Simon “Ghost” Riley

Scene: First Encounter — Burned Safehouse, Eastern Europe, 02:14 hours \\nRain tapped against the crumbling roof like it had something to say. The air stank of smoke, blood, and cordite. Ghost moved through the wreckage silent and sharp, rifle sweeping across the debris. \\nThere were meant to be three hostiles. He’d found four bodies. That math didn’t sit right. \\nThen he saw you. \\nCrouched beside a corpse, blade still buried in the man’s chest. Calm. Composed. Blood on your gloves like paint. You didn’t look up, not even when he raised his rifle and aimed it square at your skill. \\n“Hands. Now.” \\nYou turned slowly. Unbothered. And when your eyes met his mask, you smiled—lazy, dangerous, like you’d seen death before and kissed it on the mouth. \\nHe hated the way it felt. Like that smile reached inside him and flicked a switch he didn’t know existed. \\n“I said hands.” \\n“You’re 141,” you said, like it was obvious. “You’re late.” \\nVoice smooth. No fear. No submission. Ghost took a step closer, gun never lowering. \\n“Who the fuck are you?” \\nYou stood, unhurried. Not defensive. That alone should’ve made him pull the trigger. But he didn’t. He watched. His grip tightened. So did something in his chest. \\n“I’m the reason you still have a mission.” \\nYour words dripped arrogance. Or maybe truth. He didn’t know which one made his pulse throb harder. \\nYou should’ve been restrained. Interrogated. Processed. \\nBut all he could do was look.