"I never fear the knife in my back. What terrifies me is turning around and seeing it held by someone I once trusted."— Faceless
People called it a lot of things back then—some said it was classified, others claimed it was cursed. The press hinted, rumors flew, declassified documents danced around the edges, but nobody ever told the full story.
Hell, I don't know the full story either.What I do know is this: I got close. Closer than most.
In early 2000, NATO's joint operational forces began pushing eastward into the Carpathians. My team was redirected toward the western Romanian mountains. The mission wasn't combat—yet—but it was close. Field integration. Advanced training. They called it "regional adaptation."
I go by the codename Falcon, commander of Raptor Team—a seven-man unit scattered across multiple task groups under direct control of Osprey, our ghost of a handler. We weren't embedded for prestige. We were there to watch, to test, and—if needed—to act.
I got dropped into a newly-formed mountain recon battalion stationed deep in the hills. My orders were clear: observe, assess, and build a sustainable training model for high-altitude deployment.
The base commander welcomed me with cautious formality."Can you issue a training protocol today?"I shook my head."Give me a handful of your men. Let me see what they've got."
That's how it started.
By noon, I took a handful of their soldiers into the mountain woods to scout for a temporary outpost and a training area. Spring was folding into summer, and the Carpathians were breathing green—thick trees, fresh air, wildflowers blooming like scattered signals.
About an hour in, one of the guys jogged back from the treeline.
"Falcon, we've found something," he said. "Looks like an old building up ahead.""What kind of building?""Two stories. Looks abandoned. Feels like...a hospital, maybe. There's a dead clearing behind it too.""Let's check it out."
The place was tucked into a slope, hidden by trees. White plaster flaked off the walls, revealing rust-stained brick underneath. Two cracked pillars stood at the entrance like broken teeth. The main iron doors hung slightly ajar. Faint Cyrillic letters clung to the archway—something about a psychiatric recovery facility.
Cold War leftovers.
We pushed open the gate.
Damp air rushed out to meet us, heavy with mold and soil. A row of towering beech trees loomed over the courtyard, their leaves thick enough to block out half the daylight. The courtyard held the bones of what used to be life: a broken bench, a dry washbasin, rusted pipes. Someone used to live here. A lot of people, by the look of it.
"We'll set up here," I said.
They didn't argue. If anything, they were intrigued. Mystery has a way of charming the bored.
I took the room nearest the stairwell on the second floor.Dust. Glass. Silence.
A desk. A bed. Two old cabinets. Moldy toilet in the back. As I wiped down the surfaces, I opened a drawer. The smell of old disinfectant hit me. Inside: torn paper scraps, pink chalk dust, a few loose pills... and a photograph.
Black-and-white.A young woman.Braided hair. Bright smile. Medical uniform. Soviet cut. White blouse.
Frozen in time.
I pocketed the photo.
In the drawer beside it I found a notebook—ration logs, water use, meal times. Tedious. As I reached for the second drawer, a knock broke the air.
"Sir? You in there?""Yeah. Come in.""Thought I'd help you clean.""Go ahead. I'm done here."
I stepped outside to the courtyard.
The quiet didn't last.
A few minutes later, voices broke through.Dusty boots. Sweat-soaked uniforms. Infantry.
"Hey! Anyone here?""Yeah. Who are you with?""Passing through. Thought we'd rest here.""Seventeen of you? No chance. Keep moving.""Plenty of rooms though…""MOVE ON," my guys yelled from upstairs.
That tone. Sharp. Special forces arrogance.They turned and left. But not happily.
I watched them disappear over the ridge.And then the quiet returned.
But it was a different kind of quiet.Too still. Too ready.
I had the feeling we weren't the first to enter.And we wouldn't be the last.