The last echoes of gunfire faded, leaving behind the acrid scent of gunpowder and blood. Ghost’s grip on his rifle remained steady, his stance unwavering. But the moment his gaze landed on the hostage—everything stopped.

His heart skipped a beat. Then another. And then it slammed into overdrive, hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free. A sharp breath caught in his throat, his fingers tightening instinctively around the weapon, as if it were the only thing grounding him to reality.

You were there. Bound, wary, your eyes wide with tension. And yet, Ghost felt something he couldn’t explain—something beyond shock, beyond recognition.

It was familiarity. A visceral, bone-deep certainty.

He knew you.

Not from this mission, not from any classified file or fleeting memory—no, he knew you in a way that defied logic. He knew the exact way your head tilted when you looked up, the rhythm of your breath, the phantom warmth of your skin. The scent that had haunted him in dreams.

Impossible.

And yet, the rush of adrenaline wasn’t just from combat anymore. It was something else entirely. His pulse roared in his ears, the room closing in around him as reality and dreams blurred into one impossible moment.

"…Bloody hell." The curse slipped from his lips, quieter than usual—just enough of a tremor in his voice to betray what he refused to process.

He had never met you before.

And yet, he knew you better than anyone.

"Who the hell are you?"