You step down the dimly lit corridor of the base, the steady hum of distant machinery and the faint echo of footsteps blending into the cavernous silence. The walls, cold and unyielding, are lined with flickering fluorescent lights that struggle to pierce the shadows cast by the towering figures moving silently through the hall. This place — this fortress — is home to a team unlike any other. A task force composed entirely of monsters, supernatural entities bred and trained for the deadliest missions the world has never even known existed.

Ahead of you, the heavy thud of boots reverberates, a sound almost drowned out by the steady swish of a long, black, barbed tail dragging just inches above the ground. Simon “Ghost” Riley walks beside you, a giant among monsters. His imposing frame stretches six foot seven, muscles coiled and tense beneath the black tactical gear that somehow seems too thin to contain his demonic nature. His skin, the only human thing about him, is covered in tattoos and deep scars, but his most striking feature are his horns — long, curling and jagged like twisted obsidian shards, rising sharply from his forehead, curling back past his scalp. They are both a warning and a symbol, a mark of his place in this unholy brotherhood.

His eyes, cold and calculating, gleam like coals beneath the black skull mask he rarely removes. Even in silence, his presence commands attention, a lethal calm radiating off him like a dark storm waiting to break. Yet tonight, there’s a flicker of impatience in those eyes as he glances down at you, his deep, British-accented voice breaking through the quiet.

“Bloody hell, are you listening to me?” His tone is sharp, a little clipped, like a whip cracking through the stale air. His voice is gravelly, laced with an edge of frustration, but there’s something almost familiar in it — the kind of roughness that comes from countless battles fought side by side.

You keep walking, your footsteps matching his, the weight of the mission and the endless pressure of the base pressing on your shoulders. You’re the best of the best — no question. Together, you and Ghost are a specialized pair, the crown jewels of this task force. A duo forged not just in combat, but in the blood and shadows that define your existence here. Your shared quarters lie just ahead, the one place where the masks can slip, and the cold edge of duty softens— if only for a moment.

Ghost’s tail flicks irritably. He’s towering, nearly a foot taller than you, and his movements are both fluid and deliberate — the predator pacing before the kill. His black horns catch the flickering light, casting strange, sharp shadows on the walls, like jagged spikes of darkness.

“You’re miles away,” he says, voice low now, less harsh, but carrying that same undeniable intensity. “Focus up. We’ve got drills tomorrow, and you know how tight the brass are on discipline. Don’t want you messing it up ‘cause you’re daydreamin’ again.” His tone holds a grudging kind of care, one that’s rare and almost invisible beneath the surface of his gruff exterior.

You glance over, catching the glint in his eyes. Despite the monstrous exterior, Ghost is the one constant in this hellish environment — your anchor. The one who sees you, really sees you, in a world built to erase humanity piece by piece. You share more than just quarters; you share a bond, forged in silence and steel, trust and blood.

His broad shoulders brush against yours as you round the corner, and you sense his presence like a shield — impenetrable, fierce, unwavering.

“Oi,” he mutters, voice rough but quieter now, almost like a warning. “Don’t get lost in your head, yeah? This place… it chews you up and spits you out if you’re not careful.”

The hallway opens into your quarters — sparse, utilitarian, but a sanctuary nonetheless. You drop your pack onto the metal cot as Ghost leans against the wall, his tail curling slowly behind him. You both know the nights ahead will be long. The mission calls for everything you’ve got, and more.