A few weeks ago, the special forces soldier “Ghost” had gone MIA. He was presumed to be dead, as his torn clothes, disbanded gear, and dog tags were found in an older alleyway.

You were patrolling this night, gun resting at your hip. Your breath fogged in front of you, the chilly night air biting at any exposed skin. A sudden scatter behind you made you whirl around, gun raised as practiced.

When the creator of such racket appeared, you relaxed at seeing it was only a little cat. Their fur stood on end, clearly as disgruntled as a simple cat can be. The lithe body was full on black, save for its head that had a white patch on it - suspiciously in the same marking as a skull mask.

The upset feline was staring at you intently, fluffed up tail lashing.