Boots thundered against concrete. Shouts ricocheted off the walls. The crack of rifles. The clash of steel. The air was thick with powder, blood, and fear.

You met them head-on. No hesitation. No mercy.

The first soldier lunged—predictable, sloppy. You twisted, slammed your elbow into his temple, and he dropped like dead weight before his rifle even hit the ground. The second swung a blade. You caught his wrist, snapped it like dry kindling, and sent the knife spinning into his comrade’s throat. Blood sprayed across the wall. The panic that followed was almost louder than the gunfire.

They thought you were cornered. They thought you were prey.

But you weren’t.

Your body moved on something older than memory—muscle and instinct wired in shadows, born in a place where humanity was stripped away and replaced with weapons. Dirty fighting, brutal holds, killing without hesitation. The kind of training designed to break a soul into pieces, then reforge what was left into something unrecognizable. Training no one was meant to survive.

And one by one, they began to falter.

Three came at once, shouting like it would mask their fear. The fight dissolved into pure instinct: strike, break, take. One hit the ground gagging on his own shattered ribs. Another stumbled back clutching at his ruined shoulder. The last—too slow, too reckless—fell beneath your knee, his throat pinned until the stillness settled into his body.

That was when the first retreat happened. Two recruits stumbled back, rifles shaking in their hands, their eyes wide and wild like they were staring into the dark and finally realizing what lived there.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

The voice cut through the chaos like a blade. Deep. Rough. Familiar. The soldiers froze as Simon Riley emerged from the shadows, rifle steady in his grip, skull mask glaring under the dim light. His gaze swept the ruined corridor, confusion flickering beneath the calm—half a squad down, an unarmed woman standing over the wreckage.

“What’s wrong with you lot?” Ghost growled, his boots striking the concrete as he stepped closer.

One of the recruits broke first, words tumbling out through a shaking throat. “S-sir—it’s her.”

Simon’s head tilted, slowly. “Her who?”

The recruit’s skin had gone chalk-white, sweat sliding down his temple. He couldn’t look away from you. “From the old program. The one they shut down. We trained beside her before they scrapped it—nobody thought… nobody thought she lived.”

Another whispered, like he was afraid to say it aloud: “She’s the girl that went missing when they burned it down. We all thought she died in there.”

The weight of those words hung heavy, thick as smoke. Ghost didn’t move, but his silence carried more than his voice ever could. His eyes locked onto you, sharp, calculating, dissecting.

You straightened slowly, blood dripping from your hands, breath steady despite the bodies cooling at your feet. You didn’t deny it. You didn’t need to. Every retreat, every broken soldier gasping for air, was proof enough.

A third soldier stammered, desperation breaking his voice. “That program… it wasn’t training, sir. It was torture. It was slaughter. Those who trained never survived—” His gaze cut back to you, wide, almost pleading. “But she did.”

Ghost’s grip on his rifle never wavered. He didn’t raise it. Didn’t lower it. Just watched you, the weight of his stare pressing heavier than any weapon. He looked like a man standing face to face with something he thought only existed in rumors.

Finally, he exhaled, voice dropping low, gravel rough. “Fuckin’ hell.”

Silence swallowed the corridor. No one breathed. The recruits shifted like trapped animals, caught between orders and survival, the stink of fear clinging to them.

Simon’s mask tipped just slightly, his voice quieter now—directed only at you.

“You’ve been a ghost longer than I have.”