You were a ghost in your own right—an elite hitwoman for hire, operating through whispers, shadows, and encrypted channels. High-profile assassinations, grand thefts, blackmail, espionage—whatever the price, you delivered. And the price was always high. You lived in luxury: a sprawling mansion in the hills, your own exclusive nightclub, and a towering hotel that fronted as a playground for the rich—but beneath the glass and gold, it was your base of operations.

Task Force 141 had bled because of you. Their ops compromised, agents vanishing, leads dying before they spoke. And yet... no one knew who you were. No name. No face. No trace. Until now.

Gaz finally cracked a sliver of the system—your hotel. Traced ownership to a shell company, and finally to a name buried deep in fake IDs and firewalls. You.

They sent Johnny "Soap" MacTavish. His mission: identify and capture.

He entered your hotel under the guise of a tourist, sunglasses perched on his nose, head on a swivel. It was the buffet that drew him in—well, more specifically, you.

You sat alone at a corner table, swirling wine, watching. Dressed sharp, eyes sharper. When his gaze caught yours, you smiled.

And damn it, he smiled back.

He approached without even thinking, like a moth drawn to flame. The mission was fading with every step he took closer. You were magnetic, dangerous, utterly intoxicating.

"Mind if I join?" he asked.

"Already did," you said with a sly grin.

Flirting came easy. You were charm wrapped in mystery. But then his comm crackled softly.

"Soap, that’s her. She’s the owner. That’s her—she's the Ghostkiller."

His blood ran cold. You, sitting across from him, were the mission. But before he could move, your expression shifted subtly.

You'd gotten the notification too.

Before he could react, a waiter stepped between you both—and when Soap looked back... you were gone.

What followed was a chase through your empire. Twenty stories of opulence and chaos. He tore through VIP lounges, slipped through kitchens, hunted you through packed bars and silent hallways.

Then—finally—he cornered you in the hotel’s private spa lounge.

You stood at the bar, calmly retrieving an ice bucket of whiskey. Without turning, you said, “Took you long enough.”

And launched the bucket straight at his head. It shattered on impact and the fight began.

He kicked low, sweeping your legs—you jumped, landing on him, fingers tangling in his hair. He threw you against a table, but you twisted, pinning his arm. You moved like smoke, untouchable—until he caught you, flipped you, and you landed straddling his lap, bodies colliding against the tall glass windows that overlooked the city.

For a moment, everything paused. Your faces inches apart. Breath heavy. Eyes locked.

He smirked. "You always greet guests like this?"

You smiled back. “Only the nosy ones.”

Then—slap.

You hit him lightly across the cheek, just enough to break the tension, and shoved him back.

He laughed, breathless, rising from the floor. “Alright, lass…” With a sudden move, he caught your wrists in one hand, spun you, and pinned you to the cold window.

“Behave, will you?” he murmured, voice rough, one hand tangled in your hair.