My brother and I joined the Army together—we made a pact: same boot camp, same unit, same everything. We stuck close through two deployments, until one day his convoy rolled out without me. That was the day he DIED. Or so I thought. Eleven years later, I opened a care package meant for someone else and saw his handwriting inside.

My hands tremble as I hold the letter, my eyes scanning the familiar loops and slants of his handwriting. It’s unmistakable. Mason’s handwriting. The same way he used to sign my birthday cards, the same way he left notes on the fridge before early morning runs. The care package isn’t addressed to me. It was delivered by mistake—left at my door instead of 4B. I live in 4D. A two-digit error. A cosmic slip-up. Or maybe… something else entirely.

The package smells like sand and sweat and metal. Like old times. Inside, there’s a jar of peanut butter, a bag of dried mango, two packs of socks, and that letter. Just one folded page. On the back: “To Cole. Burn after reading.” My name.

Burn after reading?

I swallow the knot in my throat and close my apartment door behind me, locking it twice. I sit on the edge of the couch and stare at the letter in my lap. I shouldn’t open it. It’s probably part of some elaborate prank. Maybe someone found a sample of Mason’s writing from a decade ago and is messing with me. But deep down, I know that’s a lie. I know his pen strokes like I know my own voice.

I unfold the paper.

“Cole—
If you’re reading this, something’s gone wrong. Either you got this by accident, or fate’s playing its part. I can’t say much. They monitor everything. But I’m not dead. I never was. I was taken.
I can’t explain it all here, but the mission we thought we were on? It wasn’t what we believed. We were never supposed to come back. They only let a few of us live.
If you want answers, come to the place we buried Dad. Midnight. Three days from now. Don’t bring your phone. Don’t tell anyone.
—M.”

The words bleed into each other as my eyes dart across the page again and again. Not dead. Taken. “They” monitor everything. My heart slams against my ribs like it wants out. I read the last line again. Midnight. Three days from now.

The place we buried Dad. That’s a small cemetery just outside of Trenton, New Jersey. A town no one passes through unless they’re lost or trying to disappear. I haven’t been back since the funeral. I promised myself I never would.

But now… I might be about to break every promise I’ve ever made.

The next two days pass in a blur. I don’t sleep. I barely eat. I reread the letter a hundred times until I know every word by heart. I research Mason’s death again. Same article, same photo—burnt wreckage on the side of a dirt road in Kandahar. They said he was incinerated beyond recognition. No body returned. Just dog tags and ashes. At the time, I believed them. I had to. The Army doesn’t lie. Right?

Wrong.

By the third day, I pack a bag with only what I need: a flashlight, water, a change of clothes, and the letter. I leave my phone in the drawer, like he said. The drive takes four hours, and by the time I pull into the gravel lot behind the cemetery, it’s already ten to midnight.

The wind bites. The gate squeaks as I push it open. I walk past rows of crooked headstones, each name a memory I don’t want to revisit. I reach the far corner, the plot beneath the weeping elm where we buried Dad. The dirt looks untouched. Still settled, dry. A candle flickers at the base of the headstone.

And then—footsteps.

I spin around, heart in my throat. A shadow breaks away from the trees. For a second, I forget how to breathe.

He steps into the candlelight.

“Hey, little brother.”

I can’t speak. My legs won’t move. My brain keeps repeating the same thing: This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

But it is. Mason is older. His face is rougher. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow. But it’s him. His voice, his eyes. He’s alive.

I rush him. I don’t know if I’m going to punch him or hug him, but when I reach him, I do both. My fists hit his chest, but he takes it. Then we’re clinging to each other, two broken men in the dark.

“You died,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“You let me think you were dead for eleven years.”

“I had no choice.”

We sit beneath the elm, the candle between us. He doesn’t say much at first. Just stares into the flame like it holds all the answers. Then, finally, he speaks.

“They didn’t want me coming back. Not just me—others, too. Guys from our unit. You remember how weird it got that last month? The sudden ops? The codes that didn’t make sense?”

I nod.

“They sent us into a village that didn’t exist. Intel was bad, or so we thought. But the place wasn’t on the map because it wasn’t supposed to be. There were scientists there. American. Not Afghan. Military-funded. Doing things—experiments. On people.”

I freeze. “What kind of experiments?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know everything. But they were trying to alter memory. Identity. Some of our guys were… tested. I saw what they did. After that mission, we were all split up. One by one, they disappeared. I ran. Faked my death with the help of someone on the inside.”

I rub my temples. “Why now? Why contact me now?”

“Because someone’s hunting me again. They know I made contact. I need your help. You’re the only one I trust.”

“Help with what?”

“Finding the others. The ones who survived. I’ve got names. Clues. But I can’t do it alone. And… I need to know why they did it.”

I want to scream. Cry. Run. But I do none of that. I look at my brother—this ghost, this stranger—and I nod.

Over the next week, we move in shadows.

Mason shows me what he’s collected: scraps of intel, encrypted drives, maps with red circles and question marks. He’s paranoid. He only speaks in whispers. We change motels every night. Use burner phones. He won’t go near a computer. Says they can trace everything.

I start seeing things, too. A black SUV parked two blocks down. A man in a trench coat who follows us into a diner and leaves without ordering. I tell myself it’s just nerves. But Mason looks me dead in the eye and says, “It’s real. They’re watching.”

The first lead takes us to a man named Ramirez, former intel analyst, dishonorably discharged. Mason says he was at the site, too. We find him living in a trailer in Nevada, off-grid. He answers the door with a shotgun.

“Go away. I told you people—I’m done!”

Mason steps forward. “It’s me. Mason. From Bravo Six.”

Ramirez lowers the weapon like he’s seen a ghost. “You were dead.”

“So were you,” Mason says.

Inside, the air smells like metal and fear. Ramirez hasn’t left in years. He talks about injections. Blackouts. Waking up with someone else’s memories. A voice that wasn’t his. He pulls out a file wrapped in foil and duct tape. Inside are photos—soldiers with blank stares, medical scans, location tags scrubbed clean.

“Operation Halcyon,” he whispers. “That’s what they called it. We weren’t soldiers. We were prototypes.”

Mason and I leave shaken. Every piece of this puzzle makes less sense. But now I’m in too deep to back out.

The third night after seeing Ramirez, I wake to find our motel door ajar. Mason’s gone. No note. No sign of struggle. Just his dog tags on the pillow.

I grab my bag and run.

The SUV from before is waiting. Two men step out. Suits. No badges. One of them holds up a photo—it’s me and Mason at the cemetery.

“You’ve seen him,” the man says. Not a question. A statement.

I shake my head. “You have the wrong guy.”

He smiles, too calm. “You’re already in it, Cole. You just don’t know how deep yet.”

I run. Somehow, I make it out. Hide in a rest stop until dawn. Mason doesn’t call. Doesn’t show. I check every contact, every motel, every trail we left. Nothing.

Then one day, back in my apartment, there’s another package on my doorstep. No address. Just my name.

Inside—another letter.

“Don’t stop. Keep digging. You’re closer than you think. We’re not the only ones. They’re still doing it. Still turning men into ghosts.”

And beneath that note—another photo. A new face. Another soldier I thought was dead.

Mason’s still alive. And now it’s my turn to disappear.