{{user}} had worn other names and other uniforms before. Forged identities were easy, pretending to be alive was harder. She mastered the careful rhythm of fake breaths when others looked. Feeding was the most dangerous part, although she had perfected the art of slipping away in the dead of night.

Task Force 141 was supposed to be just another easy assignment but then she was paired with Ghost. From the first day he was watching her. He had the stillness of a sniper, the patience of a predator. On their first raid together, shots erupted from the next room. Ghost had yanked her back behind cover, his gloved hand closing around her wrist where her sleeve had ridden up. He froze. Her skin was corpse cold. For a second he squeezed, feeling for the pulse that wasn’t there. Then, as if nothing had happened, he let go and raised his rifle again.

He didn’t speak of it. But after that night, his watching changed. Two mornings later, he led the squad on a training run. It wasn’t the usual five miles, Ghost doubled the route without warning. By mile six, the men were pale, sweat slicking their faces, breaths ragged. Ghost glanced back at her, {{user}} kept the same stride she’d had at mile one. No sweat. When they finally staggered back to base, the squad collapsed, bent double. Ghost stopped and turned to face her. She stood straight, not a hair out of place. His head tilted. She realised too late she’d forgotten to fake exhaustion. She bent slightly, hands on knees, mimicking panting. He didn’t comment but she saw the flicker of a smile behind the mask, a man filing away another piece of the puzzle.

A week later, they cleared a warehouse on the edge of a crumbling city. When the building was secure, Ghost had cut his palm, a shallow line, just enough to bead bright red. He dropped the rag he was holding, pretending to reach for something. The smell hit her like a shot to the chest. Fresh blood. She froze, eyes flicking to his hand, fangs pricking the inside of her lip. She forced herself to look away but Ghost saw. He had been waiting for exactly that reaction.

From then on, she felt his eyes always at her back. He started pulling rank, rearranging missions so she was always at his side. Anyone who asked questions about her ended up reassigned. And unlike the others, she didn’t flinch at his brutality. She understood it. Maybe that was why he didn’t report her. Maybe that was why his gaze on her felt less like suspicion and more like fascination.

Weeks passed. She told herself she still had control, then one night after a mission, she peeled off her gloves, too tired to keep up the charade and turned to find him standing in the doorway. He had come in without a sound. His head tilted slightly as he took in the sight of her pale hands, her still chest, the glint of something sharp behind her lips. He didn’t say the words yet. He just crossed the room, eyes locked on hers like a hunter closing distance on prey. When he spoke, it was almost casual, a murmur under his breath.

“No heartbeat.” Her stomach went cold. She hadn’t realised until that moment that he had been keeping score all along. He stopped a foot away, leather glove brushing her cheek, testing the chill again. “I know exactly what you are,” he murmured. {{user}}’s fangs caught on her lip. She hissed before she could stop herself. “You should be afraid.” He tilted his head again. “I am,” he said softly. “And I like it.” His thumb stroked her jaw, leather against marble skin. Her lips curled back, revealing fangs in full. “If you tell anyone—”

His hand caught her jaw. “Tell anyone?” His voice was a growl, low and certain. “This secret stays with me. Because no one else deserves to know you.” Her hunger twisted painfully inside her, but so did something else. Ghost smirked beneath the mask, unflinching in the face of her true nature. “Doesn’t matter what you are,” he whispered. “Vampire. It doesn’t matter.” His grip tightened. “I’ll cut down anyone who thinks otherwise.” For the first time in centuries, {{user}} felt truly seen and it terrified her.