(Somewhere in Granitz's camp, Granitz army laboratory, on the festival day)
A tall, muscular man with fair skin stepped into an observation room connected to a lab. His short, blonde hair was neatly combed beneath a patrol cap, and the defined muscles of his biceps and triceps reflected his disciplined routine. Inside, scientists and doctors worked methodically—some peering into microscopes, others dissecting tissue samples.
At the center of the room stood a stainless steel operating table, where a body lay motionless. The face was mangled beyond recognition. A doctor carefully operated, having opened the skull to expose the brain. Several electric patches and wires were attached to the exposed tissue, connected to a computer displaying fluctuating signal amplitudes.
Nearby, a scientist injected substances into the corpse, starting from the toes and moving up to the chest with a large syringe. The man observed silently through the window, his gaze fixed on the unsettling scene.
"Do we have any results yet, doctor?"
"We're still working on it, sir."
The man's voice grew firmer. "I came here expecting better than 'still working on it.'" The doctor flinched under the pressure.
"This cadet… he's been dead for several hours. There are no external wounds except for his fists and the severe damage to his head," the doctor explained.
"His body's clean — no foreign fingerprints, nothing unusual. It's just him."
"What are you trying to say?"
"It's our working theory, sir… that he killed himself by repeatedly punching his own face until he died."
"Is that even possible?"
"In theory, yes. But in practice, the brain and mind act as safeguards to prevent us from seriously harming ourselves—at least when no weapons are involved."
"So you're telling me he literally punched himself to death?"
"That's the best conclusion we have so far, sir."
In a nearby room, the man who appeared to be in charge crossed his arms, his expression unreadable.
"I want a full report on this case, doctor. That cadet was one of our most promising candidates for the supersoldier project."
"What else can be done, doctor?"
"Well, with the new preservation technology from NRE's lab, we might preserve his body—and especially his brain," the doctor proposed.
"We could even attempt to retrieve some of his remaining memories."
The man nodded slowly, clearly pleased. "Do it."
He turned and left the observation room. Outside, his subordinate was waiting. The man stopped and asked,
"Have we found anything at the scene?"
"Not much, sir. Two sets of footprints—one matching the dead, the other smaller." The man's displeasure was evident.
"Any security footage or call records?"
"All cameras caught nothing unusual, sir. Call logs show an anonymous, encrypted number. We can't trace the source."
The man's frustration boiled over. Suddenly, he slammed his subordinate's head into a concrete wall. "I want more than 'nothing.'" His voice was cold and sharp with anger.
Another subordinate hurried in, holding a tablet. "Sir, we retrieved this footage from the scene."
The man watched intently. The cadet stood still, murmuring softly, then pulled his fist back and started hitting his own face repeatedly until he collapsed. No sign of anyone else.
"Strange, isn't it, Sergeant?" the man said grimly. "We found two sets of footprints, yet the footage shows only the cadet. Have you checked for AI manipulation?"
The sergeant nodded. "Yes, sir. We believe the footage has been re-rendered, but we can't reverse it."
"I've ordered further investigations, sir. We just got new info."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Speak."
"We interviewed some of the cadet's teammates. They said he got into a fight during lunch."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Finally. Who was it with?"
The sergeant hesitated. The man's voice hardened. "Sergeant?"
"He tried to hit Miss Elena, sir," the sergeant blurted out. The man's surprise was clear, but he said nothing.
The sergeant continued, "Before that, the team saw him argue with the NRE director, Pierre Therma, sir."
The man's frown deepened. "This doesn't add up."
"It seems the cadet argued with the director first. Miss Elena tried to stop the situation, which angered the cadet. He then attempted to hit her, but the director stepped in to shield her."
The man's fist clenched tightly. With a sudden, violent punch, he struck the nearby concrete wall, leaving a deep crack. His knuckles bled slightly.
"Now it's making sense," he growled.
Turning away, he gave a final order, "Send me all footage and forensic reports to my office."
He paused mid-step, then added, "Also, contact the NRE chief engineer, Freja Feta. Karl Feta wants to have lunch together."
At the Military Lounge: Lunchtime
Freja arrived at the private lounge nestled deep within Granitz camp — an exclusive space reserved only for high-ranking officers above captain rank, or those specially invited. Today, she had received a call from the camp: her son, Admiral Karl Feta, wanted to have lunch with her, making her much delight today. Normally, Karl preferred to dine with his subordinates; if he was inviting her now, it had to be urgent. Otherwise, he would have waited until dinner.
"Freja Feta, Admiral Feta has invited me," she told the receptionist.
The young man scanned the guest list. "Welcome, Mrs Feta. The admiral is waiting for you. Please, allow me to show you the way."
He led her through soundproof corridors into a private, well-appointed room. Thick walls layered with special soundproofing ensured their conversation would remain confidential. Inside, Karl sat at a table with food already served.
"Good afternoon, Admiral," Freja greeted, her voice warm.
"Karl chuckled softly, "Hello, Mom. No need for formality here."
Freja laughed at his easy tone. "You're as charming as ever, sweetheart. It's not every day my son invites me to lunch."
Karl, only 26 but already an admiral, the youngest ever admiral — one of just two stationed at Granitz — smiled as Freja admired the sharp uniform and stars on his shoulders.
"I am so proud of you, seeing you in this uniform and stars."
"Thanks, Mom. I want Father to see this too."
He stood, pulling out a chair for her. "Please, have a seat."
"Thank you, you're so thoughtful."
They ate while exchanging light conversation. When the plates were cleared, only glasses of wine remained. Freja leaned in with a smile, "So, shall we start with dessert, or get straight to business?"
Karl grinned. "You know I don't eat dessert at lunch."
"Then why the invite?"
Karl's playful tone shifted as he set his glass down. "It's about the death of our cadet."
He explained the forensic reports, the evidence gathered, and the troubling details the army had uncovered.
Freja's voice cooled but remained steady. "You're suggesting the acting director at NRE is involved in the death of our most promising test subject?"
Karl nodded, his expression darkening. "It's that man again. I hate him."
His fist clenched on the table, eyes burning.
Freja's own voice softened with shared bitterness. "I feel the same, sweetheart."
While the two mother and son enjoy the taste of well selected wine, the emergency alarm rang. The island was raided. Karl called up to the comm. Room and asked for the situation. He escorted his mother to a safer place.
"Report!"
"The island is under attack, sir". "By the Yorkland, sir"
"Put all the barriers up. No one enters or exits this island."
Karl made a grin, "That foolish old power finally found this island."
"Prepare my suit."