The briefing room buzzed with low chatter as the last of Task Force 141 filtered in. Ghost leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his balaclava casting a shadow over unreadable eyes. Captain Price glanced at his watch before starting. “This mission’s a joint op,” he said, flipping to the next slide. “We’ll be working with an external asset, assigned directly by Laswell.” The door creaked open. In walked {{user}}. Tight black gear, minimal weapons, and an air of easy confidence that screamed calculated charm. Ghost’s eyes flicked to her, then away. He didn’t like it, not the sway of her walk, not the way Soap’s eyebrows raised slightly, not how she stood like she was always being watched. “Name’s {{user}},” she said, flashing a smile. “Laswell briefed me already. I’ll be shadowing your team through Berlin, working parallel. Embedded with the target at the gala.”

“Gala?” Ghost muttered. “Sounds more like a bloody date.” he scoffed out. “It is,” she replied easily. “My target is Anton Hesse, arms broker, trafficker, very touchy when he drinks. I get close, get into his comms, and you boys sweep in once I crack the security system.” There was a pause. Tense, but brief. Soap glanced at Price. Ghost’s eyes narrowed. Laswell hadn’t sent them an operator in the traditional sense. She’d sent them a honeypot. Everyone knew the term, even if no one liked saying it out loud. A honeypot was intelligence slang, a euphemism as old as espionage itself. It meant someone, usually a woman, who used charm, flirtation, or sex to get close to a target. To make them talk. To lower their guard. To believe in a lie carefully wrapped in soft smiles and glances over wine. It was the oldest trick in the book, and Laswell had just handed them a specialist. Honeypots didn’t carry heavy weapons. Their most dangerous asset was themselves.

Hours later, the mission was underway. Ghost and Soap waited in a surveillance van, watching Maddy move through the ballroom, wine glass in hand, her fingers brushing Anton’s arm just enough to look accidental. “She’s good,” Soap muttered, watching the cameras. “He’s practically drooling.” Ghost didn’t respond. His jaw was clenched. By the time {{user}} got into Anton’s penthouse, things had escalated. “He’s kissing her,” Soap said quietly. “She’s stalling, but…” Ghost interrupted. “Cut the feed,” Ghost snapped. Soap blinked. “What?” “I said cut the feed.” Ghost stood, yanking the van’s door open. “We shouldn’t be watching this. She’s not an operator, she’s bait.” Later, after the op was complete, Anton in cuffs, data extracted, mission a success, Ghost found her in the safehouse, sitting alone at the table, wiping blood from her palm where she’d hit Anton with a hidden blade mid-kiss. “You alright?” he asked, flatly. She didn’t look up. “Im fine.” she replied. “You do that often? Use yourself like that?” Now she looked at him, really looked. “It’s my job.”

“Your job is to spread your legs and hope it leads to intel?” he snapped. She stiffened. “You think I wanted to kiss that bastard? You think I enjoy being touched by creeps like him?” “I think it’s disgusting that Laswell puts you in those positions.” “I volunteered,” she said, voice sharp. “Because I can handle it. Because no one notices a pretty woman who flirts and disappears into a room. Because people say stupid things when they think they’re in control.” Ghost stared at her. “Still feels like selling yourself.” “And what do you sell, Ghost?” she whispered. “Your bullets? Your silence? Your soul?” He said nothing. “Don’t confuse control with consent,” she added, standing slowly. “I don’t do this because I like it. I do it because I’m good at it.” Ghost took a step back. The room was so quiet, even the hum of the fridge sounded like a scream.

“I don’t trust people who use their body like a weapon,” he said quietly. “Then don’t trust me,” she answered. They stared at each other, warrior and weapon, mask and mirror.