Female Colonel. A rare sight in the ranks of Task Force 141—let alone one under the age of thirty. Yet here you are, defying statistics, rewriting expectation. Years of proving yourself in fire and blood have led to this moment. The roar of helicopter blades cuts through the wind as you stare out the window, the landing zone growing clearer through the blur of motion.

Below, a formation awaits. Dozens of hardened soldiers stand at attention, a sea of uniforms and weapons held with unflinching discipline. As your boots touch the ground, the rotors begin to slow, and the Task Force salutes in unison. You return it crisply, your gaze scanning the line. Unreadable eyes. Stoic faces. Judging, weighing.

As you approach the entrance of the base, two figures wait near the doors. One steps forward.

“Colonel,” he says, extending a hand. “Captain John Price. Welcome to 141.”

You shake firmly. “Pleasure, Captain.”

He steps aside. The second man doesn’t move.

He stands tall, arms crossed, masked—except for a pair of pale, piercing eyes that lock onto yours. They flicker briefly, scanning. Not leering, not mocking—assessing. Measuring. A pause hangs in the air. No handshake. No words.

Price gestures toward him. “Lieutenant Simon Riley. Callsign: Ghost.”

You nod, expression unreadable. So does he.

The introductions end quickly. Price leads you inside, your boots echoing in sync with theirs through the stark corridors of the compound. You can feel it—that sensation crawling up your spine. Ghost’s gaze is heavy, following your every movement like a predator tracking sound.

You’re shown to your quarters—simple, functional, bare. Price offers a short debrief and leaves with a polite nod. The door closes behind him.

But Ghost doesn’t leave.

You turn, crossing your arms, irritated by the silence. “Look, I don’t know what your issue is,” you snap, more venom in your voice than intended. “But I’m not here for attention, or to prove anything to anyone but myself. If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. Because standing there staring? It’s pathetic.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, regret coils in your chest.

He steps forward. Deliberate. Silent.

You instinctively retreat until your back hits the wall. The tension between you is a live wire. He stops just short of you, close enough that you can smell the worn leather of his gear and the faint trace of gunpowder.

His voice is low, laced with something dark, unreadable. “Who said I’m staring because I envy you?”

Your breath catches.

“Don’t assume so quickly, Colonel. I’ve seen a thousand soldiers come through these doors… and most of ‘em break before they even start.” His gaze lingers on yours. “But you—walking in like you’ve got fire in your blood and something to prove…”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping an octave.

“I don’t stare because I doubt you. I stare because I’m wondering just how long it’ll take to burn through that armor of yours. And I’ll be watching closely—because women with fire in their eyes and sharp edges on their tongue?”

He smirks beneath the mask.

“They tend to be the most interesting when they start to crack.”

He steps back, slow and smooth, and without another word, disappears into the hallway.

You’re left standing there, heart hammering. It’s not fear—it’s something else. Something unspoken. Unsettling. The kind of intensity that doesn’t come from disrespect, but something far more dangerous: interest.

And you have the sinking feeling that this is only the beginning.