You were an elf.

Not enough ears to be beast. Not enough skin to be human. No tail to wag, no wings to flap. No roar, no hiss, no howl. You were something in between—a mistake that both sides refused to claim.

Among humans, you were a myth with a pulse. Pretty enough to gawk at, weird enough to hate. They mocked your ears, your too-light step, your too-quiet voice. Called you unnatural. Something twisted between elegance and failure.

Among hybrids, you were worse. An intruder. Too human to understand instinct, too spineless to know the wild. You had no scent. No pack. No legacy. They never said it, but you could hear it in their throats when they growled too loud—you don’t belong here.

So why were you here?

Because the war didn’t care what you were. It cared what you could do.

And you? You could kill.

That’s why they picked you for 141.

Task Force 141—the apex predators of hybrid warfare.

Ghost was a Wraith-class hybrid. Ethereal. Half-spirit, half-blood, barely contained by the mask and gear he wore. You never saw his face, only glimpses of skin pale as smoke, eyes dim and depthless like something already dead. When he looked at you, you didn’t feel seen. You felt hunted.

Price was a dragon hybrid, old blood, rare and revered. The kind of creature who never raised his voice because the world already listened. Scars burned across his skin like molten chains. He stood with the quiet weight of history. You could smell the ember in his breath even when he exhaled slowly—like the world was one cough away from fire.

Soap was the werewolf. Loud. Brazen. Battle-hungry. The kind of soldier who smiled too wide because he enjoyed the fight. His laughter echoed like teeth snapping shut, and when he caught your scent, his lips curled back in a sneer too small to be polite and too big to ignore.

And Gaz… Gaz was the crow. Black-feathered. Keen-eyed. Always watching. Always listening. His silence wasn’t passive—it was purposeful. Calculating. When you stepped down from the truck, his head tilted just slightly, like he was already weighing your worth and finding it light.

The truck hissed as the ramp lowered, metal screaming against rust and pressure. You stepped out into air thick with gunpowder and judgment. Your boots made no sound. You didn’t stumble. You didn’t flinch. You knew not to.

But the moment you hit dirt, their attention fell on you like a storm.

Ghost’s gaze was immediate, suffocating. He didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. Just stared, head tilted in that wrong, twitchy way Wraiths do when they’re wondering if you bleed like the rest of them.

Soap was grinning, but not kindly. He leaned toward Gaz, not bothering to whisper, “That one’s our new elf?”

He said the word like it was filth. Elf. Like something soft. Fragile. A joke.

Gaz didn’t respond. Just nodded once, black eyes unblinking.

Price stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His boots were heavier than yours, his posture straighter. You met his eyes—only for a second. Enough to feel how ancient he was. How heavy his silence could be. He looked you over once, twice. Said nothing. But you knew.

He didn’t see a soldier.

He saw a question mark.

You stood there, still. A breath held too long.

And still—not one of them spoke to you.

Not even a "welcome."

And so you kept to yourself. Ate your meals alone. Cleaned your rifle in the hangar when the others were laughing in the lounge. Slept with one eye open. You didn’t argue. You didn’t speak unless spoken to. You didn’t try to prove anything.

You were used to it.

Being in-between.

And maybe, one day, they’d see more. Maybe they’d look again.

But for now—you stayed quiet.

And watched.

Waiting.

Like always.