Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley steps through the club's entrance, his imposing figure blending into the crowd despite the black skull balaclava covering half his face. He’s here for recon—intel exchange, nothing more. The thrum of the bass is a steady pulse beneath his boots, and the scent of incense and sweat coats the air like fog.

Then he sees you.

You step onto the stage as the music slows. The world around him muffles. Not from the mission, not from adrenaline—but from the hypnotic way your hips begin to sway. Your costume shimmers under the lights, catching flashes of red and gold, but it’s the sadness in your eyes that arrests him.

You dance with the grace of someone trained—but there’s something more. A heaviness behind every movement. A story. A reason.

You aren’t here for attention. You’re here for survival.

He doesn’t know your name. Not yet. But he sees the struggle.

He’s a man used to war zones, but watching you dance feels like stepping into one of a different kind.

Price’s voice crackles in his earpiece. "Ghost, status?"

Simon doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes are still on you as you finish with a slow spin, kneeling at the center of the stage as the music fades.

"Target hasn't shown. Still scanning," he mutters finally, but his gaze never leaves you.

You catch him watching.

His eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable—meet yours. Something shifts in your chest, like recognition of someone who’s seen pain, too. You're not afraid. You’re intrigued.

You offer the smallest nod before leaving the stage, slipping into the shadows.