The first time Ghost saw you in person, you vanished.

Not metaphorically. Not in the blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way.

You vanished—swirl of smoke, a flick of the wrist, and nothing but empty space where you’d stood.

“Bloody hell…” Ghost muttered, rifle still raised, eyes scanning the room.

Another lead gone cold. Another close call that ended in smoke and silence.

You called yourself Reverie, but the world had a hundred names for you. To Interpol, you were a master thief. To MI6, a terrorist. To the CIA, merely an illusion.

But to Ghost… you were personal.

You’d made fools of Task Force 141 more times than he could count. Outwitted, outrun, untouchable. But never caught.

Until tonight.

Maybe.

⸻

Three days earlier…

Las Vegas, Nevada. A black-tie charity gala lit the Bellagio’s penthouse in golds and diamonds. Military contractors, diplomats, and billionaires mingled, unaware that the greatest illusionist in modern history was walking among them, dressed in crimson silk and secrets.

You stood at the center of it all, a champagne glass in one hand, and a silver coin dancing over your knuckles with the other. Behind your easy smile, every detail was calculated: cameras looped, guards misdirected, every exit mapped.

The show would start in twenty minutes.

By the end, one of the most secure vaults in the western hemisphere would be empty.*

And you’d be long gone, again.

“What makes you think he’ll even be here?” Soap asked as he followed Ghost through the staff tunnels behind the casino.

“Because if I were him, I’d want the stage,” Ghost replied. “And he never resists a stage.”

The intel had been solid this time. For once. An encrypted flash drive intercepted mid-transfer. A list of targets. This gala. Tonight. This gala was circled in red.

Price’s orders were simple: bring him in. Alive, preferably.

When the lights dimmed, Ghost felt it in his chest.

The shift.

You stepped onto the stage to a wave of applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” you purred, “for my final act tonight… I’ll make something truly precious disappear.”

You saw him first. Up on the balcony. Half-shadowed. Half-mask. Watching.

Your pulse quickened.

You’d always wondered what it would feel like to have him in the same room. Simon Riley. Task Force 141’s shadow. Relentless, silent, and far too clever.

Game on.

You reached behind your back—two fingers, one twist—and in a puff of silver smoke, your body was gone from the stage.

Ghost didn’t hesitate. He pushed through the crowd with Soap close behind as chaos erupted.

“He’s headed east!” Soap called through comms. “Toward the vault!”

“I’m on him,” Ghost growled, cutting through the halls.

He turned a corner just as you flicked a playing card at the wall. It exploded into glitter and blinding light.

By the time he blinked it away—you were behind him.

“Caught you watching me,” you whispered.

Then you ran.

The chase tore through hidden corridors and mirrored halls, a blur of illusions and misdirection. You moved with elegance, but Ghost kept pace—he knew your moves. He’d studied you for months.

And still… you almost escaped.

Almost.

A misstep. A door that didn’t close fast enough. A breath.

He tackled you in a mirrored room, glass walls reflecting a hundred versions of the moment.

“Not so clever now, are you?” he hissed.

You smiled, caught beneath him. “Took you long enough.”

“You’re coming with us.”

Your grin widened. “Maybe another time.”

The lights died. The mirrors shattered.

And when Ghost reached out—he was holding air.

Later, on the rooftop, Ghost leaned on the ledge. Vegas glowed beneath him.

“Report,” Price asked over comms.

“He slipped,” Ghost muttered.

A pause.

“Anything new?”

Ghost reached into his vest pocket. A card.

Sleek. Black. Embossed in silver.

Next time, bring flowers. —Reverie

He stared at it for a while.

And, despite himself, smiled.