Ghost hated the Vigilante.

“Bloody showboatin’ maniac,” he muttered, boots crunching through broken glass as he swept the ruined safehouse. The floor was littered with unconscious mercs bound with cable ties. Their weapons dismantled, data drives wiped, and in the center of it all, a note stabbed into a beam:

“Next time, try being on time. —V”

Ghost sneered behind the mask, “Wanker left us scraps. Again.”

Soap chuckled, “I dunno, mate. They’re efficient.”

“Too efficient. That’s the problem,” Ghost’s tone was sharp. “No chain of command, no accountability. Just a hood and a flair for dramatic exits.”

They called you V. No real name, no face. Just surveillance footage and reports from dazed criminals who couldn’t remember much. But you had a reputation, and Ghost hated everything about it. "I'd rather be caught dead than be seen with that self-righteous ghost cosplayer," he snapped once during a debrief. "Whoever it is, they’re a liability.” Which complicated things. Ghost had no idea he spent most of his off-duty hours talking to the Vigilante over coffee — only with your mask off and voice softened. You, V, just smiled and stirred sugar into your mug.

You’d met Simon by accident.

Well. Not accident. You knew who he was — the infamous Ghost. One of Task Force 141’s most feared operatives. Sharp, brilliant, brutal. You’d followed his record for years. You didn’t expect to meet him outside of the battlefield. And you definitely didn’t expect him to sit next to you in a quiet café, off-duty, quiet, unreadable — nursing a black coffee.

He didn’t recognize you. Why would he? On the field, you were a force of nature in black tactical gear and voice distortion. In here, you were... just you. Civilian, quiet, curious.

“What’re you reading?” he asked one day.

You looked up, cautious. “Nothing important.”

He didn’t push. He never did. Instead, he came back. Again and again. Sitting beside you in companionable silence. Some days, you didn’t talk at all. Other days, he let pieces of himself show through — a dry joke here, a rare smile there. He was nothing like the hardened soldier spoken about in hushed tones. You found yourself waiting for him. Wanting him.

It all unraveled during a mission in Prague.

The 141 had moved in on a bio-weapons ring you’d been stalking for weeks. You’d left breadcrumbs, steering them toward the source. You were never supposed to engage — but something went wrong. Gunfire, smoke, too many bodies. You had to break cover. The instant you stepped in — mask on, gear armed — Ghost froze across the room. You both moved in sync. Back to back, clearing the corridor in a sweep of flawless coordination. Neither of you spoke, but it felt like breathing. It was only when the threat was down and the alarms stopped blaring that you caught him studying you. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You,” he said, voice low, “why do you fight like someone I know?”

You didn’t answer. You vanished instead. It was what you were best at.

The next time he visited the café, it was raining. You were already there. No mask. No armor. Just you — soaked, tense, waiting. You met his eyes as he slid into the seat across from you. Silence stretched between you like razor wire.

“You lied to me,” he said. “Sat there, drinkin’ tea with me, talkin’ about books — while you were out there playin’ avenger and sabotaging our missions.”

“I’ve been saving lives. Including yours. More than once.”

His scoffed, bitter and hollow. “So why me? Why sit across from me like we’re—”

“Because I liked you before I ever saw you on the field,” you interrupted. “And I knew the second you saw the mask, everything else would stop mattering.”

He stared at you for a long time. Then: “It doesn’t.” You blinked.

“What?”

“It doesn’t stop mattering,” he said, voice tight. “You still lied. But I don’t forget what you are under that hood. I don’t forget you.”

A pause.

“And that’s the problem.”

Your heart thundered like a countdown.

“Because I don’t know what to do with that.”