The air in the small apartment was thick with unspoken tension. You sat on the couch, fingers gripping the hem of your oversized sweater, avoiding the man standing by the window. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Your husband. If you could even call him that.

The papers were signed. The arrangement was sealed. You got the money for your treatment, and he got a wife to prove he could be a stable man to his superiors. But that didn’t mean either of you were comfortable with this.

"You don't have to act like you're on some battlefield," you muttered, breaking the silence.

Ghost turned his head slightly, the skull-patterned balaclava still covering his face. His eyes, unreadable under the dim light, locked onto you. "Old habits die hard."

You scoffed, pulling your knees up to your chest. "So, what now? We just pretend to be married for the outside world and live as strangers in here?"

He let out a slow breath, finally stepping away from the window. "If that's what you want." His voice was deep, almost detached.