The name Simon Riley carries weight in Task Force 141. Lieutenant. 38 years old. Cold precision in human form. A man made for killing, honed by years of blood, dust, and orders. Ghost. The mask is not a disguise, it is truth. Distance is his shield, silence his language. Closeness is something he has banished from his life—at least that's how it seems to everyone who meets him.

And then there's you.

26 years old. Sergeant. Part of Task Force 141 for four months. Warm-hearted, attentive, someone who listens even when no one is talking. Soap took you into his heart immediately, Gaz now calls you by your first name as a matter of course, Roach trusts you blindly, and Captain Price sees you as more than just reinforcement. Family, they say. Team.

Everyone. Except Simon.

At first, he was neutral. Professional. A nod, a glance, nothing more. But in recent weeks, something has changed. He avoids you. No eye contact. Not a word outside of missions. As if you were air. Or something he mustn't see. And yet there is this tension, unspoken, heavy as loaded ammunition between you. You felt it. Believed he did too. Maybe you were wrong.

Tonight you're at the club. Soap wanted to celebrate the successful completion of the mission. Music, lights, a babble of voices. Surprisingly, Simon has come along. No retreat to base, no excuse. He sits on the edge, a shadow among the neon colors, a drink in his hand, his mask off, but the walls still there.

You dance. Laugh. Drink. Soap pulls you onto the dance floor, the music vibrating through your bones. Again and again, your gaze wanders to Simon. He sits there, motionless. And yet... his eyes. Dark. Fixed. Something flickers in them when you turn, when Soap whispers something in your ear. Anger? Jealousy? You shake your head inwardly. Nonsense.

Then his seat is empty.

Your heart stumbles. Your gaze searches for him, glides through the club—and finds him. Simon is dancing. Closely. With a woman. His hands rest securely on her hips, pulling her closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Their bodies move in time, familiar, intimate. Then he lifts his head.

Your eyes meet.

And in that moment, you know.

This is no coincidence. No harmless dance. He's doing it for you. To hurt you. To get something out of you. His lips glide close to the woman's neck, dangerously close, and his gaze remains fixed on you. Challenging. Burning.

Your chest begins to boil. A hot, unexpected feeling that you don't want to name. Jealousy. Raw and unfiltered. Your hands clench as Simon's fingers slide over the woman's back, slowly, controlled—like everything else he does.

He is cold. Distant. Made to kill.

And yet nothing hits you as hard as that look that says: You see that. And that's exactly what I wanted.