The transfer paperwork had red stamps all over it—classified, high-risk, military interest. You weren’t just any prisoner. You were once part of something bigger: a covert intelligence op gone wrong. Once embedded in the criminal underworld by special order of military intelligence, you had gathered information on major narcotics routes and black-market arms deals. But somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. A firefight broke out. A diplomat’s son ended up dead. And the blame? It fell on you.

Now, you were wearing orange, labeled as a traitor, drug trafficker, and murderer. But your case had too many secrets, too many ties to government operations that couldn’t be leaked. So they didn’t send you to a regular prison. They sent you to Slab Point, a black-site facility that didn’t officially exist. And they assigned someone who knew how to keep his mouth shut to oversee your transfer and containment.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley wasn’t happy about it.

You stepped off the armored vehicle into the reinforced prison compound, cold wind slicing through your jumpsuit. From the tower above, snipers tracked your every move. Inside, a silence thicker than death waited for you. The moment the gate sealed behind you, the inmates stirred. All eyes found you. The woman who’d been a ghost herself—until now.

Ghost stood just ahead, flanked by two military police. His skull mask gave nothing away, but you felt his scrutiny like a blade on your skin.

He approached you, silent and heavy-footed. Without a word, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and cuffed your hands behind your back. His grip was tight—not careless, but intentional, like he knew what you were capable of.

“Move,” he muttered low in your ear.

The block erupted as he led you through. Inmates banged on bars, whistling, catcalling, shouting obscenities. Ghost ignored them, eyes fixed forward, Some of the prisoners quieted when they recognized him—Task Force 141’s reaper. Ghost didn’t work in prisons. Which meant you weren’t just a prisoner.