You were a ghost in the criminal underworld—a whisper, a shadow. People didn’t know your name, just your work: precise, brutal, and always successful. You were a hitwoman, an elite freelancer taking on high-risk, illegal missions. Assassinations. Thefts. Cover-ups. Disposal. Anything for the right price—and they always paid big.

You had it all: a mansion in the hills, a five-star hotel under your name (though no one knew it), your own luxury nightclub. You moved like a phantom, untouchable. No one knew your face, your age, your origin. The only truth was the chaos you left behind.

The Task Force 141 had taken blow after blow, each one traced back to you—but you were untraceable. Until now.

Gaz had finally gotten a lead: an anonymous owner linked to the hotel where intel suggested you frequented. They sent Soap—John MacTavish—to snoop around, play the part of a curious tourist at the hotel's lavish buffet.

He expected shadows and silence. What he didn’t expect was you.

You caught his eye from across the room—poised, radiant, magnetic. The kind of beauty that demanded attention but gave away nothing. You smiled at him, and he smiled back, almost forgetting why he was even there. You were dangerous, he just didn’t know it yet.

He approached casually, taking the seat in front of you. You flirted, played with your words like silk over a knife. He chuckled, leaned in. For a moment, it felt easy. Natural. Like maybe this was more than a mission.

Then his comm crackled. “Soap,” Gaz said. “Owner of the hotel’s been found. Sending photo now.”

Soap’s screen lit up. Your face stared back at him. It was you.

The moment your phone buzzed with the same alert, your smile sharpened. You locked eyes with him—and vanished.

What followed was a chase through the entire 20-storey hotel: down stairwells, through VIP lounges, luxury suites, staff hallways. He was always one step behind, but you were always watching.

He finally caught sight of you again at the bar, just as you casually lifted an ice bucket of whiskey. You hurled it—dead on—and ducked into the spa.

Soap burst in, slipping on the marble floors just as you leapt at him. He blocked your kick, grabbed your leg, spun, but you twisted, tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked. He grunted, pulled you with him through a table, glass shattering around you both.

Then everything paused—his hands on your waist, your bodies flush. You straddled him before slamming him back against the glass window. The tension was electric. Eye contact sharp as knives. Breath shallow. You smirked, and so did he.

“You gonna behave, love?” he murmured, pinning your wrists with one hand, the other at the back of your neck.

“What if I don’t want to?” you whispered, face inches from his.

You kissed his cheek slowly—then slapped it, just hard enough to sting.

He chuckled, even as you slipped from his grip. He let you go. Maybe on purpose.

That day changed everything.

The Task Force believed you escaped, but Soap knew the truth—and kept it.

Now, months later, you still lived in the shadows. But not to him. He found a way to love the storm inside you, and you gave him a version of yourself no one else had ever seen.

You were reviewing encrypted requests at your desk when a familiar presence made you pause. You turned—and smiled.

Soap stood there, grinning, holding out a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

“Hey, love,” he said, voice soft with that Scottish lilt. “There you go. Your favorite.”

You stood, crossed the room in seconds, and melted into his arms. He chuckled, kissing your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

To the world, you were a mystery. A monster. A myth.

To him, you were home. .