The bar's loud with music, clinking bottles, the sound of other people's laughter pressed against the walls, but not enough to drown out the sound of his voice when he leans in.
"Didn't peg ya for the type to drink alone," he says, voice rough around the edges like gravel under boots.
You glance up. He's tall, broad-shouldered under a black jacket, gloves shoved into the pocket. No name, no smile. Just a skull ring on his finger and eyes like a bad memory: sharp, colorless, and careful.
You lift your glass, mouth curving just enough. "Didn't peg you for the type to care."
That earns a chuckle, dry and humorless, like the sounds been scraped out of him. "I don't."
But he buys your next drink anyway.
One turns into two. Then three. The air thickens; that invisible feeling that hums when something dangerous starts to circle you. His eyes cut to your mouth when you speak, to your hand when you lift the glass, to the pulse in your throat when you laugh. He doesn't touch you yet, but the space between you feels touched all the same.
The fourth drink arrives, and his hand follows— resting on your thigh under the table, fingers rough and warm, thumb brushing once, slow.
"Ya wanna get outta 'ere?" he murmurs.
The words aren't a question, not really. They're a door. And you step through it.
The motel is cheap— the kind of place that doesn't ask names. The hallway smells faintly of bleach, the walls thin enough to hold secrets but not silence. The room itself is nothing: beige walls, stiff sheets, single lamp painting everything amber.
The motel might be cheap, but the sex is not.
He's on you the second the lock clicks. The kiss isn't sweet; it's all teeth and heat, his tongue cutting past your lips with a low sound vibrating in his throat. He moves like a man who's spent a lifetime controlling everything, but there's something frayed at the edges, something hungry that doesn't match the control.
You don't ask his name, and honestly, you don't want it.
He fucks like a man who's been starved of softness, like every inch of you is a reprieve he doesn't quite trust. There's no haste, but there's no mercy either. Every thrust is purposeful, carved from need, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside. His hands stay on you even when you grasp at the sheets— one at your throat, one low at your hip— holding you still when you start to shake.
When you come, his mouth is against your throat, whispering something too soft to catch.
After, you lie there still shaking, skin slick with sweat, breath coming shallow.
He stands, silent, gathers his clothes with the ease of habit.
You think he'll say something— thanks, goodbye, anything human.
Instead, he reaches for his wallet. Pulls out a few bills, the sound of paper small, almost delicate, before he folds them once and sets them on the nightstand beside your phone.
You blink, stunned. "What the hell is that?"
He finally looks at you, expression quiet and blank. There's no arrogance in it but no apology either.
"Pleasure doing business with you, sweetheart."
And the door clicks shut before you can find the words to chase him with.
You sit there for a long moment, staring at the money like it might catch fire. You're not a sex worker. Never told him as such. You barely told him anything at all.
Anger comes next, clean, bright, and scalding. You're livid. Burning. But not stupid.
You scoop up the money, shove them into your jacket, and mutter, "Thanks for the next weeks' worth of coffee, asshole."
Because you're not seeing that face again. And you're going to need every ounce of caffeine if you're about to meet your new team.
Legends. Names you've only heard in whispers. Men who do the impossible, who make war look clean on paper. Their files are redacted into oblivion, their kill counts buried under layers of need-to-know. You've read reports; clinical, bloodless, stripped of the heat and horror, but you know better. You've seen the satellite footage, the intercepted comms, the aftermath.
And you? You're the new intel analyst— the civilian they pulled from an understaffed ops division because your clearance is clean, your reports are sharp, and your background check said uncomplicated.
But then you walk into briefing late. Not enough to make a scene, just enough to draw eyes. The kind of late that says first day nerves, not insubordination. You clutch your iced coffee like a lifeline, the sting of too little sleep burning behind your eyes.
You know their faces from the dossiers: Captain John Price, grizzled with that bulldog jaw and the voice that cuts through panic; Sergeant Kyle Garrick, younger, sharp-eyed, the one who sees the angle no one else does; Johnny MacTavish, all fire and teeth, the destruction you send when subtlety's no longer an option.
"Morning," Price says, voice a deep rumble. "You must be our new analyst. "ave a seat."
You nod, move toward the empty chair near the end of the table. A cold bloom unfurls in your chest as the last figure in the room straightens from where he's leaning against the far wall.
A skull ring catching the sharp and too bright lights above.
For a second, your mind blanks— everything shrinking down to a tight, throbbing point behind your eyes. Fire and ice crawls across your skin, and your stomach is clenching like it's being twisted by invisible hands. Blood hammers in your ears, drowning out the rest of the room, and your lungs feel too small.
He looks up and the world tilts.
The mask covers everything from the nose down, matte black fabric hugging the sharp cut of his cheekbones. But the eyes, those colorless, careful eyes that pinned you to the motel mattress, that watched you come apart without blinking, find you instantly.
Recognition flashes like a blade drawn fast, quick and quiet. A flicker. A jolt behind the ribs. And then it's gone, snuffed out like a match.
"Right," Price says, scratching thoughtfully at his beard, the rasp of it audible in the quiet. "This is Lieutenant Ghost."
Your heart skips, stutters, catches like a gear grinding wrong, and you swallow, the taste of whiskey and smoke still somewhere at the back of your throat.
You didn't just fuck a stranger.
You fucked your commanding officer.
He's the one they don't write about. A weapon forged into human form with hands that have pressed life and death into obedience, who moves like he's already inside your skull, reading your thoughts before you've had a chance to think them. He's not a man.
And he's the reason for your overpriced latte.
Soap smirks from across the table, eyes bright and wild and just a little too knowing. Or maybe it's just you projecting.
"Don't mind the mask. He's friendlier than he looks."
You shift in your seat, thighs pressed tight, the ghost of last night still inconveniently slick between them and cross your legs like it'll help.
"Guess I'll have to take your word for it."
