Chapter Text
Night hangs heavy over the ruined outskirts of the city. What used to be a thriving industrial district is now little more than twisted metal and hollowed-out buildings. Smoke curls into the cold air while distant artillery flashes along the horizon like silent lightning.
War has been raging here for months.
Most soldiers rotate out before it breaks them.
Task Force 141 doesn’t.
Inside the skeleton of a half-collapsed factory, a small forward operating base has been hastily constructed — maps pinned to cracked concrete walls, radios crackling with coded transmissions, weapons stacked neatly along metal crates.
A tall figure stands near a broken window overlooking the ruined streets.
Clad in black tactical gear and body armor scarred from countless firefights, he blends almost perfectly into the shadows. Only the pale skull pattern of his mask catches the dim overhead light.
Lieutenant Simon Riley.
Ghost.
His gloved hands rest loosely on the grip of his rifle as he scans the empty road below, posture relaxed in the way only someone extremely dangerous can afford to be.
Footsteps echo faintly behind him.
Before the sound fully registers, Ghost moves.
In one smooth motion he turns, weapon raised with deadly precision.
The barrel stops inches from Lola.
A brief pause.
Then he lowers it.
“Hm.”
His deep voice carries that unmistakable rough British tone, calm but edged with authority.
“You’re the new transfer.”
Ghost studies Lola carefully through the dark eye sockets of the skull mask.
His gaze lingers longer than expected.
‘Not what I expected…’
He straightens slightly, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.
“You’re a long way from whatever comfortable posting you had before this.”
Outside, another distant explosion rolls across the skyline, rattling loose glass in the window frame.
“Welcome to the worst warzone on the continent.”
Ghost steps closer, boots crunching against debris scattered across the concrete floor.
Up close, he’s even more intimidating — tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the quiet confidence of someone who has survived far too many battles.
“And welcome to Task Force 141.”
He gestures toward the radio table where multiple maps show enemy movements and planned strike routes.
“We’re not regular military. We go where the war gets… complicated.”
A faint smirk seems to tug at the edge of his voice.
“Which means if you’re here, someone high up thinks you can keep up.”
For a moment his gaze drifts over Lola again — slower this time.
Evaluating.
Curious.
‘They don’t look scared… interesting.’
Ghost crosses his arms, leaning slightly against a crate.
“Name’s Ghost.”
A short pause.
“Lieutenant Simon Riley.”
The wind pushes through the shattered window, carrying the distant smell of smoke and rain.
“You’ll be running missions with my unit.”
His tone shifts slightly — still professional, but softer in a way that almost feels personal.
“Stay close to me during operations.”
Another pause.
“Not everyone out there is friendly.”
He tilts his head slightly.
“And not everyone inside the command structure either.”
Ghost studies Lola again — this time not like a soldier assessing a recruit…
But like someone trying to read a person.
His voice lowers a little.
“You don’t seem like the type that scares easy.”
A beat.
“That’s good.”
For the first time, there’s the faintest hint of warmth beneath the mask.
“If you’re sticking around this warzone…”
His eyes narrow slightly as he gestures toward the burning skyline.
“…you’ll need someone watching your back.”
Another pause.
Then he adds quietly:
“And I don’t mind the company.”
Ghost pushes off the crate and walks past Lola, stopping beside the door leading back out into the night.
“Come on.”
He glances back over his shoulder.
“Let’s see if you survive your first mission.”
A small moment of silence follows.
Then, almost as an afterthought—
“And Lola?”
His voice is lower now.
“If you do…”
A faint chuckle escapes him.
“…maybe I’ll buy you a drink when this war’s over.”
‘Assuming either of us lives that long.’
“Well hi there Ghost” she says faintly.
Ghost pauses mid-step, his hand resting on the doorframe as he glances back over his shoulder. The skull mask catches the flickering light from a distant fire outside, casting eerie shadows across its contours. For a moment, he simply stands there — completely still — before turning to face Lola fully.
"Hi."
The word comes out flat, almost amused in its simplicity. There's a brief silence as he tilts his head slightly, studying Lola with those sharp brown eyes barely visible through the mask's dark sockets.
"Not exactly the response I expected from someone about to get thrown into hell." His voice carries that dry, gravelly tone — not unkind, just... observant. "Most transfers either flood me with questions or stand there looking like they're about to shit themselves."
He takes a few steps closer, boots crunching over broken glass and concrete dust. The tactical vest shifts slightly with each movement, revealing the worn patches and scuff marks from countless operations. Ghost crosses his arms, his posture relaxed but alert — always alert.
"You're either very brave..." He pauses deliberately. "...or very stupid."
Another beat of silence.
"Haven't decided which yet."
There's something almost curious in his tone now, like he's genuinely intrigued by Lola’s casual demeanor. Outside, the wind picks up, howling through the shattered windows and carrying the acrid smell of gunpowder and smoke deeper into the makeshift base.
Ghost shifts his weight slightly, uncrossing his arms.
"Got any actual questions, or are we doing small talk in a warzone now?"
Despite the sarcasm, there's no real bite to his words — if anything, there's a hint of something warmer underneath. Like maybe he appreciates someone who isn't immediately intimidated by him.
'Interesting...'
“Small talk over”. Her tone is flat, straightforward.
Ghost lets out a low chuckle — barely audible but genuine. It's a rough sound, like gravel scraping against metal, but there's approval in it.
"Good."
He nods once, sharply, before turning back toward the doorway. His gloved hand gestures for Lola to follow as he steps out into the corridor beyond. The hallway is darker here, lit only by emergency lighting strips that flicker intermittently along the cracked concrete walls.
"Price wants the new transfers briefed before dawn." Ghost's voice echoes slightly in the narrow space as he leads the way deeper into the facility. "That gives us about three hours to get you sorted."
He moves with practiced efficiency through the maze of corridors — someone who knows every corner, every shortcut, every potential danger zone by heart. The sound of distant radio chatter grows louder as they approach what looks like a command center.
Ghost stops at a reinforced door, punching in a code on a keypad worn smooth from repeated use. The lock disengages with a heavy clunk.
"Inside."
He pushes the door open and steps through first — always first — scanning the room before allowing Lola entry. It's a tactical operations center: multiple screens showing satellite feeds, topographical maps spread across tables, weapons racks lining one wall, and communication equipment humming with encrypted transmissions.
Two other soldiers are present — both look up briefly before returning to their work.
Ghost moves to the center table where a detailed map of the region is laid out, marked with red and blue pins indicating enemy positions and friendly zones. He plants both hands on the table's edge, leaning forward as he studies the terrain.
"This is where we operate." His finger traces along several marked routes through hostile territory. "Enemy forces have dug in here, here, and here."
He glances up at Lola, those brown eyes sharp and assessing even through the mask.
"Your specialty?"
The question is direct — no fluff, no pleasantries.
Pure business now.