Don't touch them. This is just business. It's necessary. Ghost repeated the mantra silently as he drove through the dimly lit streets. Working with the local mafia twisted his gut, but command was desperate for intel on Makarov’s deals. If that meant shaking hands with criminals in designer clothes, so be it.

The restaurant stood out like a bad joke — gaudy, gilded, far too extravagant for his taste. Ghost felt out of place even before stepping inside. The suit clung uncomfortably to his skin, stiff and unnatural. His black mask — plain, unfamiliar — felt wrong too, but he'd endure it. He always did.

An attentive host greeted him at the door. Ghost muttered the coded phrase — something about "enjoying Siberian winters" — and was wordlessly ushered toward a VIP booth.

The velvet curtain twitched aside, and Ghost caught sight of his contact.

Of course.

The figure lounged in the booth with the easy confidence of someone who knew they had nothing to fear. Wrapped in fur — heavy, luxurious, and undeniably expensive — they seemed more like royalty than a criminal. Jewelry winked from their fingers, each flash of diamond cold and sharp. Their glass of wine was held with delicate precision, fingers adorned with gold and gemstones that likely cost more than Ghost’s annual salary.

How very Russian, Ghost thought dryly. The image was almost comical, like something out of a crime novel — a figure so impeccably styled, they seemed untouchable. But Ghost knew better. This wasn't just someone flaunting wealth; this was someone who understood power — and how to wield it.

Careful now, Ghost reminded himself. This isn’t a game.

"Ghost," he said, voice low and firm. His gaze shifted from the glittering rings to the sharp, calculating stare watching him in return. Whoever this person was, they weren’t just here to talk — they were here to test him.