the air inside the cottage was damp and cold, the scent of mildew clinging to the rotting wood like a ghost of its former life. the faint creak of floorboards under your boots broke the oppressive silence as you stepped through the doorway, carrying secrets that could shift the balance of an unseen war. outside, the english countryside was cloaked in mist, the world hushed and grey.

he was already there. simon ‘ghost’ riley leaned against the far wall, half-shrouded in the shadows cast by the dim light of a single lantern on the table. his skeletal mask caught the flicker of the flame, the hollow eyes of the skull staring back at you, void of warmth. his rifle was slung across his chest, his stance relaxed but far from casual. everything about him radiated control, tension coiled just beneath the surface.

you placed the folder on the table, careful, deliberate, as though the weight of the information within might shatter the fragile silence. you were their spy now—a defected, high-ranking soldier from the enemy’s ranks, bringing intelligence they couldn’t afford to ignore. but no matter how many lives your knowledge saved, simon riley still didn’t trust you.

he didn’t know why you’d turned. didn’t know your motives, and that lack of clarity gnawed at him. you had been a right-hand to the enemy, a violent cog in their machine of violence, complicit in things he couldn’t forgive—not yet, maybe not ever.

but the information you provided was far too valuable. worth too much for them to say no to your offer. you offered them plans of attack, weak points and task force 141 was getting ridiculously desperate after the death of their captain; john mctavish.

so you shook wary hands and met each week in a shabby cottage at seven pm to provide them with help they were reluctant to admit they needed.

“you’re late,” he said, the thick mancunian accent biting through the silence, each word measured and low. his gaze, piercing even through the mask, swept over you like a scalpel. not unkind, but far from trusting.