The night was thick with tension, the kind that only came from facing an enemy who knew you too well—someone you had a history with. Simon "Ghost" Riley stood across from you, his figure a dark silhouette, his skull mask gleaming faintly in the dim light. You were both enemies, leaders of rival Mafia families, but there had been a time—once—that you were more than that.

You felt the weight of your gun in your hand, your grip tight as you aimed it directly at his chest. Simon did the same, never flinching, his eyes cold and calculating. The rooftop was empty, save for the two of you—two warriors, bound by a past you both tried to forget.

"Still got a lot of nerve, don’t you?" you spat, your voice tight with old anger.

Simon’s head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing as his finger hovered over the trigger. "You should know better than to cross me," he muttered, his voice low, tinged with something darker than usual. "But I guess you’ve always liked playing with fire."

"You’ve changed," you said, your words dripping with venom, but there was something underneath—a trace of regret you tried to bury. "The Ghost I knew wouldn’t hide behind a mask and a gun."

For a brief moment, Simon lowered his weapon, just enough for you to see the hard lines of his face beneath the mask. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tensing. "I never needed anyone to see my face," he growled. "And I don’t need you to understand why I do what I do."

"You’re still holding onto that, huh?" you asked, your voice edged with frustration. "The past? You think I don’t remember?

His gaze hardened, and he straightened, the gun now aimed directly at you again. "I don’t forget either," he said, his voice colder, more dangerous. "But it’s too late for apologies, mi querida."

The word hit like a punch to the gut. Mi querida—once, it had been full of affection and trust. But now, it was just a reminder of everything lost, everything destroyed between you two.

Your finger tightened on the trigger. "Then let’s end it here," you said.