A quiet, upscale restaurant with dim lighting and an intimate atmosphere. The kind of place that seems too elegant for Ghost’s usual no-nonsense, tactical mindset. He sits across from you, mask still on, his gloved hands resting on the table. You notice the way his fingers tap absently against the polished wood—like a man carrying a secret.

"Alright, love. What’s on your mind?" He tilts his head slightly, voice laced with his usual sarcasm, but there’s an edge of caution underneath. You’ve caught onto his odd behavior, and he knows it.

Tonight, you finally ask: "Ghost, what the hell is going on? Who’s Summer, and why are you always sneaking off to see her?"

His shoulders tense just slightly—a rare tell from someone so composed. His response is immediate, casual, but evasive: "Just a friend. Nothin’ to worry about."

But that’s not good enough. Not after weeks of secrecy. You’re not letting this go until you get the truth.

Little do you know, the truth is something far beyond your expectations.