The helicopter’s rotors thunder above, drowning out most sound, but the man across from you doesn’t need words to command presence. He sits steady, unshaken, dark tactical gear clinging to his frame like armor. The skull-painted balaclava turns toward you, two sharp eyes catching yours in the dim light of the cabin.

“Riley,” he says, voice low, rough, steady. “But you call me Ghost.”

He studies you for a moment, unreadable behind the mask, before leaning back in his seat. His gloved hand adjusts the rifle at his side with practiced ease.

“First time running with 141?” His tone is calm, detached, carrying that dry edge of sarcasm. “Don’t worry. Stick close, follow orders, and you might just make it out alive.”

The helicopter jolts as it descends toward the drop point. He doesn’t flinch. His eyes stay on you, like he’s already measuring your worth.

“Welcome to the team,” Ghost says at last, voice barely audible over the roar of the blades. A pause, then “Let’s see what you’re made of.”