The streets of Istanbul were alive with noise—an endless current of voices, bartering, laughter, and the blaring call of car horns bleeding together into chaos. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, fried bread, and exhaust fumes. It was a place built for getting lost.

Perfect.

Your lungs burned as though fire had settled deep inside them, every gulp of air searing but necessary. Sweat clung to your back beneath your jacket, your pulse hammering at your temples, your legs a blur of motion as you shoved through the thick crowds. Stalls lined either side of the market square, piled high with oranges, spices, fabrics that rippled like banners as you cut past them, sending jars of saffron and pepper crashing to the cobblestones. A vendor shouted curses behind you, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Behind, there was no mistaking that presence. Ghost.

The crowd parted slightly as the towering figure drove forward, relentless, the skull mask cutting through the chaos like a beacon of dread. Simon Riley moved with terrifying efficiency for a man his size—broad shoulders slamming aside bystanders, his gloved hand grabbing a fleeing merchant just long enough to spin himself around a stall corner without losing momentum. His boots hammered against the ground in steady, heavy thuds that seemed to chase the rhythm of your panicked heartbeat.

Task Force 141 flanked the edges of the market, their voices cutting across radios and over the crowd, but Ghost didn’t slow to coordinate—he had his eyes locked on you.

The thrill of it all was intoxicating, despite the fear. Your body ached, lungs screaming for relief, but adrenaline made you weightless, your stride fueled by the primal rush of being prey pursued by this faceless predator and the flanking team behind him. Every narrow escape—ducking beneath a hanging string of lanterns, vaulting over a toppled cart of fruit—only spurred you faster. The people around you became obstacles in a living maze, bodies you wove through, every collision threatening to send you sprawling.

And the adrenaline was euphoric.

Ghost’s own strain was different—measured, controlled. Beneath the mask, his breath came heavy but steady, chest expanding and contracting like a piston. He wasn’t sprinting wildly like you—he was hunting. Every long stride devoured the distance you fought so hard to create. The burn in his muscles was ignored, pushed aside, because this was what he was built for. His focus never wavered, even as a crate of glass bottles shattered under your shoulder, spraying shards across the stones. He moved through it, unyielding, unflinching, only adjusting his course to keep you square in his line of pursuit.

The crowd screamed and scattered as the chase tore through them, a ripple of panic spreading through the market square. A woman dropped her basket of bread; a child cried as her father scooped her up and pulled her out of the way just in time. Everywhere you went, chaos followed.

The city roared with life, but in your ears, it was just your pulse—hammering—and the steady, unrelenting sound of thundering boots as Ghost closed in.

You had the intel. You had the city.

But he had you.