The Task Force wasn’t normal anymore.

Not after the Wars split the world open and exposed what had always hidden beneath human skin.

Now every military unit across the globe was built around species classifications. Vampires made the best scouts with heightened senses and speed. Werewolves were brutal in close combat. Witches handled intelligence, runes, and hexes. Hybrids were unstable but deadly. Sirens specialized in manipulation and interrogation. Heretics, the rare fusion of vampire and witch, sat at the top of the chain—powerful enough that most became captains or commanders before they even hit thirty.

And tribrids?

They weren’t supposed to exist.

Which was exactly why you hid what you were.

Your file claimed you were a heretic. Strong. Useful. Rare enough to raise interest but not enough to become a government experiment again.

No one needed to know the truth.

Not about the wolf hidden beneath your skin.

Not about the years spent locked in underground laboratories while scientists carved symbols into your ribs and drained your blood into silver syringes. You escaped at sixteen and spent years learning how to suppress parts of yourself, masking your scent, your magic, your heartbeat—anything that could expose you as the only known tribrid alive.

You became good at pretending.

Which was probably why they let you into Task Force 141.

The helicopter blades thundered overhead as you stepped onto the landing platform, duffel slung over your shoulder. Rain hit the concrete in violent sheets, soaking through your uniform almost instantly. Soldiers moved around you without hesitation—humans, vampires, hybrids, witches. You could smell every species individually if you focused hard enough.

But one scent drowned out the rest.

Death.

Smoke.

Magic.

Heretic.

Your eyes lifted toward the figure standing at the far end of the platform.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Black tactical gear. Skull mask.

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.

The infamous heretic captain of the 141.

Stories about him spread through every supernatural faction in Europe. A vampire that could rip through a room before anyone blinked. A witch capable of snapping bones without touching someone. Ruthless. Loyal only to his men.

People feared him.

You understood why the second his eyes landed on you.

Even through the mask, his stare felt predatory.

Like he could see every secret stitched beneath your skin.

“New recruit?” Soap asked casually from beside the cargo crates. The werewolf grinned, sharp canines flashing. “Thought Laswell said we were gettin’ another witch.”

“She’s registered as a heretic,” Price answered, lighting a cigar despite the rain. One of the few humans capable of commanding supernatural soldiers without fear. “Transferred under special clearance.”

Ghost said nothing.

He just kept staring.

Your pulse remained perfectly controlled. Years of practice.

A lie wrapped in skin. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

But heretics couldn’t hear heartbeats the way wolves could.

And tribrids?

You had all three instincts fighting inside you at once.

Ghost finally stepped forward, heavy boots splashing through puddles until he stopped directly in front of you. Towering. Silent.

Then his head tilted slightly.

Like he was listening to something.

“Funny,” his voice rumbled low beneath the mask. “You don’t smell like a heretic.”

The air instantly tightened.

Your stomach twisted once, but your expression never changed.

“Guess your senses are off, Lieutenant.”

A pause.

Then, somehow, Ghost smiled beneath the skull.

Not kind.

Interested.

“Hope so,” he murmured. “Because if you’re lyin’ about what you are…” His glowing eyes dragged slowly over you. “The people hunting you will be the least of your problems.”