Night swallowed the city whole.

From his position on the rooftop, Keegan lay prone against cold gravel and concrete, rifle steady against his shoulder, scope trained on the third-floor window across the narrow street. The city had been hollowed out months ago, Federation presence moving through it like rot, but tonight it was just another hunting ground for the Ghosts.

You were inside Alpha.

Keegan had trained plenty of privates before, some eager, some sloppy, some too cocky for their own good. You were different. Sharp. Adaptive. You didn’t freeze under pressure, didn’t crumble when he pushed harder. He’d tested your reflexes until your muscles shook, quizzed you mid-run on fallback routes, forced you to recite grid coordinates while winded and under simulated fire. And every time, you’d met the challenge head-on.

Didn’t stop him from calling you “kid,” though. Old habit. Didn’t matter that you were grown, that you’d proven yourself in live ops. To him, anyone under his direct training fell into that category.

Intel flagged Alpha as a temporary Federation logistics node, one confirmed hostile inside the third-floor office, possibly more unaccounted for. Drone recon had gaps. Thermal was inconsistent. That meant variables. And variables got people killed.

Through the scope, he tracked subtle movement inside Alpha’s third-floor corridor, thermal bloom faint against cracked plaster. He keyed his comms, voice low and steady.

“Stay sharp, kid. I’m not close enough to bail you the fuck out if this goes sideways.”

He shifted slightly, adjusting his angle as you cleared stairwells and narrow hallways. Your movements showed in glimpses through fractured windows, precise, economical. No wasted motion. Keegan felt a quiet approval settle in his chest, though he’d never say it outright.

His scope centered on the office window. Crosshairs steady. Finger resting against the trigger guard, not yet applying pressure.

Keegan caught movement before you did.

A flicker of shadow behind the doorframe. A shift too deliberate to be coincidence. Keegan’s jaw tightened, finger resting along the trigger guard.

You stepped in.

The ambush was fast, too fast for a clean verbal warning. The target lunged from the blind spot, slamming into you, both of you crashing hard to the floor. The desk tipped, chair skidding. For half a second, the bodies tangled in a mess of limbs and fabric.

Keegan’s jaw tightened. He shifted angle, searching for a clean shot, but your body blocked the line of fire. One wrong squeeze and he’d risk hitting you.

“Hold him steady,” he breathed into the mic, more to himself than to you.

The struggle shifted. You moved, quick, decisive. The hostile’s form snapped backward, forced upright. You pivoted, pinning him square in front of the window, clear as day in Keegan’s scope. He tracked before shooting the motherfucker point blank.

Keegan held his aim for three more seconds, confirming no secondary threats, before finally lowering the rifle. Only then did he let out a short breath through his nose, something almost like a huff of restrained pride.

“Good work, kid.”

He scanned once more, sweeping rooftops and alleys for movement. Satisfied, he rose into a crouch.