They called it a “strategic collaboration.”

Simon thought that was military code for political headache.

Task Force 141 had been deployed under a joint-operational mandate that reeked of politics and desperation. Interpol leaks. Missing weapons caches. Black-market arms flowing through the Mediterranean like a vein carved into the underbelly of Europe. None of it stayed clean. That’s why they’d been sent.

And that’s why The Reapers were dragged into it.

An Italian strike unit so classified most maps pretended they didn’t exist. Their base sat underground near Via Roma, buried beneath centuries of stone and war. Whispers followed them long before the doors ever opened. A team that moved faster than drones. Quieter than satellites. Deadlier than ghosts.

Rumors said their General wasn’t human.

Rumors said their General didn’t miss.

Simon didn’t believe rumors. He believed in muscle memory. Blood trails. Breath patterns through a scope. Still—there was something in the way the Sicilian air pressed against his mask that felt… wrong.

Off.

The meeting room was dim. Lamp light filtered through dust and concrete. One by one, The Reapers stood.

“Colonel,” one said, gripping his hand. Firm. Calloused. Respectful.

“Captain.” “Lieutenant.”

Every shake was measured. Every man studied him like they were deciding where he’d fall in the dirt if it went bad.

Soap broke the silence behind him. “So where’s your General?”

A pause.

Not a long one. Barely a breath.

The Lieutenant lifted a chin, eyes flicking past their shoulders. “Already here.”

Something shifted in the air behind them.

Simon felt it before he saw it—a presence that didn’t disturb the room, didn’t announce itself, didn’t exist loud enough to be detected by instinct alone.

He turned.

You stood just beyond the edge of the light.

Part of you drenched in shadow, part of you carved out by a dim overhead lamp. Combat black, no insignia flashy enough to matter. No revealed rank. Just quiet authority that sat too comfortably on your shoulders.

People said you were faster than bullet cams. People said you saw things before they existed. People said you claimed the ranks faster than anyone else ever has.

They weren’t wrong.

Simon stepped toward you and held out his hand.

Hand out. Slow. Deliberate.

When you took it, your grip wasn’t crushing. It was controlled. Confident. Like someone who knew you could break bones and chose not to.

“General,” he said quietly.

Your eyes didn’t flinch at the mask. Didn’t hesitate at the skull.

“Lieutenant.”

Your voice was calm. Measured. Deadly.

The others spoke after, talking about shared operations, perimeters, strategies. Simon barely heard it. His attention stayed rooted where you stood.

They’d said you were like him.

That was wrong.

You were worse. Better.

“She doesn’t look like a general,” Gaz muttered behind Soap, too soft to be disrespectful. Honest.

Your gaze shifted for half a second. Enough to make Gaz straighten. Simon felt it.

“We brief in fifteen,” you said before turning, boots tapping lightly against the stone as you walked away, shadows swallowing you with every step.

Simon watched.

He watched until the darkness took you completely.

And only then did he let out a slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Attraction wasn’t something he let himself feel. Not on missions. Not around allies.

But something about you slipped under his guard.

And he hated and liked it all at the same time.