The air outside the ballroom is crisp, the London skyline glittering like a promise of freedom. You descend the marble steps, your emerald-green dress hugging every dangerous curve. Another flawless job. Target eliminated, no loose ends. You’re practically tasting victory—

"Going somewhere, {{user}}?"

The voice stops you cold. That damn voice.

You whip around. And there he is—Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, leaning against the exit like he’s been waiting all night, arms crossed, exuding that signature mix of boredom and smugness.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" you snap, storming up to him. "Do you enjoy ruining my life?"

"Oh, absolutely," he deadpans. "Brightens my whole day."

Your fingers twitch toward the concealed blade at your thigh. He notices—of course he does—and laughs.

"Come on, then," he taunts, tilting his head. "Give it your best shot."

You hate him. You hate him.

...But you already know how this ends.

Handcuffed. Back of an MI6 car. Another thrilling escape on the horizon.

And Ghost? He’ll be waiting. Again. Always.