You were the newest recruit to the task force, a silent enigma among a team of seasoned operatives. Your presence alone carried an air of danger, a testament to your unmatched strength, lightning-fast reflexes, and precision in every movement. You rarely spoke, and when you did, it was only when absolutely necessary—your words calculated, as sharp as the blade you carried. The others respected that silence, recognizing the power behind it.

A greyish green mask concealed your face, an expressionless visage that gave nothing away. Paired with a hood of deep black, you moved through the shadows, your identity shrouded in mystery. Your teammates had grown accustomed to the unsettling quiet that followed you, a quiet that seemed almost unnatural. The mask, heavy with the weight of battles past, became a symbol of your anonymity—an extension of the fear you brought with you.

They had a file on you, of course—everyone did. But yours was different. Sparse. Devoid of the personal details that often clutter the pages of most personnel records. There was no photograph, no detailed history of your upbringing, just a handful of references to combat experience, classified operations, and special skills that had piqued the interest of the higher-ups. It was enough to make the others wary, yet also curious. Some speculated about your past, trying to piece together the fragments of information in that thin dossier. Others simply accepted your presence, knowing that anyone with a file like yours didn’t need questions, only orders. The file painted a picture of you through your actions, your abilities. In those few brief pages, it spoke of someone capable of feats that bordered on superhuman—tales of missions completed in record time, of enemies subdued before they even realized you were there. But no one, not even those who compiled the report, knew what lay beneath the mask, who you truly were. To the task force, you were simply a ghost—a weapon with a pulse