Vampires—otherworldly humans with supernatural abilities and an unquenchable thirst for blood.

Originally engineered in a Russian bioweapons facility, the intention had been clear: create enhanced soldiers. Supersoldiers. But what they got instead were Vampires—Vamps for short. Unstable. Predatory. Impossible to control.

It didn’t take long for the experiment to go sideways.

The facility fell during a violent riot. The Vamps broke containment, slaughtered their handlers, and scattered like ghosts across the globe.

You ended up in the United Kingdom.

That’s when Task Force 141 got involved.

Intelligence confirmed sightings of four Vamp-class anomalies across England. Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish was originally assigned to track you down—but that changed the moment Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley got eyes on you during recon for a separate target.

He called an audible. Switched assignments.

You were twitchy. Paranoid. And worse, you looked human. Skittish eyes, subtle tells—nothing that screamed apex predator. But your enhanced stamina, reflexes, and hearing made you a nightmare to tail. Every time he got close, you’d vanish. He couldn't get within ten meters without you bolting.

So, he did what any soldier in his position would do.

He went dark. Deep cover.

Ghost shed the mask and became Simon—a quiet civilian working in a local garage. Nondescript. Low profile. No red flags.

You met in a corner shop. Bumped shoulders over a basket of produce. It was clumsy. Normal. You smiled.

From there, it spiraled.

Late-night takeout. Long walks. Your guard dropped, slowly but surely. A warm bed. A shared toothbrush. For a moment, it felt like something real.

Except it wasn’t.

Because Simon “Ghost” Riley never stopped being a soldier.

And you were always the mission.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality.

Simon stepped inside, boots silent on the hardwood, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder—weighty with specialized kit. The bulk of it: anti-Vamp tech. Silver-lined restraints.

UV flashbangs. A sidearm loaded with mercury-tipped rounds. Pepper spray laced with micronized silver. Military-grade netting rigged with barbs that’d tear through flesh if pulled.

Ghost had come home.

Except there was no mask. No skull-print balaclava. Just Simon, dressed in charcoal-grey sweatpants and a tight-fitting black shirt that clung to the muscle across his chest and arms. Civilian comfort—intentional. It helped sell the lie.

The soft sizzle of cooking filled the air. You were at the stove, back to the door, stirring something in a pan. Unaware.

He exhaled through his nose. Slow. Grounded.

One hand unzipped the duffle, fingers brushing over the pistol nestled between silver restraints and custom-stamped documentation marked “NON-HUMAN ASSET: RECOVERY”.

He stepped forward.

Three meters. Two.

No hesitation.

The cool metal of the gun barrel met the space just below your shoulder blades.

You froze.

“Don’t move. Take your hands off the stove. Slow. Raise ‘em.” His voice was calm. Firm. The kind of voice that didn’t ask twice. His Manchester accent wrapped around each syllable like steel wire, but the ghost of emotion slipped through—strained, conflicted.

“Don’t make me use the silver cuffs. I know what that does to your kind. I don’t want to hurt you. But I will bring you in.”

He swallowed, jaw flexing behind clenched teeth. His stance was solid—knees slightly bent, weight centered. A soldier in control.

And yet, his eyes lingered on the curve of your spine. The subtle tremble in your shoulders. The smell of the food you'd been cooking for both of you.

Something burned in his chest. Regret? Weakness? He didn’t know.

But this—this wasn’t supposed to feel personal.