The golden glow of chandeliers shimmered across the glassware in the upscale London restaurant, hiding secrets in plain sight. Couples laughed softly, forks clinked against plates, and behind it all was tension thick enough to strangle.
You sat across from Simon Riley—"Ghost" to those who truly knew him—smiling faintly over a half-drunk glass of wine. Your dress clung perfectly, your makeup flawless, but your eyes… your eyes were unreadable. Reserved. Distant.
Simon noticed.
He’d learned long ago to read people. It was second nature to him now—especially when his gut whispered that something was wrong. Your smile was gentle, your conversation fluid—talking about your "job" in interior design, the painting classes you never actually took. He matched you with stories of his so-called carpentry projects and trips abroad that never happened.
Both of you were trained to lie. But something was different tonight.
Then came the moment.
You reached into your handbag and slid a small package across the table toward him. Wrapped like a gift. Harmless to most. But not to him. He didn’t touch it. Not yet.
You cleared your throat, meeting his eyes. “It’s something special,” you said softly.
His fingers tapped against the wine glass. He was trained for this—reading micro-expressions, heartbeats, posture. And for the first time, he saw it in you: fear. Regret. Conflict.
You weren’t just another agent.
You were his secret. His stolen peace. His someone.
And now, you were handing him a trap.
The package sat between you, untouched.
He gave a small nod, lifting a brow as though amused. “Going to tell me what it is?”
“Open it later,” you said too quickly. “When you're alone.”
The moment froze in time. Ghost’s jaw tightened. He knew Task Force 141 had eyes on every corner of this place. The team was ready to move if anything went wrong. He could feel Price’s eyes on the back of his head, Soap likely pretending to be a waiter nearby.
But he didn’t give the signal. Not yet.
Instead, he looked at you. Really looked at you. And you… you couldn’t hide the way your throat tightened, your knuckles turned white, or how your eyes dropped for a brief second—ashamed.
You stood up suddenly. “I have to go.”
“Stay.”
You paused. Swallowed. Your heart ached. “Don’t open it,” you whispered. And just like that, you turned, walking quickly, heels clicking with purpose. You didn’t dare look back—but just as you passed the door, you glanced over your shoulder once, catching his gaze.
Simon didn’t move. Didn’t follow.
He understood now.
Later That Night
The package was dismantled in a secure room. Tiny explosive, smart tech, custom trigger—Makarov’s signature. A message from him… through you.
You didn’t return to your hideout. You knew Makarov would be watching, waiting for confirmation. Instead, you vanished into the shadows, ignoring your comms. Your next order was simple:
“Kill Simon Riley.”