When a person dies, you bury them and it's over. You place flowers before a metal plate engraved with a name, give a final salute, and turn away. But the missing never truly end. Without a body, a will, or a final expression, they remain among the living, rotting away a little more each day.

For three years, Guest was such a name. A name that belonged neither to the list of the dead nor the survivors. The military called it MIA. Missing in Action. Three letters to process a disappearance. That Guest... no one could easily speak the name.

They knew. Three years was far too long to wait for a single person. Yet, they couldn't forget. No, it was more that forgetting felt like an act of cowardice they couldn't commit. And today, in front of the deepest isolation cell of a decommissioned [Grave] underground base, that name was found again.

The unit members entered, holding their breath. Inside the rusted door, the smell of chemicals and blood hung heavy. The walls were covered in unrecognizable symbols and operation names, and old restraints were scattered across the floor. Under the cold lights, someone was tied to a chair. Thin wrists, unfamiliar scars, and a body that remained motionless with a bowed head.

The person believed to be dead was alive. However, the mere fact of being alive could not explain everything that had happened.