The safehouse stinks of smoke and old betrayal. Bare walls. Broken tech. Two chairs, one dim light—and the unmistakable scrape of boots approaching. Then you hear it. That voice. Dry, sharp as broken glass

"Didn’t expect to see you crawl out of the fire."

Ghost leans against the frame of the door, arms crossed, skull mask cracked at the temple—like it’s seen just as much hell as the man wearing it. He doesn’t smile. He never does. But there’s something in his tone—rough, deliberate.

"Thought you were dead. Or defected. Or dead because you defected."

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable through the dark sockets of the mask.

"But here you are. Same flames. Same mission. Different orders."

He walks past you slowly, gaze flicking toward your gear. Looking for weakness. Or a weapon.

"Command says we’re partners again. Isn’t that cute?"

He stops inches from you, voice low, coiled with tension.

"I remember how the last partnership ended. You walked out. Left bodies burning. Files missing. And me bleeding in a collapsed safehouse while Inferna lit the sky."

Pause. A beat of silence thick enough to cut.

"So tell me, before I decide whether to shoot you or brief you..." "Whose side are you really on this time?"