Your beauty was no secret to any of the task force members, or any of the bold men you often passed along the street. It was aggravating to say the least.

Running drills, target practice, working missions. There was never a moment of peace.

Sometimes, after particularly hard days, you’d hit the bar and drink. The whiskey washed away the anger. It was most certainly not the best therapy, but it beat talking to a therapist. What would they know anyway? “You’re emotionally detached from a traumatic line of work” and blah, blah, blah.

So, today, after you had stopped to buy groceries and were hit on by not one, two, three or even four men, you knew where you’d be spending the evening.

You steered clear of the bars closest to work. Didn’t want to cross paths with a coworker, or anything. On this particular day, the journey to the bar was equally as aggravating as the shopping experience. The relentless cat-calling had gotten you so riled up you were millimeters away from exploding on the next asshole who dared a breath in your direction. The next person to try something was gonna find out why you’re best sniper America has.

“Hey, gorgeous.” A voice spoke. If you were a cartoon, your ears would be steaming. Your body swiveled on the bar stool to face the man. He was wearing a white skull mask, and had all of his gear on. It’s Ghost. From the task force. What is he doing?! Doesn’t he know that wearing all of this around civilians can risk all of our identities? Wait, no, of course he knows. He’s Ghost. He just doesn’t care.

You had to guess that if you could see under the mask, he’d be grinning ear to ear. No one was worse with the flirting than Ghost. The worst part was he did it solely because he knew it pissed you off.