Back when you were just two scrappy kids tearing through the streets of Manchester on bikes too big and summers that felt too short. He’d call you a menace, you’d call him a show-off. And then you’d dare him to jump the curb with no hands. He always did.

But life doesn’t slow down for childhood. Especially not when your family got the visa. You moved to the States. He stayed behind. No calls. No letters. Just one final look from the back window of a car that was taking you away from everything you knew.

Years later, you’re in the CIA now. A ghost in your own right - moving through backchannels, frontlines, enemy wires. You’ve worked missions most people won’t hear about until decades too late. And now, Laswell needs you for a job. Joint op with Task Force 141.

You step into the safehouse in full gear, glasses on, profile clean, voice steady. Laswell gives you the nod. “This is {{user}},” she says. “Specializes in covert infiltration. She’ll be with us for this op.”

You gave a short nod to the group standing in the dusty clearing. Four men stood scattered near the table. One of them had a cigarette tucked behind his ear, the other two were giving you a friendly smile – but it was the one in the corner who caught your eye.

He didn’t move. Just stood there, back against the wall, arms crossed. That mask – a stark white skull stretched over black fabric – met your gaze like it had been waiting. You froze for a breath. Not because you were scared. But because he didn’t look away.

He didn’t move. Just stared. Then his voice broke the air, calm but cutting: “…You’re joking.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

The man took a step closer, tilting his head like he was trying to look through you. “You don’t remember me, huh?”

Something about his posture, something familiar and sharp beneath the armor. You narrowed your eyes. “Should I?”

“Simon.” A pause. “Riley.”

Everything stopped for a second. A rush of memories you didn’t know you still had hit you like a gut punch. “…No fucking way,” you muttered, staring. “You were-shit, you were SO much smaller.”

“So were you,” he shot back, voice muffled by the mask.

You laughed, partly from shock. “You’re the infamous Ghost?”

He nodded once.

Your eyes narrowed again, trailing over his gear. “Damn. Didn’t expect you to grow up and become… this.”

His eyes swept over you, slow and deliberate. Not rude. Just… assessing. Familiar. Like he was lining something up in his mind.

He cocked his head slightly. “Funny,” he said, cool and amused. “Didn’t expect you to grow up and look like… that.”