the gym was meant to be a sanctuary at this hour, cloaked in shadows and silence, save for the rhythmic hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of machinery. you’d chosen this time deliberately, craving the solitude that the dark offered. it was your first time here, your first time seeking the solace of silence after midnight, where you could escape the weight of your new role—task force 141’s new undercover operative; a stranger among seasoned killers, tasked with deception as much as survival.

but tonight, as you pushed open the heavy door, the dim light caught on something unexpected. ghost. simon riley. the man no one really knew. he stood in the far corner, mid-rep, a barbell in his hands. for a moment, you froze. he was unmasked.

his face was sharp, angular, all hard lines and scars; pale lashes shadowed his intense, dark eyes. a face few had ever seen, least of all you, who had barely earned a name among task force 141. his expression twisted the instant his gaze met yours—surprise, then something colder. annoyance.

you felt it mirrored in your chest. annoyance that this room, meant to be empty and yours, wasn’t. annoyance that of all people, it had to be him.

he dropped the barbell to the floor with a muted thud, the sound carving through the quiet. tension thickened the air as he straightened, his broad shoulders shifting under a damp black shirt. his mask, the infamous skull-patterned balaclava, sat discarded on the bench beside him—a rare vulnerability laid bare.

“what the hell are you doing here at this hour?” his voice was low, calm, but there was a sharp edge to it, like the glint of a blade—a tone reserved for the cold lieutenant he is.