A sigh escaped the interrogator, a performance of weary disappointment. "Very well, Lieutenant. We have time. All the time in the world." He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps, Lieutenant, a reminder of your own history will impress upon you the value of your continued service. A history that, I assure you, is quite. . . extensive."

He picked up a data pad from the table, his fingers scrolling. "Lieutenant Commander John Kogen. Service ID 777-K-9. Distinguished Service Medal, two Purple Hearts, three Bronze Stars, and a Navy Cross for actions during the Fall of Reach. Impressive. But your record after Reach, Lieutenant, is where it truly becomes. . . illuminating."

The interrogator's voice faded, replaced by a sudden, jarring shift in Wraith's perception. The sterile room dissolved, replaced by a maelstrom of fire and chaos.

The sky over Reach was a canvas of burning debris, a funeral pyre for a planet. Wraith, then a younger, leaner ODST, his armor scuffed but still functional, was pulling a wounded Marine from the wreckage of a Pelican. Explosions rocked the ground, sending shrapnel whistling past his head. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of alien plasma.

He remembered the roar of his MA5B, the satisfying thud of rounds impacting Elite shields. A desperate, last-ditch defense of a civilian bunker, holding the line against overwhelming odds, his squad dwindling to three, then two, then only him, a bloody, unyielding wall against the Covenant tide. He'd evacuated the last civilians himself, carrying a screaming child in one arm, firing his pistol with the other, the heat of a plasma grenade scorching his back as he dove into the last evac transport.

The Fall of Reach. It wasn't just a defeat; it was a crucible. And Wraith had emerged from it, not broken, but tempered. He remembered the grim determination that had settled in his gut, the unshakeable resolve to make every single Covenant bastard pay for what they had done. He'd volunteered for every black op, every suicide mission, every deep insertion behind enemy lines. His record was a litany of impossible odds overcome, of critical intelligence recovered from the jaws of defeat, of high-value targets eliminated against all expectations.

There was the retrieval of the captured UNSC AI, 'Echo,' from a Covenant prison ship, a solo infiltration that had left a trail of dead Elites and a burning vessel in its wake. There was the sabotage of a Covenant supply depot on a gas giant, a mission deemed impossible due to the extreme atmospheric conditions, which Wraith had accomplished by jury-rigging a volatile explosive from discarded Covenant fuel cells. And the time he'd led a skeleton crew of Marines to hold a critical comms relay on a besieged colony world for three days against a full Covenant assault, broadcasting vital tactical data until the last possible moment, earning his Navy Cross.

He was a ghost in the shadows, a force of nature in a direct engagement. His adaptability, his sheer, stubborn refusal to die, had made him legendary among the remnants of the UNSC's special forces. He was the man you sent when there was no other option, when the mission was already lost, when all hope was gone. Because sometimes, against all logic, Wraith would find a way.

The sterile interrogation room snapped back into focus. The interrogator was still smiling, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Your file, Lieutenant, reads like a Spartan-II's wet dream. Infiltration, exfiltration, sabotage, direct action against superior numbers. . . you've done it all. And always, against impossible odds, you succeed. You always come back."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "That makes you, Lieutenant Kogen, a Priority One asset. A weapon of unparalleled value to the UNSC. Imagine what you could accomplish, fully supported by ONI's resources, with a clear objective. The war is far from over, Lieutenant. We need men like you. We need you."

Wraith felt the weight of his own history, the grim testament to his capabilities. They weren't just trying to break him; they were trying to reforge him, to bend his will to their purpose. He was a tool, a weapon, and they wanted to wield him.

"Or," the interrogator continued, his voice hardening, "if you choose to remain. . . uncooperative. . . then you become a Priority One target. A rogue element with dangerous knowledge. And ONI, Lieutenant, is very good at making sure rogue elements disappear. Permanently."

Wraith met his gaze, his face unyielding. He had survived Reach, he had defied the Covenant, and he had seen the truth of Project Chimera. Unbroken and unbought, he remained. He was a Helljumper. And Helljumpers didn't bend.

"You can read my file all you want," Wraith said, his voice a low, steady growl. "It won't change anything. I know what I saw. And I know what you did. And I won't be a part of it."

The interrogator's smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. "Then we have nothing further to discuss, Lieutenant. For now." He stood, signaling to the Marines outside the cell. "Return him to his cell. And ensure his isolation. He will remain a Priority One asset. . . or target. . . depending on how this situation evolves," he reiterated carefully, so Wraith heard.

As the Marines re-entered the cell, Wraith held their gaze, his defiance a burning ember in the cold, sterile room. He had seen the depths of ONI's deception, and he would not be silenced.

Wraith's eyes snapped open. The familiar, low hum of his ODST armor was a comforting presence, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile silence of the Everest's interrogation rooms. He was no longer in a cell, no longer a prisoner. He was back in the Dyson Sphere, deep within Onyx, the metallic scent of ancient Forerunner machinery and the faint, lingering tang of Covenant plasma in the air.

