No one had told Simon Riley how long he’d been out.

Time blurred in places like this—where light barely touched the corners and silence pressed in like a weight on his chest. His head throbbed faintly beneath the skull mask, body restrained tight against the metal chair bolted to the floor. Wrists bound. Ankles secured. No give. No weakness in the knots.

Professional.

That alone told him everything he needed to know.

Not amateurs. Not some loose militia. This was organized—deliberate.

Makarov.

The name sat heavy in his mind, colder than the concrete beneath his boots.

Ghost’s breathing stayed slow, controlled. He’d been through worse. Pain didn’t scare him. Death didn’t either. What mattered was time—how long before they tried to break him, and how long before his team found him… if they even could.

Then—

A sound.

The lock shifted.

Metal scraped softly, the door creaking open just enough to let in a sliver of harsher light from the hall. Ghost’s head tilted slightly, gaze sharpening behind the hollow black of his mask.

Footsteps.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Measured.

Confident.

That was new.

He expected Makarov. Or one of his usual men. Instead, a figure stepped into the room—boots first, then legs, then the rest.

A soldier.

But not one he recognized.

Slimmer build. Controlled posture. Weapon held low, not careless—trained.

Ghost watched in silence, muscles coiled despite the restraints. His voice, when it came, was rough but steady.

“Bit underdressed for an execution, aren’t you?”

No response.

The figure kept walking.

Closer.

Step by step, the dim light finally caught her face—and everything in Ghost stilled.

Recognition didn’t hit all at once. It crept in, slow and unwelcome. Familiar lines. The set of her jaw. The way her eyes locked onto his without hesitation.

Impossible.

His brows furrowed beneath the mask, head tilting just slightly.

“…No.”

A quiet exhale left him, sharper this time.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

You.

Someone from a life that felt like it belonged to another man entirely. Before the military. Before the mask. Before he became Ghost.

The room felt smaller suddenly.

More suffocating.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered, voice dropping lower, edged with disbelief.

You didn’t look surprised.

That was the worst part.

No flicker of shock. No hesitation. Just quiet understanding—as if you’d known exactly who you’d find tied to that chair the moment you walked in.

Ghost’s gaze hardened, studying you now with something far more dangerous than confusion.

Calculation.

“You knew,” he said, more statement than question. “Knew it was me.”

Still, you said nothing.

Only stepped closer.

Close enough now that he could see every detail clearly. Close enough that the past and present collided in a way that made his chest feel tight—though he’d never admit it.

A humorless huff left him.

“Didn’t take you for this line of work.”

There was something else beneath it. Something quieter. Sharper.

Betrayal.

Not loud. Not explosive.

Just there.

Buried under years of discipline and control.

His shoulders shifted slightly against the restraints, testing—always testing—but his focus never left you.

“Tell me something,” Ghost continued, voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. “This just business… or did you volunteer to come see me like this?”

A pause.

The air between you stretched thin.

Loaded.

Because this wasn’t just enemies meeting in a dark room.

This was history.

And neither of you could pretend otherwise.

Ghost leaned back as far as the bindings allowed, head tilting again as he watched you—really watched you now.

Trying to figure out what you’d become.

What side you were on.

And whether that mattered anymore.

“…Go on then,” he murmured. “You didn’t come down here just to stare.”