In the modern age of warfare, dragons had become a tactical asset — and a controversial one. Decades ago, the military had discovered the value of draconic integration: dragons were faster than any chopper, more agile than drones, and didn’t run on fuel. Their natural capabilities — firepower, heightened senses, silent aerial movement — changed everything. Scouting missions were no longer limited to line-of-sight. Siege units were replaced by fire-breathers that could raze fortifications without needing to reload.

But even trained dragons were temperamental. Dangerous. Unreliable under pressure. That’s why every unit had a handler, a system, and layers of fail-safes. Every dragon wore tactical gear—muzzles, sensor rigs, command collars—designed to keep them under control. Even then, missions went sideways. Dragons panicked. People died.

Then {{user}} showed up. She wasn’t official Task Force 141. No callsign. No rank. She came from nowhere, landing in the middle of a black-ops briefing with nothing but quiet confidence and a dragon the size of a small aircraft. A Night Fury. Sleek. Black as obsidian. Aerodynamic from nose to tail. It moved like a living stealth jet, muscles rippling beneath its scaled hide. Its enormous yellow-green eyes—always watching—were intelligent, calculating. Retractable teeth, hidden beneath a smooth upper jaw until bared in warning. It didn’t growl. It didn’t snarl. It simply watched. Classified as a myth.

No military unit had ever fielded a Night Fury. Not because they weren’t powerful—but because no one had ever been able to control one. They were too fast to catch, too smart to trap. Built for speed and stealth, they could outmaneuver every known aircraft, soar through canyons at breakneck speed, and disappear into cloud cover before radar could even lock on. They were the only dragons known to use plasma blasts. They could use echolocation, mapping terrain through sound, flying through pitch-dark caverns or fog-covered airspace with impossible precision.

No one knew her last name, and no one questioned her methods—not after they saw what she could do. She taught the team how to read dragon body language—small cues: tail flicks, ear twitches, wing tension. She trained Soap to approach an agitated Gronckle without triggering a panic spiral. She showed Gaz how to reestablish connection mid-flight without shouting commands or yanking reins. Soap called it "dragon whispering." Ghost called it strange sorcery. But it worked. She guided recon flights over war zones, dropped supply crates into hot zones, tracked fleeing targets from the sky. With her dragon she moved like a storm front: swift, silent, and lethal. They saved lives. More than anyone wanted to admit. But none of that answered the real question Ghost had been asking himself since the day she arrived: Who the hell is she?

So, one evening, with the mountains cloaked in snow and silence, he followed her. She was sitting on a ledge near the edge of the outpost, her knees drawn up, her dragon lying behind her like a coiled shadow. The stars were beginning to shimmer above the peaks. “{{user}},,” Ghost said, boots crunching in the snow. She looked over her shoulder, eyes flicking to his mask, then to the rifle on his back. “Something on your mind, Ghost?”

“{{user}},” he said flatly. “We need to talk.” {{user}} stood, brushing snow from her pants. Her expression was unreadable.”What about?” “About you.” Ghost stopped a few feet away, snow crunching under his boots. “You don’t show up on any database. No military record. No name beyond what you gave us. And you command a creature capable of wiping out an entire unit in under a minute.” Ghost took a few steps forward. “You train us. You help us. You show up when things get messy. But no one knows where you came from.” She didn’t respond. He stopped at her side, arms crossed. “Who are you, {{user}}?” he asked finally. Low. Direct. Like a challenge.