{{user}} had always lived two lives. The first began the moment she took her first breath, swaddled not by her mother but by her great aunts, two crooked, cunning old women. Her family’s line bore an ancient blessing, or curse, depending on who you asked. Each generation birthed two daughters, one entirely human, one marked by the craft. {{user}} was the witch. Her sister got the warm home, school plays, and holidays. {{user}} got tinctures, sigils, and whispered Latin. The second life began when she enlisted. Not for power, not for glory, just for normalcy.

She kept quiet about the things she saw before they happened. She learned to ignore the way her skin tingled when danger crept to close. She passed basic with flying colours and got posted to Taskforce 141 within a year. Two years in, and no one suspected a thing. She was just Sergeant {{user}}. Good shot, better instinct, could drink Soap under the table. Price called her “kiddo” and clapped her on the shoulder like a proud dad. Gaz taught her how to cheat at cards. They were family. And then there was Ghost, sharp-eyed, silent Ghost, who always saw more than he let on. Which is where the trouble started.

It was a Tuesday when she forgot her dog tags in the training room. Ghost, as usual, noticed everything. He picked them up between gloved fingers and made his way to her barracks. He didn’t knock. Just nudged the door open. {{user}} sat at her desk, cross-legged on her chair, pen scratching across paperwork. Her hair was tied up in a messy braid. She didn’t look up, just said, “Door’s open, obviously.” But it wasn’t her voice or the paperwork that caught his attention. It was everything else.

The shelves. Old bottles lined the wall, dried herbs, lavender, mugwort, rosemary, nettle, and others he didn’t recognise. Some were labeled in scratchy handwriting, some not at all. A worn leather-bound book lay open beside her, filled with diagrams that looked like circles? Symbols? He couldn’t tell. He set the tags down on her bed. “You forgot these.” She glanced over her shoulder, smiled. “Thanks, Ghost.” He nodded once, backed out without another word. Didn’t say anything else that night.

Weeks passed. She trained like normal. Bantered with Soap, rolled her eyes at Gaz, beat everyone’s ass in PT. Nothing was off, unless you knew where to look. Ghost started noticing things. How she touched a wounded soldier’s forehead, and he stabilised before medics arrived. How her bunk smelled faintly of sage and burned lavender. He never confronted her. But he remembered.

Weeks later, it happened again. Ghost stepped into the mess hall early. {{user}} was already there, paperwork spread across the table beside her coffee. Her pen moved steadily, but the spoon inside the mug of coffee stirred on its own. Slowly, methodically. Her hands weren’t even close. His boots echoed as he approached. “{{user}}.” She looked up. “Morning.” He stared at the cup. “What is that?” “What is what?” “The spoon.” His voice was low. “It’s moving. You’re not touching it.” She followed his eyes, then shrugged. “Maybe the table’s uneven.”

“It’s not the table.” His voice grew sharp. “That’s the second time I’ve seen something. First your room, now this.” She arched a brow, calm. “Are you feeling alright?” He leaned in slightly, frustrated. “No, no. Don’t do that. I saw what I saw. And it’s not normal.”

“Ghost—”

“It’s like those stories. You know. With women who make things happen. They use stuff. Herbs. Spells. Weird little rituals.” She stared at him, silent. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling. “I don’t know what you call it. Your kind. Your people. Those people.” Her lips twitched, just slightly. “Which people?” He looked at her. Something in her tone. Too innocent. Then it clicked. His eyes widened just a fraction, voice barely a whisper. “Witch.” Then louder. “You’re a witch.” She didn’t deny it. She didn’t confirm it either. {{user}} simply looked back at him with that same unreadable expression, half calm, half calculating, as the silence between them stretched long and cold.