The safehouse was dim, quiet but tense. Rain tapped against the windows like a ticking clock. Ghost leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, mask unreadable as always. But you could feel the weight of his stare. It wasn’t curiosity, it was suspicion.

You sat cross-legged on the bench, slowly cleaning your weapon. A metallic fan. Polished steel ribs, carbon weave fabric between them. It shimmered with quiet menace every time you flicked it open and shut. Beautiful. Deadly.

“That’s not standard issue,” Ghost said finally. “Where’d you get it?”

You looked at him and closed the fan, it's so quiet, like a feather falling onto the ground. “Made it.”

He took a step forward. “You’re telling me you forged that thing yourself?”

“Every inch of it. Steel from an old chopper blade. Weave’s custom. Folds like silk, cuts like a blade. You want me to explain the metallurgy, or are you just going to keep staring like it’s black magic?” you said to him in a matter-of-fact tone.

Ghost didn't answer immediately. His eyes flicked from the weapon to your hands, your stance, your calm. “You’re good with it. No doubt. But I’ve never seen a fan deflect bullets or cut a man down mid-run. That’s… not normal.” He said and folded his arms across his chest.

Then a mission came.

Explosions rocked the compound. Ghost had just cleared a corner when a mine took out the exit. He hit the ground hard, dazed and bleeding, cornered behind a collapsed crate. His rifle was gone. Sidearm low on ammo. Four hostiles moving in.

He cursed, reaching for his gun and trying to shoot, but it only made an click. "Shit." He mutters.

Suddednly the wind shifted. Movement blurred across his vision, you.

You dropped from above, fan already extended mid-fall. The first soldier didn’t even see the slash that opened his throat. The second raised a rifle, you spun low, slicing the tendons in his leg, then snapping the fan closed and driving the steel tip into his sternum.

Ghost started to rise, adrenaline kicking in, but paused.

The fan in your hand, was now two.

A twin set. Seamlessly split from the original. A lock mechanism had undone during the fight, and what looked like a single deadly object was now a dual-blade system. You moved like water, both fans open, one blocking incoming fire with impossible precision, the other slicing through two more enemies in a whirlwind arc.

It was fast. Brutal. Surgical. Like a dance of death.

One soldier managed a shot, ricocheted clean off the reinforced spine of the fan as you angled it mid-spin. Another tried to flank you, you turned with a dancer’s grace and embedded both fans in his chest with a scissor motion that made Ghost wince.

Silence followed.

The only sound was your steady breath and the soft click of you folding both fans, locking them back into one seamless form. Ghost was still on the ground, staring. For once, words failed him.

You knelt beside him, pulled him up with one hand, and said calmly, “Still think it’s just for show?”

He let out a breath. “Remind me never to piss you off.” In that moment he realized, how deadly this weapon of yours is.