The cargo bay lights are down to a dull red. The aircraft hums like a living thing—steady, patient, deadly.

Captain Eliza Cross’s voice cuts through their headsets, bright and thrilled. “Two minutes. Green light will be clean. Try not to scuff my paint.”

A chorus of clicks answers her—not words. Harnesses checked. Gloves pulled tight. Weapons secured.

Master Sergeant Marcus Hale—Atlas—moves first, as always. He checks each of them with a glance that misses nothing. Carabiners. Altimeters. Oxygen lines. When his eyes meet theirs, it’s not reassurance. It’s expectation.

“Remember,” Hale says calmly, voice level over comms, “primary objective is intel acquisition. Secondary is extraction. No heroics.”

From somewhere behind him, Rafael Dominguez grins. “You wound me, Top.”

Hale doesn’t look back. “You’ll live.”

The green light snaps on. Night-vision goggles come down in unison.

The ramp begins its decent. The world explodes into shades of ghostly green—clouds like torn fabric, the ground far below a warped map of heat and shadow. Somewhere beneath them, tucked into a mountain valley that doesn’t officially exist, is a weapons broker’s compound. Satellite-blind. Off-grid. Guarded by men who think they’re untouchable.

They’re about to be corrected.

“Wind steady,” Cross says. “Angle’s good. You’ve got a clean corridor.”

Hale steps to the edge of the ramp. No hesitation. No flair. He exits exactly like the manual says—feet together, body forward, arms in tight. One clean motion, swallowed instantly by the dark. Professional. Controlled.

Gone.

Behind him, Dominguez and Miles Bennett bump shoulders approaching the exit.

“One round,” Dominguez says, grinning wildly. “Winner gets style points.”

Bennett groans. “We’re jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft at night into a hostile zone. That’s the style.” He pauses, grins slightly. “Fine.”

Rock. Paper. Scissors.

Dominguez whoops. “YES.”

Bennett’s shoulders slump. “I hate all of you.”

Dominguez doesn’t wait. He backs up two steps, offers a two handed salute, laughter sharp and bright over comms, then launches himself into space—tucks, flips once, clean and controlled, like gravity personally invited him.

Cross laughs. “Show-off.”

Dominguez vanishes, just another shadow falling toward hell.

Bennett rolls his eyes. He crosses his arms, gives the empty air an unimpressed look, and leans sideways and simply lets himself fall. No jump. No push. Just resignation and gravity.

“I need a coffee,” his mutter echoes through the earpieces, already sounding tired. The wind takes him.

Elliot Crowe, Wraith, hasn’t moved since Hale jumped. Hasn’t argued. Hasn’t laughed. He walks towards the ramp like he owns it, rifle secured, he adjusts his goggles, posture loose and deadly calm.

“Amateurs,” he says flatly.

And walks off the ramp. Not a jump. A step. For half a second, it really does look like he’s going to walk on air. Then the night claims him.

Cross exhales something like a laugh. “Every damn time.”

Below them, the team fans out in freefall—four ghosts cutting silently through the dark, spacing perfect despite the theatrics. Altimeters tick down. The compound’s perimeter lights glow faintly in the distance, unaware.

Task Force Seraph descends.

Together.

Into the dark.