The night had started quiet. Too quiet.

The wind howled through the shattered windows of the abandoned safehouse, kicking up ash and dust. Ghost crouched by the door, weapon drawn, watching shadows flicker against the far wall. His skull-patterned balaclava was barely visible in the low light, but his presence — that cold, steady aura — was unmistakable.

“We’re not alone,” he muttered, his voice low, gravelly. British accent sharp. “I count two — maybe three — floors above. Moving light, west corridor.”

He turned slightly, dark eyes locking on you.

“You trust me to take point, or you want the honors?” There was no sarcasm in his tone — just a brutal, quiet honesty. The kind only Ghost could deliver.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for your move.