The transition was less an integration and more an absorption. Jäger, once Commander of Delta-SHD Cell 7, now found himself simply… Jäger. His unit, the dozen souls who had survived the harrowing global hunt, were stripped of their old designations, their familiar comms encrypted and rerouted through unknown channels. They had traded one form of ghosthood for another.
Their new sanctuary was a marvel of covert engineering, a facility buried deep beneath the rolling hills of the Welsh countryside, disguised as a mundane sheep farm from the air. Steel and reinforced concrete gave way to gleaming, minimalist corridors, humming with the silent thrum of advanced machinery. Unlike the austere, functional safe houses of the Division, this place felt less like a bunker and more like a high-tech fortress designed by a forgotten architect of the future.
Jäger stood in a sprawling training simulation chamber, the holographic projections of a bustling marketplace shimmering around him. Beside him, an agent he knew only as "Galahad"—a Syndicate handler with eyes that seemed to miss nothing and a smile that never quite reached them—observed with detached interest. Galahad was impeccably dressed, even in the "field." It was a uniform, Jäger realized, a statement.
"Your SHD technology is… impressive," Galahad conceded, his voice smooth, almost a purr. "Our engineers are still mapping its intricacies. The ISAC network alone is a masterpiece. But raw power must be tempered with finesse."
Jäger grunted. "We've always been about finesse. Surgical strikes, not carpet bombing."
"Indeed. But your past operations, while effective, were often... overt. Your 'ghosts' left rather noticeable footprints. We prefer a cleaner slate. Our modus operandi requires absolute discretion. No evidence. No witnesses. No suspicion." Galahad gestured to the market simulation. "This scenario, for example. A rogue bioweapon designer. Public appearance. Your Division tactics would be a snatch-and-grab. Effective, but messy."
Jäger frowned. "So, what's your way?"
Galahad's smile finally touched his eyes, but it held no warmth. "A well-placed whisper. A compromised financial account. A carefully orchestrated 'accident.' Or, if necessary, a discreet, untraceable poison. The target disappears, the problem is solved, and the world believes they simply had a bad day."
The contrast was stark. The Division was built for crisis, for overt threats when governments failed. The Syndicate operated in the grey, preventing crises before they ever reached the light, often by methods governments themselves wouldn't dare sanction, or even imagine. It was a cold, alien world for agents used to the brutal honesty of the battlefield.
Later that week, Jäger received his first mission briefing from "Merlin," the Syndicate's overarching intelligence director – a woman whose face was only ever seen as a distorted projection, her voice filtered through a modulator. The target was a prominent Malaysian tech mogul, Dato' Arshad Malik, based out of Johor Bahru.
"Dato' Malik has developed a new quantum encryption algorithm," Merlin's voice intoned, the distortion making it utterly devoid of emotion. "Potentially world-changing. Unfortunately, our intelligence indicates he plans to sell it to the highest bidder on the dark web, a known cartel operating out of the Golden Triangle. This algorithm, in the wrong hands, could cripple global intelligence networks, making them blind."
Jäger felt a familiar surge. A global threat. This was what they were built for. "What's the approach?" he asked, his voice steady.
"Discreet neutralization of the deal. Acquisition of the algorithm. Dato' Malik himself is... expendable, should the need arise."
"Expendable," Jäger repeated, the word tasting bitter. The Division sought to preserve. To protect. This felt different.
His team—now a blend of his surviving SHD specialists and a few Syndicate operatives with unsettlingly calm demeanors—was deployed to Johor Bahru, Malaysia. The humid, vibrant city pulsed with life, a stark contrast to the desolate war zones they were used to. Their transport was not a military dropship, but a sleek, custom-built yacht, anchored off the coast of Pulau Ubin, Singapore, a mere stone's throw from Johor's shoreline. Their cover identities were meticulously crafted, complete with convincing digital footprints and local knowledge.
Jäger found himself paired with "Percival," a young Syndicate operative whose eyes, like Galahad's, held an unnerving emptiness. Percival moved with the grace of a predator, his knowledge of the local underworld chillingly extensive.
"Dato' Malik favors the high-roller room at the R&F Mall," Percival murmured, scanning a real-time data overlay on his glasses, a far more discreet interface than Jäger's now-downsized SHD watch. "He's meeting the cartel representative there tonight. They prefer neutral ground, or as neutral as gambling dens can be."
"How are we getting in?" Jäger asked, his hand instinctively going to the sidearm holstered beneath his tailored jacket. The familiar weight was a small comfort.
Percival smirked, a flash of white teeth in the dim interior of their surveillance van. "We're not breaking in. We're invited." He tapped a few commands on a wrist-mounted device. "Your new identity, Commander, is that of a Saudi oil magnate. And mine, your devoted, if slightly eccentric, personal assistant. Enjoy the high stakes, Jäger."
Jäger looked at his reflection in the darkened window. The carefully applied makeup, the expensive suit, the unfamiliar swagger in his posture. He was no longer a soldier fighting to rebuild a broken world. He was a shadow, navigating a hidden one, and the game had just begun. The oath he'd sworn, to the Division, to the continuity of government, felt a million miles away. His new oath, to the Syndicate, was still unwritten, its terms yet to be truly understood. And the chill that ran down his spine wasn't from the air conditioning. It was from the unsettling realization that, in this new world, he was both the hunter and the hunted, and the rules of engagement were entirely different.