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His eyes track the tremor in my hands before I can conceal it. The redness rimming my eyes.

“Emergency assignment that requires immediate departure and zero prep time.” He aims for casual but misses by miles. “What kind of situation needs that level of urgency?”

“The classified kind.” I accept the bag from him. Careful to avoid contact. My voice sounds hollow.

“Right.” He hesitates, then reaches for my injured arm. I instinctively recoil. A noise escapes that’s pure animal—a hiss of warning that startles us both.

“Sorry,” he says. Misreading. Hurt flashing across features. “I just... be careful out there, okay? Something feels off about this whole thing.” His brow furrows. Eyes searching mine. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Ghost.”

“Maybe I have.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

His expression sharpens. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” I force steadiness into my voice. “Just tired. Long night ahead.”

The armory is our last stop before transport. Standard weapons load-out for deep cover—compact 9mm with silencer, ceramic knife, garrote wire, devices disguised as ordinary items. I reach for the custom SIG that’s been my sidearm for years.

My fingers touch the gun’s grip. Flesh sizzles. Smoke rises from my palm. The smell of charred meat fills the air—my meat. I bite through my tongue to keep from screaming.

I jerk back with a strangled cry. Looking down, I see angry red welts forming where my skin contacted the metal. Flesh already blistering. Bubbling. Peeling back to expose raw tissue beneath.

“Problem?” the armorer asks. Watching with narrowed eyes.

“Static discharge.” I lie, though it isn’t entirely untrue. I have no idea what that was. Reaching for the weapon again with the opposite hand. Bracing for pain. This time I’m prepared. Gritting teeth until my jaw threatens to fracture as I holster the weapon. Bile rises burning into my throat, and I swallow repeatedly to prevent vomiting. Sweat pours from my hairline.

Iron. The gun contains iron alloy components.

Why am I suddenly allergic to iron? The question repeats endlessly. Panic I can’t afford to examine.

“One more thing,” the armorer says, producing a small case. “Colonel’s orders. Wear it at all times on campus. Never remove it.”

“What is it?” I ask, hesitating before touching it.

Graves appears in the doorway, watching with that same calculating expression. “Protection, Specialist. The Fae can be... persuasive. Particularly to those who might be susceptible.” His eyes flick meaningfully to my concealed arm. “The pendant will shield you from their influence while you complete yourmission. Their kind would use someone like you as a tool if they discovered what you can do.”

Someone like you.

The pendant settles against my chest. Ice spreads through my veins. The thorns retreat like burned animals, clawing back under my skin. Something inside me wants to scream.

Relief floods through me—but beneath it, something rebels. Something wild and ancient that doesn’t want containment. That recognizes the pendant for what it truly is.

Not protection. Control. A leash disguised as jewelry.

The unmarked black SUV waits at surface level. I slide into the backseat. Watching the compound vanish in the side mirror. The forest looms beyond the perimeter fence. Watching. Waiting.

For a moment, I swear figures move between trees. Pacing the vehicle. Not hiding anymore. Their eyes gleam in darkness. Reflecting moonlight like animal eyes but wrong somehow.

Too knowing. Too ancient.

My heart lurches at the sight. Recognition that terrifies and exhilarates me simultaneously.

As we accelerate onto the highway, a strange sensation washes over me. An invisible thread pulls eastward.

Toward mountains I’ve never visited but that tug at something buried deep.

My breath clouds the glass. For a moment I see symbols form in condensation—shapes I shouldn’t recognize but do. A language my conscious mind can’t read but my body remembers.

My arm throbs beneath my sleeve. The pendant rests cold against my sternum. Heavy as a tombstone. In my pocket, I’ve hidden a small paper with a hastily scribbled number I haven’t dialed in nearly two years.