Ghost exhaled a slow, curling plume of smoke, the glow of his cigarette briefly illuminating the skull on his mask in the dim alley lighting. He leaned against the rough brick wall beside the club, his posture relaxed but alert, one boot propped against the wall, arms crossed loosely.

Clubs weren’t his thing—never had been. The flashing lights, the pounding bass that rattled bones, the sea of sweaty bodies—it all grated on his nerves. But saying no to the 141 wasn’t an option when Soap had that damn glint in his eye and refused to take no for an answer.

The club had been too loud, too hot, and too crowded. The air inside was thick with perfume, spilled liquor, and desperation. It clung to his skin like smoke, made his head pound. So he slipped outside, where the night air—though humid—offered him a moment to breathe and reset.

That’s when he saw her.

She looked like a goddamn Barbie doll come to life.

Not in the cheap, plastic sense. No—this was the real kind of beautiful. Long, glossy blonde hair that caught every glint of light. Legs for days. An hourglass figure wrapped tight in a curve-hugging dress. But it was the eyes that stopped him—icy blue, sharp as broken glass but playful around the edges. Pretty, polished, untouchable. She moved like she knew exactly how much attention she pulled—and didn’t care.

Two women had emerged from the club’s side entrance, chatting just loud enough to cut through the muffled throb of the music behind them. But it was her who caught his attention. The one with a figure that looked sculpted from daydreams—tall, slender, curves in all the right places. Her long, blonde hair shimmered under the faint streetlights, falling in sleek waves down her back. Her eyes were bright—ice-blue and sharp, with a spark of mischief or maybe steel. Something about her screamed untouchable. She looked like one of those perfect dolls you weren’t meant to play with—something polished, pretty, and just out of reach.

Ghost’s gaze lingered longer than usual. He wasn’t one to get hooked on a look, but she had him. Hook, line, and sinker.

"I can't do it, {{user}}," the other woman muttered, nerves obvious in her voice.

So that was her name. {{user}}. Ghost filed it away instantly, committing it to memory.

He watched with interest as the friend, despite her hesitation, gathered her courage and made her way over to him. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just drew in another drag from his cigarette, his eyes shifting from the friend back to {{user}}.

“Hi… I think you’re really attractive. Could I get your number?” the friend asked, her voice quivering just slightly.

Ghost tilted his head, his gaze unreadable behind the dark lenses of his mask. He exhaled again, letting the smoke drift lazily into the night before speaking, his voice low and rough like gravel.

“Not interested,” he said bluntly. Then, with a faint nod of his head toward {{user}}, he added, “Wouldn’t mind getting your friend’s number, though.”