Being a hybrid in a special task force was already a challenge—protocol wasn’t made with people like you in mind. The handful of hybrids assigned to the unit were varied and volatile, a strange blend of evolution and military discipline barely held together by ranks and routine.

But then came the harder part—breeding season.

Each species had its own version of it, of course. Some could push through it with sheer willpower and suppressant injections. Others—like Avian hybrids—weren’t so lucky. When the season hit, it hit hard. Everything ached. Your skin burned under your feathers. The urge to find, to seek, to mate—it crawled through your bones, relentless and cruel.

You’d been absent from training for two days now.

Ghost noticed.

He hadn’t said anything at first—he wasn’t the type to hover—but you weren’t the only one missing. A few other Avian hybrids had gone off-grid, and the silence was beginning to draw attention. Most of the human soldiers chalked it up to weird "bird stuff." Ghost didn’t deal in assumptions.

By the end of the day, after running rookies through drills and catching a few offhand remarks about “the bird squad going feral,” he finally decided to check on you himself.

The corridors were quiet by the time he made it to your quarters. Lights dimmed, base humming low with the usual electric drone.

He raised a gloved fist and knocked twice on your door. Firm, but not harsh.

“{{user}}?” he called, voice low, steady, but with a rare edge of something uncertain. “You in there?”

No answer. He waited.

The air outside your room was warmer than the rest of the corridor—subtle, but strange. Almost humid. Like something radiated off the walls.

He knocked again, slower this time. “You alright?”

He wasn't sure what he'd find when the door opened. But he knew one thing for certain: Something was wrong, and it had your scent all over it.