“We need to move inside,” I said. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. “My crew needs to secure the perimeter.”

I walked past them. I didn’t shoulder-check Bridger; I didn’t need to. He stepped back so fast he almost tripped over a manicured hedge.

Walking into the Cascadia Grand Estate was surreal. The transition from the raw, diesel-scented air of the landing zone to the perfumed, climate-controlled atmosphere of the ballroom was jarring. It smelled of expensive lilies, roasted duck, and fear.

As I entered the double doors, the room fell silent. Two hundred heads turned. The jazz band had stopped playing mid-note.

I scanned the room. Habits die hard. Exits: three. Crowd density: high. Threat level: low, but psychological tension: extreme.

On the far wall, a massive projection screen was cycling through a slideshow. Class of 2015: Memories. There were photos of football games, prom kings, cheerleaders. And then, as if on cue, the slide changed.

It was me.

The photo was ten years old. I was sitting in the library, hunched over, wearing that terrible gray sweater. My eyes were wide behind the glasses, looking at the camera like a deer in headlights. The caption underneath read: “Most Likely to Disappear.”

A ripple of nervous laughter had started before I walked in, but now it died in their throats.

I stopped in the center of the room. I looked up at the giant screen, at the ghost of the girl I used to be. Then I looked down at the crowd.

The contrast was violent. On screen: a victim. In the room: a warrior.

“Turn it off,” I said. I didn’t shout. I didn’t have to.

Someone scrambled near the AV booth. The screen went black.

Sloan had followed us inside, her composure cracking. She walked up to me, her heels clicking aggressively on the marble floor. She was trying to regain control, trying to make this about her, the way she always did.

“Elowen,” she said, her voice high and brittle. “This is… dramatic. Even for you. Did you rent a helicopter? Is this some kind of stunt?”

I looked at her. She was wearing a dress that probably cost five thousand dollars. Her makeup was flawless. But her hands were shaking.

“It’s not a rental, Sloan,” I said calmly. “It’s government property. And I don’t do stunts. I do missions.”

“Missions?” Paxton scoffed, stepping forward. He had recovered faster than the others, his lawyer instincts kicking in. “Come on. You? A pilot? What, do you fly traffic reports?”

He looked around the room, inviting laughter. “Did you rob a costume shop, Elowen? Because the stolen valor act is a real thing, and I’d hate to see you get arrested at our reunion.”

A few people chuckled. It was the old dynamic trying to reassert itself. The pack mentality. If they could laugh at me, they didn’t have to fear me.

I felt a flash of anger, hot and sharp, but I pushed it down. Discipline.

Before I could answer, a voice boomed from the back of the room. It was a baritone that cut through the murmurs like a knife.

“Lieutenant Commander Ashby!”

The crowd parted. A man in his fifties walked forward. He was wearing a Navy Dress Blue uniform, his chest heavy with ribbons. I recognized him immediately. Captain Dorian Graves. A legend in the community.

He wasn’t part of our class. He must have been a guest, maybe a parent, maybe just someone in the right place at the right time.

He marched up to me, ignoring Paxton, ignoring Sloan, ignoring everything but the rank on my chest.

He stopped three paces away and snapped a salute that was crisp enough to cut glass.

“Captain,” I said, returning the salute instantly. “I didn’t know you were in the sector.”

“Just passing through, Commander,” Graves said, lowering his hand. He turned to the crowd. His eyes swept over Paxton, who suddenly looked very small.

“For those of you who are confused,” Graves said, his voice projecting to the back of the room without a microphone, “Lieutenant Commander Elowen Ashby is a Naval Aviator and a SEAL support pilot. Two years ago, she was awarded the Navy Cross for valor.”

The room went dead silent. You could hear the ice melting in the glasses.

“The Navy Cross?” someone whispered. “Isn’t that… like, right below the Medal of Honor?”

Graves continued, enjoying the moment. “She led an extraction in Yemen. Six hours under sustained enemy fire. Her aircraft took forty-seven hits. She refused to leave the station until twelve Marines were safely on board. She saved every single one of them.”

He looked at Paxton. “So, son, unless you’ve done something comparable in your law firm… I suggest you show some respect.”

Paxton’s face drained of color. He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. The mockery was gone, replaced by a dawning, horrifying realization.

He had bet against me. He had mocked me. And he was standing in the presence of someone who had done things he didn’t even have the courage to read about in the news.

Sloan’s phone was still recording, but her arm had dropped to her side. She looked at the screen, then at me.

“Yemen?” she whispered.

I ignored her. I looked around the room. The faces I saw weren’t the faces of monsters anymore. They were just… people. People who had peaked in high school. People who had built their lives on shallow foundations.

There was Marin Kovar, standing near the punch bowl, her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. There was the guy who used to trip me in the hallway, looking at his shoes.

“I didn’t come here to tell war stories,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension. “I came because I received an invitation.”

I reached into one of the zippered pockets of my flight suit and pulled out my phone.

“Or rather,” I corrected, “a forwarded email.”

Lennox, who had been hiding near the bar, suddenly looked like he wanted to vanish. Bridger took a step back.

“I think we should talk about the guest list,” I said.

PART 3: The Ghost Leaves the Building
I tapped the screen and held the phone up. I didn’t need to project it on the big screen. The look on their faces told the room everything they needed to know.

