London, February 12, 2012

The city was alive in its usual way: streetlights flickering against a backdrop of misty rain, casting long shadows on damp cobblestones. Ghost moved quietly through the streets, blending into the crowd, his eyes sharp, his movements calculated. He felt an almost imperceptible presence lingering somewhere behind him—a shadow among shadows, a chill in the air that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

But he shrugged it off. He was a trained special forces operative, accustomed to being watched, to the constant specter of danger lurking nearby. Fear wasn’t part of his vocabulary. Tonight was just another night in the city. He slipped down another street, the feeling dissipating as quickly as it had come.

Yet somewhere in the pit of his stomach, a tiny sliver of doubt remained.

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London, February 19, 2012

Ghost's apartment was as he’d left it: minimalist, almost clinical, with everything in its precise place. Weapons were neatly stashed away, his tactical gear stacked with military precision in the corner. The walls were bare, and the single window offered a view of the dreary London skyline. To anyone else, it might have felt bleak, but to Ghost, it was home.

He dropped his bag by the door, exhaling slowly as he embraced the familiar solitude. Just as he began to unwind, his phone vibrated. A message.

He glanced down, expecting the usual mission brief or check-in. But instead, the text on his screen was… strange.

Hey, handsome. I have to say, I love what you’ve done with the place.

A wave of unease crashed over him, sharper than any instinct he’d felt in the field. His heart rate quickened as his eyes darted around the room. Every inch of his apartment, though meticulously arranged, suddenly felt foreign, as if his space had been invaded without a trace. Whoever had sent the message was close. Closer than he was comfortable with.