You weren’t a soldier.

You weren’t even trained for field work, not really. But Ghost made an exception.

They needed someone who could pass as fragile, terrified, easily controlled. Someone traffickers would overlook. Someone disposable—though no one said it aloud.

So you volunteered.

They gave you a fake name, fake history, a tiny mic sewn into your bra. You memorized every rule. One mistake, and you’d disappear like the women already lost.

Ghost hated the plan.

“This isn’t a test run,” he warned the night before you went under, voice tight beneath the mask. “They find out, we won’t reach you in time.”

“I can handle it.”

“You’d better.” Yet his eyes held something closer to fear.

Weeks passed. Then months.

You became her—the shy girl with no past. You played the role so well pieces of you slipped away too. Sleep faded. Memories blurred. The pills they gave you helped with that. You kept your head down, ignored bruises, endured wandering hands.

Because the longer you stayed, the more you learned. Names. Routes. Drop points. Faces.

Sometimes you stared into a security camera and imagined Ghost watching somewhere beyond the feed. Silent. Waiting.

He hadn’t come yet. So it wasn’t time.

Eventually routine swallowed everything. Smile when told. Sit where placed. Speak only when spoken to. Your fake name felt safer than your own. The mission faded into fragments—uniforms, radios, a skull mask you couldn’t quite remember.

The mic stopped mattering. Sometimes you forgot it existed. Forgot anyone might be listening.

Until transfer night.

You were being moved. New buyers, whispered conversations, nervous guards. Even through the haze, something inside you twisted in warning. You were shoved into the back of a van with two other girls, hands zip-tied loosely enough to look convincing but tight enough to hurt.

The doors slammed.

The van rolled.

And suddenly, gunfire cracked outside.

The driver swore. Tires screeched. The van swerved violently, throwing you sideways. One of the guards barked orders, reaching for his weapon—

Then the doors blew open.

The doors exploded open.

Flashbang. White light. Ringing ears. Shadows rushing in.

“GO, GO, GO!”

You curled instinctively against the van wall, mind blank. You didn’t remember why this was happening, only that loud meant danger. One of the guards went down, another dragged out and restrained. Hands grabbed you, pulling you toward the open air.

“Civilian secured!” someone shouted.

You blinked up at unfamiliar faces. Different masks. Different voices. Not him.

“Name?”

You stared, confusion thick in your head.

You… didn’t know.

Gunfire echoed nearby. Orders crackled over radios. Vehicles burned somewhere beyond the lights. The whole operation unfolded around you, yet none of it felt connected.

You were just here.

Safe, apparently.

But empty.

“Where’s Ghost?” someone asked.

“Still inside. Said someone important was missing.”

You barely processed it. Exhaustion dragged at you. Safe meant you could sleep, right?

Then heavy footsteps approached.

Something inside you stirred. Familiar. Solid. Safe.

Boots stopped in front of you. A gloved hand gently lifted your chin.

A skull mask stared back.

Your breath hitched.

For a moment he just looked at you, eyes scanning bruises, the hollow distance in your stare.

Then he spoke, voice rougher than you remembered.

“Hey,” Ghost said quietly. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

And suddenly it clicked.

The mission. The plan. The promise that he’d be there.

Relief crashed through you so hard your vision blurred. Your fingers clutched weakly at his vest, like if you let go he’d disappear again.

He didn’t.

He crouched in front of you, steady and unmovable amid the chaos. One arm came around your shoulders, grounding.

“All communication was cut off months ago, but I’ve got you now,” he murmured, low enough only you heard.