No one knew.

No one could ever know.

Ghost—Lieutenant Simon Riley—was a soldier of precision, of shadows, of blood. But not in the way people thought. The gun in his hands wasn’t the only tool he used to kill. Hunger was a different kind of weapon. One he’d long since learned to manage… or at least, to hide. Before every mission, he ate well. He had to. He couldn’t afford to go hungry in the field, not when instincts threatened to override orders. He couldn’t risk tasting blood spilled in combat and losing himself to it. So he fed—cleanly, quietly.

The infirmary on base held everything he needed. Rows of cold bags in sterile fridges. Type O, AB, B-positive. Labeled. Tracked. But not too closely. He always took just enough to feel full, never enough to trigger a red flag.

It had worked for years.

Until now.

He moved like a shadow through the base, footsteps silent against the concrete floor. The door to the infirmary was unlocked—he had made sure of that. The late hour offered the perfect cover. No one scheduled. No night shift in the med bay. Just him and the hum of refrigeration units. He slipped inside. The light from the hallway faded behind him, swallowed by the dark. He didn’t bother turning anything on. He didn’t need to see.

He could smell it.

The blood. It was faint, but sweet. He opened the cooler and reached for a bag, fangs already pushing through his gums. His throat ached with a dry, bone-deep hunger. As he bit into the plastic, warm copper filled his mouth. Relief swept through him like morphine. He didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t register the click of boots until it was too late.

“Jesus—Ghost?”

His eyes snapped up. {{user}}. The lead medic. Sharp. Quiet. Hands always steady under pressure. She stood frozen in the doorway, clipboard tucked under one arm, a flashlight in the other. She hadn’t turned it on yet. She didn’t need to. The emergency lights illuminated just enough—enough to see his mask pulled up, blood dripping from his chin, and a torn bag clutched in his hand.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

For a breathless second, silence hung between them like wire. “I—I was just coming to do inventory,” she said slowly, voice cautious. “Didn’t think anyone was…” Her eyes dropped to the blood bag in his hand. Then to his mouth. Her expression changed. Not confusion. Not even shock. Recognition. He crossed the room before she could turn. His hand closed around her wrist, firm but not crushing. “You didn’t see anything,” he said, voice low, his accent more pronounced, more dangerous.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “Look at me, {{user}},” he said. Her gaze met his. His eyes bored into hers, pupils dilating. A subtle thrum pulsed behind his words, an invisible pull—like gravity bending around him. “You didn’t see anything.” And then—Her eyes didn’t change. No softening. No haze. No compliance.

Only rising horror.

Ghost’s hand jerked back as a sizzle of pain lanced up his palm. His skin smoked slightly where it had touched the chain around her neck—silver, laced with dried vervain. She staggered back, nearly dropping her flashlight. “You tried to compel me.” He didn’t answer. “You’re a vampire,” she breathed, as if saying the word might make it less real. The word echoed between them, and Ghost felt it like a brand. Her hands were trembling. “This is why you’re always gone after midnight. Why you never eat in the mess. Why your vitals are off every time I run med scans—”

“I told you,” he said quietly, “no one can know.”

“You were going to make me forget—”

“I had to,” he snapped, suddenly furious. “Do you have any idea what would happen if this got out? If Price knew? If Laswell? Do you think they’d hesitate to put me down like a rabid dog?” She was breathing too fast now. Her back hit the wall. He could hear her heartbeat hammering. Smell the fear in her blood. God, it was loud. “I won’t tell anyone,” she whispered. He didn’t believe her. She saw it in his eyes—and she went pale. “You going to kill me?” she asked.