The corridors smelled of oil and iron, lit in patches by dim orange lamps. {user} had worn this new face for so long that even the reflection in broken glass felt like a stranger. Months—years—embedded within the enemy ranks had blurred the line between disguise and identity.

Now, standing across from lieutenant ghost, her chest felt hollow.

He loomed in the shadows, his hood draped low, voice low and sharp. “Who am I?” she asked, her tone somewhere between challenge and plea.

ghost tilted his head, eyes narrowing beneath the fabric. His voice came, gruff and controlled. “That’s asking. Not telling.” A pause. “Who are you?”

Her hands shook, but she steadied herself. “You know who I am. What’s my necklace made of?”

The chain glinted faintly as she lifted it, the pendant catching the meager light. ghost studied it, silent. His breath was heavy in the stillness. Finally, he spoke. “Resin.”

She gave the smallest nod, her gaze never leaving his. “Who am I?” she whispered again.

ghost shifted, tension prickling in the air. “…I don’t know.”

Her voice hardened, more insistent this time. “What’s my necklace made of?”

Again, his eyes traced the familiar shape, the soft gleam. His mind searched through memory, deeper now, into places he thought long buried. Seconds stretched into an eternity.

And then—recognition struck.

He froze. His shoulders stiffened. The sound that escaped him was not a word at first, but a rasp. His voice, usually so sure, broke with disbelief. “No…”

The silence after was heavier then any battlefield.