She wakes up to the weight of silence—and immediately knows she’s made a catastrophic mistake.

The room is unfamiliar. Too neat. Too controlled. No guards. No noise. Just the faint hum of electricity and the steady presence beside her.

Her eyes drift to the nightstand.

A skull mask.

Her breath catches.

She turns her head slowly.

Ghost is there—already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his gloves with methodical calm. Scarred arms. Sleeves rolled. Mask on. No weapon in his hands, which somehow makes it worse.

Her biggest threat.

The man whose call sign alone has dismantled cells across continents. The one her people whisper about like a ghost story.

Regret hits instantly and violently, curling in her gut.

“…No,” she whispers. “No, no—”

“Morning,” Ghost says evenly, not looking at her.

Memory comes back in jagged flashes: the bar, neutral ground, drinks meant to blur faces and sins. The way they’d talked like normal people for once. The way she’d forgotten—just for a night—that she’s a terrorist, a cartel leader, one of the most wanted targets on half a dozen boards.

She sits up fast, dragging the sheet with her. “You drug me?”

Ghost finally looks at her. “If I had, you wouldn’t remember my name.”

That doesn’t help.

“You going to kill me?” she asks, voice tight.

“If I was,” he replies calmly, “you wouldn’t be asking questions.”

Silence stretches.

She swallows. “Then why am I still here?”

Ghost exhales slowly. “Because last night, you weren’t my target.”

That hurts more than if he’d cuffed her.

She dresses quickly, shame burning under her skin. Her clothes are folded. Her weapon is gone—but laid out neatly on the table, unloaded.

At the door, she hesitates. “You’re letting me walk?”

“Don’t confuse it with forgiveness,” Ghost says. “Or mercy.”

She nods once and leaves without looking back, burying the night as deep as she can.

She thinks it’s over.

She’s wrong.

It catches up to her three weeks later.

A warehouse. Rusted steel. Salt air. An emergency meet she shouldn’t have agreed to—but pride makes her reckless.

The doors slam shut behind her.

Click.

Then—

Red dots bloom across her chest, throat, forehead.

Her instincts scream too late.

“Hands. Now.”

She freezes.

Slowly, she raises them.

The shadows come alive.

Price steps forward first, calm and inevitable.

But he’s not alone.

Ghost—already aimed. Soap—on her flank. Gaz—elevated position, steady. Laswell—watching from behind cover, phone already in hand. Farah—rifle trained without hesitation. Alejandro—eyes cold, finger resting easy on the trigger.

Operators from allied units fill the catwalks, doorways, windows.

Different flags. Same mission.

Her.

Across countries. Across borders. Across bloodlines.

“Well,” she says thinly, forcing a smile. “This feels excessive.”

Price chuckles softly. “You’ve been busy.”

Her eyes flick to Ghost. He doesn’t look at her.

That’s when she knows.

Price circles her slowly, boots echoing on concrete.

“Funny thing,” he says casually, “about secrets. They don’t stay buried long in our line of work.”

Her jaw tightens. “Whatever you think—”

“Oh, I know,” Price interrupts gently. “About the bar. The drinks. The bed.”

The warehouse seems to tilt.

He stops in front of her.

“You slept with one of my men,” Price continues, voice calm, deadly. “While being one of the most wanted targets on the board.”

She laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You going to shoot me for bad judgment?”

“No,” Price says. “I’m going to use it.”

Her smile dies.

Laswell steps forward. “Your organization doesn’t tolerate weakness,” she says coolly. “Especially fraternization with the enemy.”

Alejandro adds, “Where I’m from, that gets you buried by your own people.”

Farah’s voice is quiet but unyielding. “We could make sure they find out.”

Price nods. “But we won’t. As long as you cooperate.”