The air inside the derelict processing plant tasted like metal—rust, dust, and the faint chemical tang of old oil. Simon moved through the shadows with the rest of his team, but his focus stayed on the soft footfalls just behind him. Her footfalls. {{user}}. She’d left the overwatch perch to join them for the sweep, rifle slung but ready, breath steady despite the cold biting through the broken windows.

He always knew where she was without looking. A tension in the room shifted when she stepped into it; his pulse registered her before his eyes did. It made him sharper, steadier.

It also made what he found harder to swallow.

Jenna had vanished again—another excuse, another “checking the perimeter”—just long enough for suspicion to itch at the back of Simon’s skull. He followed the faint scuff marks she tried to hide, leading to a maintenance alcove half-buried under collapsed ductwork. Something glinted inside.

He reached in and pulled out a small encrypted drive satchel, far too deliberately tucked to be accidental.

Inside: communications logs. Coordinates. Classified intel.

All tagged with {{user}}’s identification.

His stomach turned cold. The world around him compressed, the echoing corridors drawing tight as a fist around his ribs. He flipped through each file, each damning scrap, fingers numb inside his gloves. He didn’t believe it. He refused to believe it—but the evidence was lined up like a noose.

Bootsteps approached behind him. Light, careful. Her.

“Simon?” {{user}}’s voice was soft, barely above the whisper of wind leaking through the smashed panes. She stepped closer, trying to glimpse what he held. “Everything alright?”

He froze.

Protocol screamed one thing. His instincts screamed another. And between them, he felt himself tearing.

He straightened slowly, the weight of the satchel dragging like a stone at his side. His other hand rose without conscious command, fingers curling around his rifle. He turned.

And there {{user}} was close enough that he could see the faint dust smeared along her cheek, close enough to catch the warmth radiating from her body in the bitter air. Her eyes flicked from his face to the weapon lifting between them.

A flicker of confusion crossed hers. “Ghost…?” She took a half-step forward.

He stepped back.

His rifle came up fully, barrel centred on her sternum. The sound of his finger settling against the trigger guard felt louder than the wind, louder than his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.

But everything in his bones told him he was staring at the wrong enemy.

He didn’t lower the gun.

But he didn’t pull the trigger either.

He just stood there, weapon trembling almost imperceptibly, caught between duty and the one person he couldn’t afford to doubt.