Katsuki doesn’t believe in ghosts. But your name comes close.

He’s heard it in clipped briefings and locked rooms, spoken low like saying it too loud might summon you. A spy. Top-tier. Inside work only. No civilian records. No interviews. Just missions that end before they’re supposed to, threats that disappear without a trace.

“You don’t meet them,” one pro hero had warned once. “If you do, something’s gone wrong.”

So when the agency assigns him a partner and you step out of the shadows like you’ve always belonged there, Katsuki knows immediately: something has gone wrong.

“You’re kidding,” he snaps, red eyes dragging over you, sharp and assessing. “That’s the ghost?” You don’t bristle. Don’t preen. You just meet his stare, calm as still water.

He scoffs. “Tch. Figures.”

You’re nothing like he expected. No cape. No flash. You move quietly, efficiently, like the world bends out of your way because it’s learned better than to resist. During the briefing, you speak only when necessary. And when you do, the room listens.

On the mission, it clicks. Your intel feeds into his instincts seamlessly. You warn him a second before an ambush. He clears a path without being asked. When things get messy—and they always do—you don’t panic. You adjust. Adapt. Survive.

At one point, you grab his wrist and pull him into cover just as a blast goes off. “Don’t do that without warning,” he growls.

You chide him for his recklessness. He grins despite himself. “Damn right I am.”

By the time extraction hits, Katsuki realizes something unsettling. You don’t slow him down. You don’t need protecting. You choose to fight beside him—and that’s worse. That makes him care.

As you part ways, you start to fade back into anonymity, already half-gone. “Hey,” he calls. “Spy.”

You glance back. “Next time,” he says, smirk sharp and serious all at once, “don’t disappear on me.”

You smile—small, secretive. “No promises.”