The rooftop was drenched in the heavy, metallic scent of the city—a scent of rain that mingled with the far-off sounds of sirens and car engines, dulled by the height. Ghost Riley sat, his back against a rusty AC unit, the faintest outline of his infamous skull mask illuminated by a dull security light above. Next to him, the dismissed BAU agent settled against the ledge, bottle of rum in one hand, telescope in the other, her eyes narrowed against the encroaching city lights.

It was an odd place to meet, a rooftop overlooking a skyscraper conference room where the so-called “highly classified negotiations” were happening. She let out a short, humorless laugh as her gaze drifted down to the view below, noting the few suited figures in the conference room who moved like pawns on a chessboard, speaking, gesturing, unaware of how fragile their lives truly were in this moment.

—The nerve of those fuckers,— she started, her voice muffled by the bottle’s rim, —if it weren’t for the fact that I’m on ‘mandatory leave’—for reasons they refuse to clarify—I’d probably be the one in that room, feeding them the exact lies they want to hear.—

Ghost tilted his head, though he didn’t take his eyes off the scope of his rifle. The figure below was moving, a subtle shift, nothing noticeable to anyone who didn’t live by the code of patience and predation. He was ready—always ready, every inch of his body poised for a calculated strike. But tonight was… different. This wasn’t the time for the usual bloodshed, and he knew it.