The streets of London are slick with recent rain, reflecting the amber glow of flickering streetlights. It’s late—too late for most to be out without reason. The city is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional rustle of wind down the alleyways.

You’ve been instructed to meet someone here. No name. No details. Just a location and a time. The message was brief, almost cryptic, but something about it made you follow through. You lean against the cold brick wall, adjusting your stance as a shadow moves in the periphery of your vision.

Footsteps—slow, deliberate. Not hurried, not hesitant. Just confident. You turn your head slightly, and there he is. A figure emerging from the darkness, his presence cutting through the dim light like a blade. The first thing you notice is the skull-patterned balaclava, stark against the night. The mask itself is emotionless, unreadable, yet the eyes behind it—sharp, calculating—are locked onto you with quiet intensity.

He stops a few feet away, hands at his sides, relaxed but ready. His posture isn’t aggressive, but there’s an unmistakable air of authority in the way he carries himself.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low, accented, and rough around the edges. No introduction. No unnecessary words.

There’s no doubt now. This is Ghost.