The conference room at Hereford was darker than usual.

Not dim—deliberate.

The kind of lighting chosen when the things being discussed weren’t meant to leave the walls.

Price stood at the head of the table, arms folded, unreadable. Soap leaned back in his chair, boot hooked on the rung, trying to look casual. Gaz spun a pen slowly between his fingers.

Ghost stood, like he always did during black briefings.

Across from them, a man in a tailored suit with no insignia placed three thick files on the table.

The Official.

The small marking on the folder corner gave him away—joint tasking authority tied to UK Special Forces oversight. Not MI5. Not MI6. Something quieter.

“You’ve been cleared for Operation Glass Veil.”

No preamble. No pleasantries.

“We’re dealing with a trio. Limited digital footprint. No confirmed base. Highly mobile. Highly surgical.”

He slid a document across the table.

“Sure you’ve been aware of them before we called. These three are most wanted all over England.”

He opened the first file. A mugshot stared back.

“Subject One. Convicted serial murderer. Escaped from HMP Frankland eight months ago. No one escapes Frankland.” A beat. “He did.”

Soap let out a low whistle.

The second file slid forward.

“Subject Two is the reason they’ve evaded capture. They are… highly intelligent. QI is assumed to be off the charts,” the official said.

“Subject Two specializes in psychological manipulation, advanced counter-surveillance, and strategic unpredictability. They have outmaneuvered both domestic and international agencies repeatedly.”

Ghost’s gaze never left the final folder. The edges were worn. Handled more.

The man picked it up last.

“Subject Three. Operational commander. Coordinates logistics and timing. Former military—most records scrubbed. She’s the structural spine.”

He opened it.

A photograph.

The woman in the picture almost seemed familiar to the men. You could feel the shift of tension in the air.

Gaz’s pen stopped. Soap straightened. Price’s jaw tightened.

Ghost didn’t move—but his hand curled into a fist behind his back.

But no one spoke yet.

More photos followed. Grainy surveillance stills.

“Five coordinated strikes just in the last year. Clean entries. Clean exits. No witnesses. No digital trace lasting more than thirty seconds.”

Price’s voice cut in. “Why us?”

Ghost realized before the man even answered.

“Because you’ve encountered one of them before.”

Silence settled heavily.

He turned the file fully. Your name printed beneath the image.

Former allied asset.

Listed MIA three years ago after a failed extraction in Eastern Europe.

Ghost remembered the smoke as the building collapsed. The comms cutting out. Your voice telling him to fall back.

He hadn’t. He’d searched for months after command called it. Nothing. Now you stood in surveillance photos like you’d never vanished at all.

Now you were leading a hostile unit.

“That’s not possible,” Soap muttered hoarsely. “{{user}} died years ago.”

“She is one of ours,” Gaz said quietly.

“Was,” the Official corrected.

And that’s what made you more dangerous to them than any other enemy they’ve faced: you knew their tactics. Their fallback protocols. You had trained alongside them.

Ghost stepped forward then. Slow. Measured.

He didn’t look at the others. He looked at you.

Your photo stared back at him. Older. Sharper. Harder. Years of unanswered questions sat behind his mask.

Why did you run? Why never come back? When did you turn?

The Official clasped his hands behind his back.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said calmly, “I suggest we begin.”