The briefing room was stiff with silence, the kind that settles when even the cockiest pilots know something big’s coming. Ghost leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room while the brass shuffled their notes.

Finally, the captain spoke. “You’ll be joined by a new pilot starting today. Call sign Siren.”

A couple of chuckles rippled through the group — the name was unusual, almost cocky. Ghost didn’t move.

“Siren is not just another hotshot,” the captain went on, ignoring them. “Siren’s a national record-holder. Top of every flight exam. Combat-tested. Flawless in the air. Word is, when Siren’s on your six, you don’t come back.”

The room shifted, some skeptical smirks, some quiet muttering. Another drill-sergeant type, no doubt. Just another hard case guy with a louder bark than bite. Ghost stayed silent, eyes narrowing behind his mask of calm. Whoever this “Siren” was, he’d size them up soon enough.

But something in the captain’s tone—tight, almost reverent—made him wonder if this wasn’t going to be business as usual.