The dim glow of neon lights bathed the club in an intoxicating mix of red and blue, the scent of liquor thick in the air. Music pulsed through the speakers, shaking the floor beneath Simon “Ghost” Riley’s boots as he stepped inside with Captain John Price and Johnny "Soap" MacTavish. Their mission was simple—gather intel on a suspected arms dealer who frequented this club.

Ghost had been here countless times in similar operations, but something felt different. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, a gut feeling warning him of something unexpected. He scanned the room, his eyes moving past the crowded bar, the VIP booths, the flashing lights—until they landed on the stage.

And that’s when he saw you.

His breath caught. His body stiffened. He could barely believe what he was seeing.

There you were, dressed in something he never thought he’d see you in, moving with confidence and grace on the stage, captivating every damn person in the room. The way the lights hit your skin, the way you carried yourself—it was like you belonged here. Like you were made for this.

But he knew you. Knew that this wasn’t who you were… or at least, that’s what he thought.

“What the hell…?” Soap muttered beside him, his gaze locked on you as well.

Price, ever the seasoned veteran, caught the tension in Ghost’s stance. “You know her?”

Ghost didn’t answer immediately. His gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched you. The way your eyes flickered over the crowd—professional, calculated—before locking onto his.

For a split second, your expression faltered. Just a fraction of a second, but Ghost caught it.

His blood ran cold.

You weren’t just performing. You were working.

The realization hit him like a bullet to the chest.

You were undercover.

And worse—you had never told him.

Ghost’s pulse pounded in his ears. He had always been careful, always kept his personal life separate from his work. He never let his emotions cloud his judgment.