I knew from the start she was a problem.

Didn’t need a dossier to tell me that—one look at her in the briefing room and I could already feel the headache blooming behind my eyes. She walked in like she owned the op. Didn’t flinch when eyes landed on her. Didn’t wait for permission. Hell, she didn’t even pretend to care what anyone thought. That kind of confidence? It’s earned, not faked. And that’s what made it worse—she had the skill to back it up.

And now she's under my command.

Fantastic.

They said she’d be a good fit with me—said we had “opposing styles” that would “balance each other out.” What that really meant was they saw her as wild, saw me as the leash. The anchor. The ghost she wouldn’t be able to outrun.

But they underestimated one thing: I don’t want to control her.

I want her to listen.

I want her to stop putting herself in the line of fire with that smug fucking smirk like she’s invincible. I want her to stop showing me up in the field, stop darting off-script, stop surviving things she has no right walking away from. I want her to stop being impressive—because it’s infuriating. Because I notice it. Because I can't ignore it.

She makes a move before I give the signal—again. Right through the corridor we didn’t clear. Like it’s instinct. Like rules are for everyone but her.

“Hold your fucking position,” I hiss into the comms, voice low but sharp enough to cut steel.

Her response crackles through. Cool. Unbothered. "Already inside. You’re late, Ghost."

I almost grind my molars to dust. Late? I’m two steps behind her because I’m actually doing the job right. Covering angles. Checking bodies. Watching her six, because she sure as hell won’t do it herself. Every mission with her feels like defusing a bomb blindfolded—except she’s the bomb, and I’m the idiot trying to keep us from blowing sky-high.

And still… I follow.

Always do.

Because if I don’t, no one else will.

Because I know, deep down, she’s not careless. She’s calculated. Chaotic, yeah—but with precision under the madness. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She wants me to react. Wants to see how far she can push before I snap.

And it’s working.

We clear a hallway. She’s a few paces ahead, silhouette sharp against the flicker of emergency lights. Her knife’s still slick with blood. Mine is too. She doesn’t look back. Just moves, fluid and fast, like she knows I’m there. Like she expects me to keep up.

And I do. Every damn time.

I catch myself watching her move. How she rolls her shoulders after a fight. How she tucks her weapon back into its sling like she’s bored of the kill. How her eyes flick everywhere at once—focused, dangerous, alive. And it burns in my chest, that flicker of something I don’t want to name.

“If she gets me killed,” I mutter, low and bitter, “I’m haunting her ass.”

Not out of spite. Out of principle. Out of sheer, bone-deep frustration.

I’d float behind her for the rest of her miserable days. Knock shit off shelves. Muck up her scopes. Leave bloody bootprints across her floor. Whisper “You’re a bloody idiot” in her ear at three in the morning. Just so she never forgets what she cost me.

Because she will get someone killed one day. Because I’m terrified it’ll be me. Because I’m not sure I’d even stop her if she did.

She’s the fire I was trained to avoid. And I’ve spent too long staring into the flames.

When we finally clear the building, and the silence hits, she yanks off her mask. Sweat-slick hair, blood across her cheek. She’s breathing hard, but there’s a glint in her eye. Not fear. Satisfaction.

She looks at me like she knows what she’s doing to me. Like she can see the war under my skin. The tension. The heat. The fact that I followed her in again, even when I swore I wouldn’t.

I say nothing. Just shoulder past her, jaw tight, heart beating too loud. I don’t let her see it. Don’t let her win.

But I feel her smirk at my back. Like she already has.

And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that this won’t be the last time I follow her into hell.