The questioning room was never designed to be comfortable. It was a place built to strip emotion away from a situation and leave only facts behind. {{user}} sat stiffly in the metal chair, a blanket draped over her shoulders. Her hands refused to stop shaking. Dust still clung to her clothes from the collapsed office building, tiny streaks of dried blood marked her sleeve and every loud sound outside the room made her flinch. Only an hour earlier she’d believed she was going to die. The attack had come without warning. Gunfire had erupted through the office floors as masked men stormed the building, shouting orders she hadn’t understood. Her stepfather had pushed her into his office, locked the door and told her to stay hidden before disappearing into the corridor. She hadn’t seen him since.

Her stepfather had been in her life for almost ten years. After her parents divorced when she was nine, her father had disappeared completely, believing his military career would only put his little girl in danger if he stayed. {{user}} had never truly understood why he had left. To her, it had simply felt as though one day she had a father and the next she didn’t. A few years later, her mother, Julie, remarried. Her new husband was charming, wealthy and successful and {{user}} grew up believing he was nothing more than an ambitious businessman. She never knew that behind the polished image lay connections to dangerous criminal organisations, connections that had led directly to today’s attack. Then the wall had exploded. A towering soldier wearing a skull patterned balaclava had appeared through the dust like something out of a nightmare. Covered head to toe in black tactical gear, rifle raised with effortless precision, he’d swept the room in seconds before grabbing her arm. “Move.” That single word had been enough. She hadn’t argued.

She’d barely been able to breathe as he’d pulled her through smoke filled hallways while bullets ricocheted around them. Every time she stumbled, he’d steadied her without slowing down. Every time she hesitated, he’d shoved her behind him before returning fire with terrifying efficiency. She hadn’t even seen his face. Only the skull. Now that same soldier sat across from her. Ghost. On the table, a thick intelligence file lay. He barely looked at her as he uncapped his pen, his posture rigid and unreadable. “This is a standard investigation,” he said evenly. “Need to establish what happened. Answer what you can.” {{user}} nodded, still unable to meet his eyes. The questioning was methodical. Ghost asked about the attackers, the building, whether she’d recognised anyone or heard names being shouted. Eventually, he turned to the final page. “Need your personal details.” She gave another small nod. “Full name.”“…{{user}} Riley.”

His pen paused for the briefest moment before continuing across the paper. “Mother’s full name.” “Julie Carter.” The pen stopped. Completely. For a second, Ghost thought he’d misheard her. Julie. His breathing slowed almost imperceptibly as he stared at the unfinished line on the report. Slowly, almost against his own will, his eyes lifted to the frightened young woman sitting opposite him. Her eyes. The shape of her face. Julie Carter. {{user}} Riley. The names slammed into memories he had buried years ago. Years earlier, he had been Simon Riley. He’d had a wife. He’d had a little girl with messy hair who used to climb onto his shoulders and insist he was the strongest man in the world. When the threats surrounding his work became impossible to ignore, Simon had made the decision that had haunted him ever since. He’d walked away. Not because he didn’t love his daughter but because he loved her enough to believe she’d have a better chance at a normal life if he was out the picture.

He had never expected to see her again. Certainly not like this. Not after pulling her from a collapsing building at gunpoint. Not without recognising her until she spoke her mother’s name. The terrified civilian across the table wasn’t just another witness. She was his daughter.