He shifted, the slight creak of his armor echoing in the narrow alcove they had chosen for a brief rest. The light was dim, cast by the emergency glow-strips Shadow had rigged, painting the seamless metal walls in a soft, ethereal blue. He'd taken maybe an hour, maybe two, of forced rest, the kind of shallow, hyper-aware sleep only a Helljumper could manage in a hostile environment.

His gaze swept over his team. Shadow was hunched over his data pad, still coaxing power from the Forerunner conduits, his visor reflecting lines of code. Ghost, his injured shoulder heavily bandaged, was meticulously sharpening his combat knife, his movements slow but precise.

And Rook. She was on watch, positioned at the mouth of their alcove, her Mjolnir armor a silent, imposing sentinel against the vast, dark conduit. Her rifle was held ready, her posture alert, her head slowly sweeping the unseen depths ahead. He trusted her implicitly, a trust forged in the fires of shared trauma and a common enemy. She was the reason they were even here, the key to unlocking the truth.

Wraith's eyes drifted to Viper, who was resting against the opposite wall, her sniper rifle cradled in her arms. Even in sleep, her hand was close to the trigger, her breathing shallow and controlled. She was a coiled spring, always ready to strike. He remembered the first time he'd seen that coiled intensity, that quiet, deadly focus. It was years ago, on a desolate, forgotten world.

The rain on the colony world of Meridian was a relentless, cold downpour, turning the already muddy streets into a treacherous quagmire. Wraith, then a newly minted Lieutenant Commander, was leading a small, ad-hoc ODST squad on a grim recovery mission. A Covenant ambush had decimated a UNSC forward observation post, and their objective was to retrieve any surviving personnel, and more importantly, any intact data recorders.

The intel was sparse, the comms were jammed, and the rain-slicked terrain made every step a gamble. They'd been moving for hours, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and the distant, acrid tang of plasma. Wraith's internal sensors were screaming about the cold, the damp, and the sheer impossibility of their task.

Then, a flicker. A brief, almost imperceptible glint from a collapsed building on the outskirts of the ruined town. Wraith raised his hand, signaling a halt. "Hold. Did anyone see that?"

His two remaining ODSTs, seasoned but weary, shook their heads. "Just the rain, sir," one grunted.

"Negative," a quiet voice cut through their comms, surprisingly clear despite the atmospheric interference. "Movement. Bearing two-seven-zero, elevated position. Single target. Human."

Wraith spun, scanning the ruined building. He saw nothing. "Identify yourself, unknown contact!"

"UNSC. Specialist Eve. Sniper," the voice replied, calm and steady. "My team was wiped out three days ago. I've been holding this position, providing overwatch. Covenant patrols are heavy. Two Brute squads, one Elite Zealot team, rotating every four hours."

Wraith was impressed. Three days alone, no comms, surrounded by Covenant, and still maintaining a tactical assessment. "Specialist, what's your status? Do you have a clear shot at their patrol route?"

"Affirmative," Eve replied. "I've been picking them off. Slowing them down. But my ammo's running low. And I'm out of food and water."

Wraith made a snap decision. "We're coming to you, Specialist. Can you guide us in?"

"Negative," Valdez said, a hint of something grim in her voice. "Too many eyes. Too many patrols. But I can clear a path. Give me coordinates for your next movement. I'll make sure you have a window."

And she did. As Wraith and his ODSTs moved, a single, precise crack of a sniper rifle would echo through the rain, followed by the distant thud of a falling Covenant soldier. Then another, and another. She wasn't just suppressing; she was eliminating, with a terrifying efficiency that spoke of countless hours honed on the firing range, and a cold, ruthless precision in the field. She was a ghost in the storm, a silent death dealer.

They finally reached her position, a precarious perch amidst the rubble. She was a slight figure in battered, mud-caked ODST armor, her sniper rifle still warm in her hands. Her face, when she removed her helmet, was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but her eyes. . . her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and utterly devoid of fear. They were the eyes of a hunter.

"Specialist Eve," Wraith said, extending a hand. "Lieutenant Commander Kogen. You just saved our lives."

She nodded, accepting his hand, her grip firm. "Just doing my job, sir. They were in my way."

Wraith looked at her, truly looked at her. Her calm under pressure, her tactical awareness, her deadly accuracy—she was exactly what his team needed. His current sniper had been good, but Eve was something else entirely. She was a force multiplier, a silent guardian.

"Specialist," Wraith said, a faint smile touching his lips. "How would you like to join Wraith Squad? Permanent attachment. We specialize in impossible odds."

She considered him for a moment, her gaze unwavering. Then a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched her lips. "Impossible odds? Sounds like my kind of fight, sir. Just point me at the target."

And from that day on, Viper, as she was quickly dubbed for her silent, deadly strikes, became an indispensable part of Wraith Squad. She was the eyes, the unseen hand that cleared their path, the silent guardian who watched their backs. Though she rarely spoke, her blunt, often sarcastic wit sliced through the tension of their missions when she did. She was a Helljumper through and through, a quiet storm of precision and lethal intent.

Wraith blinked, the memory fading, leaving him with the familiar hum of the Dyson Sphere. He looked at Viper again. Her form still resting, that same quiet intensity even in repose. She was a survivor, a weapon, and a loyal member of his team. And they were going to need every ounce of her precision, her focus, and her unwavering loyalty in the fight ahead.

