The bar hums low around you—warm lights, the smell of tequila, and that magnetic, heavy presence of the man across from you. Simon “Ghost” Riley lounges back in the booth, all black fabric and shadowed menace. You’re on your third round, and the world’s started to blur—but not him. He’s crystal clear. Too clear.

He reaches for the salt, his gloved fingers brushing yours on purpose—or maybe by accident. You’re not sure. Then comes the lime wedge. He lifts the bottom of his balaclava, just enough to bare his mouth.

You freeze.

Scarred. Chiseled. Dangerous. His lips curl into something between a smirk and a warning as he sinks his teeth into the lime, slow and deliberate, eyes locked with yours. Then the tequila follows—shot back like he’s done it a thousand times.

“What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Didn’t think I had a mouth?”

“Didn’t think I’d want to see more of it,” you shoot back, throat dry, eyes not leaving the sharp line of his jaw. “Now I do.”

He leans in across the table, so close you can smell the citrus and smoke on his breath.

“You wanna see the rest?” he murmurs. “Then earn it.”

Your pulse skips. “How?”

He slides a coin from under his glove. “Simple. Bet. You win, I lose the mask. I win… you do whatever I say.”

“Anything?”

“Everything.”

The air between you crackles. The mask is only half the game now. The other half? Whose rules you’ll be playing by once it’s off.