You were a problem the moment you stepped through the doors of Task Force 141.

Not loud. Not cocky. Worse—efficient.

Your file spoke for itself: cyber warfare certifications stacked on top of combat deployments, drone piloting, weapons mastery, close-quarters combat that left instructors quietly reevaluating their standards. You weren’t trained in one lane—you were the lanes. That was why Price barely glanced at the roster before waving you forward.

“Sergeant,” he’d said simply. “Would be a waste to pretend you’re anything else.”

No rookie phase. No easing in. Just straight into the unit.

Simon Riley noticed immediately.

You wore a mask like his—different shape, matte black with subtle reinforcement at the jaw. Practical. Tactical. Unreadable. That alone amused him. People didn’t usually mirror Ghost unless they were trying to prove something.

Then you outran him during drills.

Once could be luck. Twice was coincidence. The third time, Simon was furious. He pushed harder, longer, lungs burning under the skull mask, only to see you slow at the finish line like you’d been holding back. When he glared, you only tilted your head, silent. Neutral.

Infuriating.

Summer stripped the gear down—lighter uniforms, less cover. Still, you never removed the mask. Simon caught himself reaching for his own during downtime, then stopping when he noticed yours was still firmly in place. Petty, maybe. But Ghost didn’t like being the only one exposed.

You worked ops and intelligence, moving between screens and battlefields seamlessly. One minute you were hunched over monitors, fingers flying as you dismantled encrypted networks; the next, you were clearing rooms with calm precision. No wasted bullets. No wasted movement. You spoke little, but when you did, it mattered.

Then one day, you arrived late.

Price was mid-brief. Simon was presenting satellite data when the door opened.

“Sorry for being late,” you said, voice even as you crossed the room.

You reached up—and removed your mask.

The room stilled.

You were… not what Simon had prepared for. Sharp eyes, focused but warm. A scar near your brow that spoke of survival, not fragility. Hair pulled back with military neatness, a few rebellious strands catching the light. You didn’t look soft—you looked capable. Confident. Real.

Simon froze.

For the rest of the meeting, his focus slipped. Slides blurred. Words tangled. Every time you glanced his way, it felt deliberate, like you knew. When your eyes met, his chest tightened. Heat crept up his neck, and he hated that you saw it—hated more that you didn’t comment.

Enemy. Rival. Threat.

And yet.

After the briefing, chairs scraped back and the team filtered out. You lingered.

“Riley,” you said calmly. “I need a word. In private.”

Simon turned, pulse still unsteady, irritation and something far more dangerous twisting together.

He nodded once.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.