His gaze drifted from Viper to Ghost, then to Shadow. Each member of his team was a specialist, a master of their craft, but more than that, they were survivors. They were the ones who adapted, who found a way when there was no way. He remembered the chaos of the post-Reach deployments, the desperate scramble to put together teams that could still hit the Covenant hard, even with depleted resources. That's when he'd found them.

The city of New Alexandria, on the besieged colony of Kholo, was a crumbling monument to human defiance. Wraith, then a Major, was tasked with a near-impossible objective: retrieve a high-value ONI asset from a sector overrun by Covenant forces. The air was thick with smoke, the constant thrum of Covenant dropships overhead, and the screams of civilians caught in the crossfire.

His current team was a patchwork, cobbled together from the remnants of other units. They were good, but they lacked cohesion, that almost telepathic understanding that separated a squad from a true team. He needed specialists, not just soldiers.

Wraith remembered the intel briefing: a lone ODST, callsign 'Ghost,' operating deep behind enemy lines for weeks, providing invaluable reconnaissance on Covenant movements. He was a phantom, slipping through enemy patrols like they weren't there, leaving no trace.

"Major Kogen," his CO had said, tapping a holographic map. "This 'Ghost' is a legend. Or a ghost story. No one's seen him, but his intel is always spot on. If you can find him, he's yours. He's the best stealth operative we have, if he exists."

Wraith had found him, not through comms, but by following a trail of impossibly precise, almost surgical, Covenant casualties. He'd tracked Ghost for two days through the urban labyrinth, a silent game of cat and mouse, before finally cornering him in a collapsed subway tunnel.

Ghost, then a Sergeant, had been cleaning his combat knife, his movements economical, his eyes, even through the visor, radiating an unnerving calm. He hadn't even flinched when Wraith's MA5B clicked off safety.

"You're good," Ghost had said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, devoid of surprise. "Most don't get within a klick."

"I need you," Wraith had replied, cutting straight to the point. "My team. We're going after the ONI asset. It's a suicide run."

Ghost had simply nodded. "I'm in. Just tell me where to go dark." From that day, Ghost became the shadow, the silent blade, the one who saw everything without being seen. He was the team's eyes and ears in the black, their unseen vanguard.

Then there was Shadow. Specialist Jenkins. A comms and tech expert, plucked from a besieged comms relay on the orbital platform above Kholo. The station was falling, overrun by Covenant boarding parties, but Shadow had kept the comms online, rerouting signals, patching through vital intel, even as plasma fire ripped through his console.

Wraith had been on the ground, listening to his work. His calm, professional voice cutting through the static and chaos. He was a whirlwind of data, a human router, keeping the lines open when all others had failed. He'd ordered him to evacuate, but he refused, claiming he was the only one who could maintain the integrity of the network.

"Specialist Jenkins," Wraith had finally cut in, overriding the general comms. "This is Major Kogen. You're ordered to evac. Now."

"Negative, Major," Shadow's voice had been firm, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "The network's too fragile. If I pull out, it collapses. I'm almost done routing the last of the civilian evac manifests."

Wraith had heard the explosions, the screams, the sounds of armor being ripped apart in the background. He was in the thick of it, a lone techie against a Covenant assault.

"What do you need?" Wraith had asked, realizing he wasn't going to convince him to leave.

"Time," he replied, a wry chuckle in his voice. "And maybe some suppressive fire on Sector Gamma-4. They're getting too close to the main relay."

Wraith had redirected his own team, providing the cover he needed. When they finally extracted him, the station was a burning wreck, but the civilian manifests had been sent, and his data logs were intact. He was bruised, singed, and exhausted, but his eyes, behind his visor, gleamed with a fierce intelligence and an almost childlike fascination with the technology he had just tamed.

"You're good with a console, Specialist," Wraith had said, watching him quickly patch up a damaged comms unit on the Pelican.

"It's just patterns, sir," Shadow had replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "Everything's patterns. You just have to know how to read them. And how to break them."

Wraith had known then that he needed him. His ability to read the unseen, to manipulate the digital battlefield, was as vital as any weapon. He was the team's brain, their connection to the wider war, their shield against the unseen threats of the network.

Wraith watched Shadow, his fingers still dancing over his data pad, then Ghost, his knife a silent extension of his will. They were the core of his team, the unyielding foundation upon which Wraith Squad was built. Viper, the precision strike. Ghost, the silent infiltration. Shadow, the digital warrior. And now, Rook, the Spartan, the key to the Forerunner secrets, the living embodiment of ONI's darkest truth.

He felt a deep, abiding pride in them, a fierce loyalty that transcended rank or mission parameters. They were more than a squad; they were a family, forged in fire and bound by an unspoken code of honor. And together, they would face whatever the Dyson Sphere, the Covenant, or ONI threw at them.

He shifted, rising silently. His brief rest was over. The Dyson Sphere was a labyrinth of ancient dangers and hidden truths, and they were deep within it. Rook was on watch, Shadow was working, Ghost was preparing. And Viper, his silent guardian, would be ready when the time came.

Wraith wouldn't let their lives be wasted here.