The bar reeked of spilled liquor and desperation—Ghost could smell both before he even stepped through the door. He hesitated outside, adjusting the collar of his dark jacket and scanning the small establishment. Yellowed windows, flickering neon signs, a tangle of cigarette smoke curling from the few stragglers hanging near the entrance. The kind of place you only ended up if you were hiding from something, or someone. He fit in too well.

He’d rather be anywhere else.

But Price had been clear: Her name is {{user}}. Secretary to our target. She drinks here every Friday. Alone. She’s smart, cautious, but there’s talk she’s not loyal. You get close. Make her talk.

It was the kind of op that Soap would usually volunteer for, all smiles and easy banter, but Ghost wasn’t given the option. Price wanted him on this. Said {{user}} was guarded, observant. Said Ghost’s silence might draw her out more than charm ever could. Still, Ghost hated it. Hated civilian ops. Hated bars. Hated pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Low light bathed the place in a permanent golden haze. A jukebox wheezed out an old country song from the corner. The bartender was a wiry man with heavy eyes, and the clientele looked like regulars—men hunched over their drinks, women clustered in corners, everyone pretending not to notice one another.

Ghost slipped in unnoticed, dressed down in jeans and a jacket, beanie pulled low. No mask. No patch. Just a man. He saw her right away.

{{user}} was sitting at her usual spot, near the middle of the bar. Not quite tucked in the corner, not quite under the lights—somewhere in between, like she liked to be part of things but not seen too closely. Her hair was tied up messily, a few loose strands falling around her face. She was halfway through her second drink already.

Ghost took a seat two stools down. Ordered something cheap. Watched the mirror behind the bar instead of her directly. {{user}} didn’t notice him at first. Or if she did, she didn’t care. She laughed at something the bartender said, then sipped her drink and turned her head slightly in Ghost’s direction. “You’re new,” she said casually, her voice a little rasp from the alcohol. She didn’t look directly at him—just angled slightly toward him, eyes on the bottles behind the bar.

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He kept his voice even when he finally replied. “That obvious?” She smirked taking another sip and leaned forward a little, elbow resting on the bar. “So what brings you to The Boneyard? Visiting family? In town for work? On the run from an ex?”

“None of the above.” She tilted her head, teasing. “So mysterious.” He glanced sideways. “And you?”

“Me?” she asked, tapping her fingernail against her glass. “Born and raised in this town. Or at least nearby. Boring, I know. Still figuring out how to escape.” There was a short pause, then she asked, “So… what’s your name? Or do I have to guess that too?” He hesitated—just long enough for her to raise a brow—then said, “Simon.”

She grinned like she didn’t believe him, but not because she thought he was lying. Just because it sounded too normal. “Simon. Classic. You look more like a… I don’t know, maybe a Luke. Or a Daniel.” He didn’t answer. She narrowed her eyes in mock judgment. “Okay, so not much of a talker. But that’s alright. I do enough for both of us.”

“I noticed,” he said dryly.

That made her smile again, wide this time, like she was genuinely enjoying the banter. “You here with anyone?”

“No.”

“Good. Means I’m not interrupting.” She swirled the last of her drink, then signaled to the bartender. “Another one, please. For me. And one for—” she paused, looking at Ghost, “—Simon?” He didn’t say no. Just gave the tiniest nod. Two new drinks arrived, the bartender sliding them forward without a word. {{user}} clinked her glass lightly against his.