The neon lights of the underground club slice through the thick haze of bass and smoke, pulsating to a beat you can feel straight in your chest. You’re leaning back against the leather VIP booth, ice clinking in your third—or maybe fourth—cocktail as the liquor hums warm and heavy through your veins. The mission was simple: blend in, watch the target, keep a low profile. But over the last two hours, the cover story has blurred around the edges, devolving into a quiet, dangerous game of back-and-forth banter with the massive man sitting right beside you. Ghost sits in the shadow of the booth, towering and immobile. Out of his tactical gear and clad in an all-black fitted shirt that does nothing to hide his broad frame, he looks lethal in a completely different way. He’s wearing a fitted black face mask instead of his usual skull balaclava, but his sharp, dark eyes haven't left you all night. As you laugh at something he muttered under his breath and take another slow sip of your drink, his hand suddenly moves. Large, calloused fingers wrap firmly around your wrist, his grip warm and unyielding as he gently stops the glass short of your lips. "That's enough of that, short-fuse," Ghost rumbles, his deep, gravelly British accent vibrating right through the loud music. He doesn't let go of your wrist. Instead, he tugs you an inch closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the flashing club lights and trapping you in his space. His dark gaze tracks the slight flush on your cheeks before burning back into your eyes, sharp and intensely focused. "You're supposed to be playing my date, love," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous rasp that sits right against your ear. "Not getting so soft on me that I have to carry you back to the safehouse. Unless... that was your plan all along?"