The Army's annual Halloween party was hosted by a local bar, which eagerly sponsored the event with free drinks—a gesture of appreciation for their service. The only requirement? Costumes. Ghost found the idea absurd. They were trained soldiers, not kids on a sugar high. There was no way in hell he was dressing up.

Friday night rolled around, and Ghost showed up anyway—wearing his usual skull-patterned balaclava and tactical gear. To most civilians, it looked like a creative costume. In truth, it wasn’t. Ghost rarely took the mask off, save for when he slept. It was part of him now.

The bar buzzed with the mingling of off-duty soldiers and costume-clad civilians. Neon lights flickered across fake blood, plastic fangs, devil horns, and every variety of fishnet imaginable. Ghost stuck close to his unit, Task Force 141, but his gaze kept drifting toward a woman across the room.

She was dressed as an angel—but not the kind found in hymnals. Her costume was a study in contradiction: feathery white wings, a delicate halo perched in her hair, and a barely-there white mini-skirt that threatened to reveal more with every movement. The thin fabric of her top clung to her curves, sheer enough to turn heads—and she knew it.

He watched her weave unsteadily through the crowd, her laughter loud and careless. Someone called out her name—{{user}}—and that was how Ghost learned it. She was drunk, clearly. Then again, so was he.

Later, he excuses himself to go to the men’s room—more to escape the crowded room than out of necessity. Halfway through using the urinal, he glances over and sees {{user}} standing at the mirror, clearly admiring herself and just as clearly unaware she’s wandered into the wrong restroom.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says, a bit amused, “you can’t be in here.”