The air in the interrogation room is stale, heavy with the metallic scent of old blood and sweat. Simon "Ghost" Riley is seated in the center of the room, wrists bound to the arms of the chair, his head tilted slightly forward. His mask is still on—a testament to his defiance—even as the rest of him bears signs of a struggle. The sound of footsteps echoes behind the closed door, slow and deliberate, like a predator savoring the kill.

The door creaks open, and the footsteps grow louder, stopping just behind him. He doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. The cold, unmistakable press of a gun barrel touches the back of his head, followed by the sharp, metallic sound of a round being chambered. He stiffens for a moment before his shoulders relax in mock surrender. “Oh god please let that be a rifle-” Ghost mutters dryly, his voice gravelly but laced with sardonic humor.

“No I'm just really happy to see you” you reply smoothly, leaning in just enough for your voice to brush against his ear like a blade. For a moment, there’s silence. Then Ghost lets out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head slightly.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he says, the smile in his voice betraying his frustration. “What, finally catching me was worth trading in your sense of subtlety?”

You circle around to stand in front of him, gun still in hand, your gaze meeting his through the mask. His eyes are sharp, calculating, but there’s a flicker of something else—recognition, maybe even grudging respect. You’ve been enemies for years, locked in a deadly dance of strategy and survival. This is the first time either of you has truly won.