“Paxton,” I said, turning to him. “You said I wouldn’t show up. You bet twenty bucks.”

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill—crisp, folded—and held it out to him.

“Here,” I said. “You lose.”

Paxton didn’t take the money. He just stared at it.

“And Bridger,” I continued, turning to the man who had spray-painted my locker. “You wrote that I would show up in something from a thrift store.”

I ran a hand over the nomex fabric of my flight suit. “This suit belongs to the United States Government. It’s not for sale. But the training it takes to wear it? That cost more than your entire portfolio.”

Bridger swallowed hard. “Elowen, look, it was… it was just a joke. We didn’t mean…”

“A joke,” I repeated. The word tasted like ash. “Funny.”

I walked closer to them. The “Royals” of Glenidge Academy huddled together, their unity fracturing under the pressure.

“You invited me here to humiliate me,” I said, my voice low and steady. “You wanted to drag the ‘Ghost’ back out so you could feel better about your own lives. You wanted to see if I was still broken.”

I paused, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable.

“I’m not broken,” I said. “I’m forged.”

“We didn’t know,” Sloan stammered, tears finally spilling over her perfect makeup. “We didn’t know you were… this.”

“You didn’t care,” I corrected. “That’s the difference.”

I turned my back on them. I was done. There was no satisfaction in yelling. There was no joy in making them cry. It just felt… empty. They were small. They were so incredibly small.

I started walking toward the balcony doors. The crowd parted again, but this time, it felt different. It wasn’t fear. It was awe. It was shame.

“Wait!”

The voice came from the side. It was Marin Kovar.

She pushed through the crowd, her face streaked with tears. She stopped in front of me, trembling.

“Elowen,” she choked out. “I’m sorry.”

I stopped. I looked at her—the girl who had watched me get tormented for four years and never said a word.

“I saw the emails,” she said, her voice shaking. “I was on the thread. I didn’t stop them. I never stopped them. I was a coward.”

She looked down at my boots, then up at my eyes. “You deserve better. You always did.”

The room watched, holding its breath. This was the moment where the movie script said I should forgive her, hug her, tell her it was okay.

But war teaches you honesty.

“You were a coward, Marin,” I said softly.

Marin flinched, but she nodded, accepting the hit.

“But you sent me the email,” I added. “You gave me the intel. That counts for something.”

I gave her a curt nod. “stand down, Kovar. You’re clear.”

Marin let out a sob, a sound of relief and grief mixed together. She stepped back.

I walked out onto the balcony. The cool night air hit me again, cleansing the perfume and the hypocrisy from my lungs.

Below, on the lawn, my crew was waiting. The Apache sat there, a dark beast resting in the moonlight. The rotors were still, drooping slightly under their own weight.

I walked down the stone steps. My boots crunched on the gravel.

Behind me, I heard footsteps. I didn’t turn.

“Elowen.”

It was Paxton. He had followed me out. He stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. He looked stripped. The arrogance was gone.

“What do we do now?” he asked. He sounded like a child. “How do we… fix this?”

I stopped and looked back at him one last time.

“You don’t,” I said. “You live with it. You look in the mirror tomorrow morning, and you remember that the person you tried to destroy became a hero while you were busy being a bully.”

“That’s it?” he asked. “You’re just leaving?”

“I have a navigation run to finish,” I said. “And honestly, Paxton? I have nothing in common with you people anymore.”

I turned and walked to the helicopter.

“Let’s mount up,” I ordered.

“Aye, Ma’am,” Diaz said, tossing me my helmet. He was grinning from ear to ear. “That was… cinematic.”

“Pre-flight checks,” I said, hiding my own small smile. “Let’s get out of here.”

We climbed in. I strapped myself into the seat, the five-point harness hugging me tight. It felt like a hug. It felt like safety.

I began the startup sequence. The APU whined to life. The blades began to turn, slowly at first, then faster, whipping the air into a frenzy.

I looked out the side canopy.

On the balcony, they were all standing there. Bridger, Sloan, Paxton, Lennox. Marin. Captain Graves. They were watching me leave.

I pulled the collective. The Apache lifted off the ground, the earth falling away.

We rose higher, hovering for a second at eye level with the balcony. I didn’t wave. I didn’t salute. I just dipped the nose of the aircraft—a nod of the beast—and then I pulled back on the cyclic.

The helicopter surged upward and away, banking hard toward the ocean.

As we climbed into the darkness, the Cascadia Grand Estate became a small box of light, then a speck, then nothing.

“Heading two-seven-zero,” I said into the comms. “Back to base.”

“Copy two-seven-zero,” Diaz replied. “Commander?”

“Go ahead.”

“Did you get what you came for?”

I looked out at the stars. The cockpit was dark, illuminated only by the soft green glow of the instrument panels. The vibration was back—the hum, the rattle, the life.

I thought about the fear I had carried for ten years. The voice in my head that said I was invisible, that I was a ghost, that I didn’t matter.

I touched the Navy Cross ribbon on my chest.

“Yeah, Diaz,” I said, and for the first time in a decade, my chest felt completely light. “I think the Ghost just finally crossed over.”

Below me, the world was small. But up here?

Up here, I was free.

I pushed the stick forward, and we disappeared into the night, leaving nothing behind but the wind.