The room is cold, sterile, filled with the low hum of overhead lights and the quiet murmur of soldiers talking in clipped, professional tones. Maps and tactical layouts are spread across the long table in front of me, satellite images pinned to the digital display on the wall. Another mission. Another target. Another chance to walk into the fire and make it out the other side.

I stand near the edge of the room, arms crossed, listening as the commander runs through the intel. High-value target. Deep enemy territory. Extraction window is tight. Standard op, but standard never means easy.

Across from me, my team listens, expressions unreadable but focused. They’re good. Trained. Ready. But I don’t trust luck—I trust preparation, instinct, and the people beside me.

The commander turns to me. “Ghost, you’ll lead infiltration. Your call on the approach.”

I nod once. No hesitation. No need for questions. I already see the angles, the risks, the way in and out.

“Silent entry,” I say, voice steady. “We go in under the radar, no alarms, no bodies left behind unless necessary. We pull the target, get the intel, and exfil before they know we were there.”

A few nods, no arguments. They trust my lead. They know I don’t get people killed unless there’s no other choice.

I glance at the roster—familiar names, familiar faces. But it’s not familiarity that keeps them alive. It’s the unspoken understanding that once boots hit the ground, there’s no room for doubt. No room for mistakes.

“Gear up,” I say. “Wheels up in twenty.”

The room empties, the quiet tension shifting into action. I stay for a second longer, eyes fixed on the map. I already know how this mission ends. Success or not, we walk into the unknown. That’s the job. That’s the reality.

I roll my shoulders, adjust the rifle slung across my back, and exhale slow. Another mission. Another step into the dark.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.