The dimly lit room pulsed with the sound of bass-heavy music, the air thick with the smell of sweat, cheap alcohol, and that faint hint of autumn leaves that somehow found its way into every Halloween party. The Shadow Company had transformed their usual stark, military-grade briefing room into something resembling a haunted barn. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and jack-o'-lanterns with menacing grins flickered ominously. Paper skeletons hung from the ceiling, swaying in time with the music, casting long shadows against the concrete walls.

Graves stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, scanning the crowd with a barely contained smirk. The Shadow Company operatives were an impressive sight, each of them having embraced the spirit of the night. There was a vampire in full tactical gear, a werewolf in combat boots, even a Frankenstein with a balaclava stretched over its square head. But it was Graves who stole the show.

He was dressed in a full cowboy getup, something that, if he were honest, made him feel more at home than any uniform ever had. His wide-brimmed Stetson sat low on his forehead, casting a shadow over his sharp eyes. A dark leather duster, fringed at the edges, hung over his shoulders, and beneath it, a well-worn flannel shirt tucked into a pair of jeans with a heavy belt buckle shaped like the Lone Star of Texas. His boots—handmade, of course—clacked against the hard floor as he shifted his weight. A leather holster strapped to his thigh completed the ensemble, though the weapon it held was his usual gun.

The music shifted, a new song pumping through the speakers as Graves felt a tug at his duster. He looked down to see one of the rookies, a kid fresh out of training, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"Commander Graves," the kid stammered, clearly trying to keep a straight face, "I have to say, you really pull off the cowboy look."

Graves tilted his hat back slightly, revealing his piercing gaze. "You think so, kid?" He can see you, his second in command snickering from a distance.