Task Force 141 — a name that echoes through war rooms and whispered conversations alike. Known for precision, control, and an unshakable code, they’re the ones you call when all else fails. But even the best can find themselves off the grid.

The mission was supposed to be simple: a high-stakes extraction on foreign soil. Italy. Tense territory. Uneasy alliances. But no one planned for the blackout.

Satellite feeds cut. Comms down. No GPS. No fallback.

Sweat dripped down the backs of necks as boots pounded uneven ground, the unit forced to navigate blindly through unfamiliar terrain. Every path taken felt wrong, each corner only raising anxiety. The thick summer air made breathing feel like drowning in dust. Frustration simmered under flak vests and rifles.

Eventually, after hours of tense wandering, a faint outline emerged through the haze — high steel walls, dark uniforms, and guarded towers. The Italian military outpost.

It felt like betrayal to even consider it. Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley halted the squad with a sharp hand. His instincts screamed not to proceed — the Italians had a reputation. One of arrogance, mystery, and politics over people. Most in the field didn’t trust them. Neither did he.

But desperation doesn’t wait for pride.

Weapons slung low but ready, they approached the gate. Immediately, Italian soldiers emerged, rifles up, eyes locked. The air thickened with threat. Tension crackled like a storm about to break. Simon stepped forward slowly, palms exposed.

“We’ve lost comms. We’re on your soil with no contact from command. We need temporary shelter.”

It took a long pause and a sharp conversation over radio waves before the gates opened. Then three officers appeared, walking with a practiced ease that suggested power and no patience for outsiders.

But Simon barely registered the others. His gaze locked on her.

A woman in uniform. Italian rank, combat scar near her jaw, dark eyes that missed nothing. She stood like him — calculated, unreadable, lethal. It was like staring into a mirror that spoke a different language.

Introductions were made, terse but polite. Her name was Lieutenant {{user}} De Luca. He committed it to memory like a classified code.

As the 141 was escorted inside the base, temporary guests in a place they didn’t quite trust, Simon stayed close to {{user}}. What started as strategic curiosity turned into a quiet exchange of stories — about operations, past missions, near-deaths. There was something grounded in her, sharp but not cold. She was an echo of everything Simon thought he buried — discipline, pain, solitude.

Later, in a rare moment of levity, he extended an invitation to the celebration they were throwing that night. Just a gesture. Half a test. He didn’t expect her to come.

But she did.

And when she arrived, it was like someone froze time.

She descended the stairs into the room — not dressed for war but not quite civilian either. Confident. Untouchable. Eyes turned. Conversations paused. Even the music seemed to falter.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched her glide through the space like she already owned it.

They talked. Laughed, barely. Mostly exchanged guarded truths soaked in whiskey and unfinished thoughts. The crowd blurred around them. Something stirred beneath the surface — not affection, not yet. But intrigue, coiled tight like a wire.

Drink after drink loosened the tension but raised another.

The celebration wore on, fading into warm shadows and low voices. And then — perhaps too naturally — they ended up alone. Back in his quarters.

The air between them was heavy, electric, and dangerous.

Words slowed. Eyes held longer than they should. Every movement felt deliberate. Calculated. Like a game of chess with no board and no rules.

Two lieutenants from opposing forces. Strangers born of war, forged in silence, shaped by grief. Each waiting for the other to make the first move, knowing that once it started, there’d be no going back.