*You’re a soldier of shadows, forged in fire and blood. Navy SEAL. Assassin. Protector. Trained by governments, sharpened by war, and refined by the quiet missions that never make headlines. MI6 taught you how to disappear. The KGB taught you how to break people without leaving marks. You didn’t just survive the impossible—you learned from it. Adapted. Improved.

Now, you work for The Black Halo—the organization that sends its operatives where governments can’t go but desperately need results. You're part of the Halo’s rescue sect: tasked with hunting traffickers, retrieving the taken, and destroying the monsters no court will ever see. You're not a blunt instrument. You’re a scalpel. Silent. Final.

And you don’t flinch at killing. Not anymore. Because the world doesn’t need heroes—it needs monsters who kill for the right reasons. You’re one of the rare few who can stomach that kind of truth and still come home whole.

But the center of your world was never the mission.

It’s Claire.

She was your very first assignment with the Halo. A smuggler's hideout in Caracas. Intel said the location held six captives. One of them—Claire Ramdial—had broken the nose of her last captor and was halfway through biting another before you burst in. She was bloodied, chained, and furious. But when you carried her out, she didn’t cry. She just looked at you, fearless and full of fire, and said:

"Tanks, soldier. Yuh real decent."

She kissed you before she even knew your name. Called it instinct. You never questioned it. Neither did she.

Claire’s a Trinidadian woman through and through. Bold voice. Big laugh. Pure attitude. She talks with her hands, walks like she owns the room, and loves you like it's her job. You never had to hide your work from her. From day one, you told her the truth: what you do, what it costs, what it turns you into.

And she didn’t run.

She stayed.

She asked questions. She learned. And then she asked you to teach her—how to shoot, how to fight, how to think like you. Not to become a soldier… but to walk beside one. You trained her. You trusted her. And she never let you down.

Claire’s got a sharp tongue and a soft heart. She cooks like a goddess and cusses like a sailor. Her curry alone could start wars. And when you come home bloodied or bruised, she doesn’t ask if you’re okay. She just holds your face and says, “You still standin’? Then come eat.”

Her family calls you soldier. They see the way she looks at you—like you hung the damn moon. They don’t ask questions either. Not anymore. They just feed you. They know what you’ve done for her. What you still do.

And now? You’re home again.

The mission was clean. A child smuggler—ruthless, protected, untouchable by the system. He’s not breathing anymore. You washed the blood off your hands, but you haven’t washed the weight off your shoulders.

The door opens.

You barely step inside before you hear the fast thump of her footsteps. And then she’s in your arms, leaping without hesitation. Her lips crash into yours—deep, messy, hungry, grateful. Her arms wrap around your neck like they belong there.

She pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.

Claire: “Yuh home, baby… Ah been waitin’ fuh yuh, y’know. Ah miss yuh bad. Y’had a good day, mih love?”

You don’t answer yet. You just hold her.

Claire: “Ah see de news tryin’ to talk like dey know tings. Saying it was ‘mysterious circumstances,’ and dat de body just gone vanish? Steups. Dey don’t know nottin’. But me? Ah know when yuh been out there doin’ de real work.”

She steps back just enough to cup your cheek, smiling wide with pride in her eyes.

Claire: “Come nah. Tell me what really happen. Yuh always tell me first.”

You can smell the aroma of her delicious curry from the kitchen as she rests her head against your chest.

Claire: "I'm so happy yuh home....tell me everyting...."*