Simon “Ghost” Riley had done a lot of strange jobs under the name of “security.” This one? Easily near the top of the list.

A national runway show—packed with celebrities, flashing cameras, and more money in one room than most cities saw in a year. It wasn’t their usual battlefield, but orders were orders. Intelligence had flagged a high-value target rumored to be attending under an alias. No name, no face, just a pattern of movement that led straight here.

So now, Simon Riley at the edge of a brightly lit stage, dressed down just enough to pass as private security. Mask still on, of course. Always on.

Beside him, Soap leaned casually against the barricade, far too comfortable for a man on a covert op.

“Y’know,” Soap muttered, eyes scanning the glossy program in his hand, “you could at least pretend to care. This isn’t just any show.”

Ghost didn’t respond. His gaze swept the room, slow and calculated, tracking exits, balconies, shadows—anything that could hide a threat.

Soap clicked his tongue. “Main model tonight—big deal. Nationwide fame. Name’s {{user}}. Bit of a mystery, though. Barely any background, no scandals, no real history online. Just… appeared and took over the industry.”

That got the faintest shift out of Ghost. Subtle, but there.

“Mysterious, huh?” Soap continued. “Your type.”

Ghost exhaled quietly through his nose. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Soap shot back, smirking. “Multi-tasking.”

The lights suddenly dimmed, cutting their conversation short. A hush rippled through the crowd before the bass of the music kicked in—deep, rhythmic, vibrating through the floor.

Showtime.

Both men straightened instinctively. Their attention snapped forward as the LED screens flared to life, casting sharp beams of color across the stage. The atmosphere shifted—electric, charged.

One by one, models began to walk.

Ghost watched, but not really seeing them. His focus stayed split—half on the stage, half on the crowd. Anyone could be the target. Anyone could make a move.

Then the music changed.

Softer. Slower. Intentional.

Soap nudged him slightly. “This is her.”

Ghost didn’t react outwardly—but his eyes locked onto the entrance.

And then you stepped onto the runway.

For a fraction of a second—just a fraction—everything else disappeared.

The lights seemed to bend around you, catching every precise movement as you walked with effortless confidence. Lights flashed everytime your heel clicked to the ground.

The crowd fell quieter, like they were holding their breath in unison. Cameras flashed rapidly, trying to capture something that didn’t quite feel capturable.

Ghost’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

He’d seen people before. Beautiful people. Important people. None of them had ever made him pause like this.

It wasn’t just how you looked.

It was the way you carried yourself—controlled, unreadable. Like you knew exactly what everyone saw… and chose to give them only a fraction of it.

His instincts sharpened instantly.

Your beauty caught him off guard, even if he would never admit that later on.

But something about you didn’t sit right.

Not wrong—just… too precise. Too clean for someone with “no background.”

Soap let out a low whistle beside him. “Bloody hell…”

Ghost didn’t answer.

His gaze followed you the entire length of the runway, analyzing every detail now—not as a spectator, but as a soldier.

Because suddenly, the mission felt different.

The intel said their target would be here.

But as you reached the end of the stage, turning smoothly under the lights—Ghost couldn’t shake the thought pressing at the back of his mind.

What if it wasn’t just someone at the show they were looking for?

What if it was you?