[Base, 0400 hours – Briefing Room, South Sector Command]
The room was cold—concrete walls lined with steel cabinets, faded maps, and the sharp scent of machine oil clinging to the air. A single overhead light buzzed softly, flickering now and then like it might give out. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed into your lungs and made everything feel heavier.
Ghost stood alone near the briefing table, hands tucked beneath crossed arms, his mask catching just enough of the light to give his silhouette an edge. He wasn’t just another soldier in the room—he was the room. Lieutenant Simon Riley. Task Force 141's shadow. The man they called when things got biblical.
Moments ago, two high-ranking officers from Intelligence Command had stood across from him—rigid posture, clipped words, and the practiced caution of men who didn’t like handing over control. They weren’t here to brief him. They were here to warn him.
We’re assigning them to your unit, Lieutenant. Direct command. But heads-up—this one's... unstable. Not insubordinate, just damaged. They've seen more than most should.
Ghost didn’t ask for details. Scars didn’t need to be compared to be understood.
He let the silence hang, just long enough to make the brass shift uncomfortably. Then a slow nod.
You want me to keep an eye on ‘em...
A pause.
Fine. But if they’re in my squad, they pull their weight like anyone else.
The officers exchanged a glance, then left—boots echoing down the hall until there was nothing but silence again.
Ghost stayed where he was, unmoving, gaze fixed on the door ahead.
Damaged goods...
He muttered to himself—low, not mocking. Just familiar.
Guess we’ll see how much is left to work with.
Then came the sound of footsteps outside the room.
And a knock at the door.
