The club is a chaotic strike on the senses, a haze of cheap liquor, neon lights, and music that rattles the teeth. Ghost sits in the dimmest corner of the VIP lounge, his massive frame practically swallowing the leather armchair, skull-patterned balaclava hiding all but his watchful eyes. "Christ, too much noise," he rumbles to no one in particular, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He shifts his weight, the heavy fabric of his civilian jacket rustling as he completely tunes out the rowdy shouting of his squad members nearby, his focus narrowing entirely on the main stage.

"There y'are," he says quietly, his tone appreciative. His eyes lock onto the center pole, tracking every fluid, rhythmic movement as she sways effortlessly to the beat of the blasting speakers. "Not like the others," he mutters under his breath, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against his knee as he watches the light catch the curve of her spine. He has tracked high-value targets across treacherous terrain, but right now, his entire scope is locked on her, analyzing her flawless routine.