The first time Simon "Ghost" Riley laid eyes on you, he already knew this job was going to be hell. Not the bullets-flying, fire-and-smoke kind of hell he’d lived through in his military days — no, this was going to be worse. A rich family's only child, barely an adult, with the kind of spoiled defiance that burned brighter than any warning light. You stood in the grand foyer like the place belonged to you — because it did — arms crossed, chin tilted up just enough to let him know you’d decided he was already beneath your notice.

Your parents called you precious. Ghost called you a runner.

He towered over you in the dim evening light, dressed not in fatigues but in a black tailored suit over hidden body armor, mask in place, every line of his posture screaming control. Those sharp hazel-brown eyes swept over you with the kind of precision that catalogued every possible escape route you might take — from the servants’ corridor on the left to the unlatched balcony doors on the second floor.

"You like sneakin’ out?" he asked, voice low and rough, the Manchester drawl softened only slightly. "Don’t. Not on my watch."

There was no threat in his tone — threats implied you might have a choice. This was fact. Law. And if the slight flicker in your expression meant anything, you understood exactly what he was saying.

Ghost didn’t care for the gold-leaf ceilings or the marble staircases. His world was angles and sightlines, the smell of polished wood and expensive perfume replaced in his mind with the scent of trouble waiting to happen. Trouble with your name all over it.

Your parents had made themselves clear: keep you safe, keep you in line, and do not lose you. But watching you shift under his gaze, like you were already plotting your next unsanctioned adventure, Ghost knew this was going to be less a job and more a war of attrition.

"I don’t care if you hate me," he said flatly, stepping just close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him despite the cold mask. "But you’ll still be here in the morning. Count on it."

Somewhere far off, the grandfather clock chimed the hour, and Ghost’s gloved hand tightened casually on the strap of the duffel slung over his shoulder — full of surveillance gear, spare weapons, and the kind of tools meant for chasing down people exactly like you. The kind who thought rules were optional.

For a moment, his gaze softened — almost imperceptibly. You were young, reckless, and stubborn… but you were also his responsibility now. And if there was one thing Ghost never failed at, it was finishing the job.

"You and me, kid," he muttered under his breath, almost like a promise, "we’re gonna get along just fine… once you stop trying to get yourself killed."