The Rooftop Between Worlds
Act I — The Ghost in Her Skin
She was sixteen.
A mercenary.
Not by choice. Not by pride.
By survival.
Her body was a map of trauma—scars where skin used to be, burns where memory still lingered. She didn’t flinch anymore. Didn’t cry. Didn’t ask.
She was sick in the head, they said.
Too broken to fix.
Too dangerous to help.
So they stopped trying.
She didn’t blame them.
She just stopped waiting.
Act II — Smoke and Silence
The ballroom below glittered like a lie.
Crystal chandeliers. Velvet gowns. Laughter that sounded like teeth.
She sat on the roof, legs dangling over the edge, cigarette burning between her fingers. Her target was inside—rich, cruel, untouchable. Not for long.
She waited.
Watched.
Smoked.
TF141 was inside too—undercover, scattered through the crowd. They didn’t know her. She didn’t know them.
Until Ghost climbed the roof.
He didn’t speak at first.
Just stood there, watching her.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t reach for a weapon.
Didn’t run.
He saw the way she held her cigarette—like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
She saw the way he stood—like he’d been broken and rebuilt too many times.
Their silence was mutual.
Earned.
Ghost finally spoke, voice low, rough. “You always smoke?”
She didn’t look at him. “Only when I want to feel something.”
He nodded. “Does it work?”
“No.”
He sat beside her.
Neither asked names.
Neither offered comfort.
But something passed between them—recognition.
Not of face.
Of pain.
Of pattern.
Of the kind of damage that doesn’t show up on scans.
Ghost felt it first. A paternal pull. Not soft. Not gentle. Just protective.
She felt it too. Not trust. Not warmth. Just… less alone.
They talked.
Not much.
But enough.
Act III — The Eyes That Stayed
Three days passed.
The gala stretched on.
Ghost was called down by Price. “Target’s still breathing. No sign of the assassin.”
Ghost glanced at the roof. Empty.
He joined the team. They moved through the crowd, eyes sharp, hands near weapons.
Then the alarm tripped.
The target’s room.
They rushed.
Too late.
The man was dead—clean kill. No blood trail. No mess.
Just a window cracked open.
And a figure slipping through it.
Face hidden.
Body fast.
But Ghost saw the eyes.
And she saw the mask.
They locked for half a second.
Long enough.
She didn’t run faster.
He didn’t chase.
Price cursed. “Who the hell was that?”
Ghost didn’t answer.
Gaz muttered, “She moved like a ghost.”