There were whispers in the field. Ghost had heard them all. Some soldier — half-drunk in a bunker — had spoken of it first. Said he saw a civilian walk straight through gunfire like a ghost clad in dragon’s armor. Word was, someone out there wore a dragon-shaped choker that wasn’t just jewelry. It moved when its wearer was in danger. It changed. Became armor — military-grade, top-secret, experimental tech that vanished after a classified black-ops collapse years ago.

Most dismissed it. Urban legend. Battlefield stress. Ghost didn’t believe in fairy tales. He believed in bullets and blood, But the story stuck with him longer than he liked.

What if it was true? What if this so-called Dragonskin was real? It could save lives. Change the rules of warfare. Rewrite survival. But none of that mattered now — not after the op had gone sideways. Not after the ambush, the silence over comms, the blood soaking through his gear. The mission was a failure. And Ghost was barely standing.

You don’t get many quiet days, but today is one.

Rain taps softly against the windows. The city’s usual chaos is distant, dulled by the storm. You wear an oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, coffee lukewarm in your hand, pretending to read a book you’ve already read twice. Soft music hums in the background. The dragon-shaped choker rests against your collarbone — cool at first, now warm. Familiar. Like it knows. Like it’s listening. You haven’t had to use it in a long time. You almost let yourself believe you never would again.

Then: three knocks. Sharp. Measured. Familiar. You freeze. Not a neighbor. Not delivery. You set the mug down and move slowly to the door. A glance through the peephole confirms the shape you know instantly.

Ghost.

Soaked to the bone, one hand pressed to his ribs, breathing hard beneath the mask. You unlock the door without a word and step aside. He slips inside like a shadow, locking it behind him. “Didn’t know where else to go,” he mutters. “Lost my tail three blocks back.”

“You’re bleeding,” you say, stepping in front of him. “Sit, here. Come on.” You lead him to the couch. He’s heavier than you expect, staggering slightly before he drops into the cushions with a grunt. He presses hard against his side, blood already slipping between his fingers. “Not deep,” he says, trying to brush it off. But he’s pale. Wounded. Shaky.

You don’t argue.

“Stay there,” you say, already moving. You grab the first aid kit from beneath the bathroom sink, clean towels, antiseptic, thread. Your hands are steady, but your gut clenches tight with dread. When you return, he’s leaning forward, fingers clumsily tugging at his hoodie. You kneel beside him and carefully cut it away.

He winces, breathing shallow. “Didn’t think anyone was still watching. I was wrong.” You nod, silent, focused as you clean the wound. He watches you work. His eyes linger a second longer than they should.

Then all of a sudden, bullet start to fly. From one peaceful, or rather a bit more stressed moment, complete chaos starts.

The first bullet punches through the glass with a crack like thunder. Then comes the second. Third. A hail of them. You don’t even think — your body moves on instinct.

You throw yourself in front of Ghost. Glass shatters. Wood splinters. The room fills with the scream of gunfire and the hot, electric scent of danger. Behind you, Ghost curses, trying to push you aside. “Move—!”

Too late. The dragon wakes.

It’s like something crawling under your skin. A cold flicker across your spine, then heat — radiating from the choker like a second heartbeat. The metal shifts, pulses, unfurls.

Scales bloom from your neck and jaw, sliding over your skin like liquid metal. Black-blue plates crawl across your arms, chest, spine — twisting, locking, becoming armor.

Not quite tech. Not quite flesh. Something else. Your face stays visible, but faint glowing lines flicker beneath your eyes. You look almost human.

Ghost stares, stunned. “{{user}}... ?”