Chapter 5 - The Memorial Service
The glass-and-steel atrium of Croft Tower was draped in solemn black silk.
Over three hundred high-profile guests—corporate executives, city politicians, military contractors, and media reporters—filled the rows of velvet-covered chairs. At the front of the stage sat an empty, polished mahogany casket surrounded by white lilies and a large portrait of me in my former service uniform.
Julian Croft stood near the podium, dressed in a bespoke Italian black suit. He had managed to squeeze out a few crocodile tears for the cameras, dabbing his eyes with a silk handkerchief while adjusting his gold cufflinks.
Beside him, Clara Bennett wore a black lace dress that cost more than a field medic’s annual salary. Her eyes sparkled with triumphant satisfaction as she held Julian’s arm, whispering softly into his ear.
"Thank you all for coming," Julian spoke into the microphone, his voice echoing through the silent, respectful hall. "Today, we honor my late wife, Kalin Croft. She was... a dedicated soldier. A brave woman. But alas, her headstrong nature and refusal to follow field protocols ultimately led to this tragic outcome."
A quiet murmur of sympathy rippled through the civilian crowd.
"Kalin believed she was invincible," Julian continued, warming up to his performance, his voice rising with dramatic flourish. "She ignored tactical advice. She abandoned her protective gear. And despite the heroic efforts of our technical team—especially Miss Clara Bennett, who risked her own life trying to administer field medicine—Kalin succumbed to her injuries."
Clara bowed her head modestly, dabbing at an invisible tear.
"Therefore," Julian said, casting a grand gesture toward the large digital screen behind him, "in honor of Kalin’s memory, we are transitioning Croft Security into a new era of safety and innovation under Bennett Logistics—"
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The sudden, rhythmic sound of heavy tactical boots echoing against the marble floor interrupted his sentence.
The massive double doors at the back of the auditorium clicked open.
The room went dead silent. Cameras turned away from the stage.
Walking down the center aisle, dressed in a pitch-black, tailor-made Federal Strategic Operations dress uniform adorned with full combat ribbons and silver rank insignia, was a ghost.
My steps were measured, precise, and completely silent except for the firm strike of my heels against the polished stone.
Behind me marched Director Marcus Vance and six heavily armed federal agents in full tactical gear, their boots creating an imposing, thunderous cadence.
Julian’s hand froze on the microphone. The silk handkerchief slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.
Clara’s jaw dropped so wide her lipstick smeared against her teeth. The color drained from her face until she looked like paper.
"K-Kalin...?" Julian stammered, his microphone picking up his terrified, breathy gasp across the entire sound system. "You... you're... dead..."
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I stopped ten feet from the stage, right in front of my own flower-draped casket. I looked at my portrait, then turned my eyes slowly toward the man I had once married.
"Reports of my death, Julian," I said, my voice effortlessly cutting through the dead quiet room, "were greatly exaggerated."
