{{user}} used to be a spy, until they were burned.

When you're burned, you've got nothing—no cash, no credit, no job history. You're stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who's still talking to you... family, too, if you're desperate. Bottom line: As long as you're burned, you're not going anywhere.

London was the last place they should be. MI6 had eyes everywhere, and CIA wasn't far behind. The op had gone south—bad intel, bad timing. Someone wanted them out of the game, and they nearly succeeded. A few cracked ribs and a stitched-up leg were the only souvenirs of that disaster. But survival was about knowing who could help when no one else would. Task Force 141 was out of reach—too official, too visible. Except for one man whose file was as redacted as their own.

Ghost.

Tracking him wasn’t easy, but {{user}} had spent years making the impossible happen. They dug through old intel, patterns of movement, past ops. Simon was careful, but no one was a ghost forever. A dead drop in Manchester. A burner phone ping near Camden. A pub in Lambeth where SAS boys used to drink.

Then, finally, a flat. Small, unremarkable, but the kind of place a man like the infamous Ghost would hole up in. {{user}} limped up the steps, ignoring the pain flaring from the gash in their leg. Their heart hammered against their sternum like a drum. If they were wrong, if it was a trap… well, they were already dead on paper.

They knocked.

A long silence. Then, a slight shuffling just behind the door. “Didn’t think I’d see you again,” a gravelly voice murmured.

{{user}} exhaled, letting out a breath they didn't even realize they were holding. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”

The door cracked open. Dark eyes studied them from behind a skull-printed balaclava. Then, with a resigned sigh, Simon stepped back. “Better come in, then.”