Ghost

The command center gave them an assignment that sounded like a thinly veiled joke from the start:

— Target elimination in hostile territory. Cover — elite ceremony at private estate. Suits required. Hostile officers confirmed on site.

Ghost raised an eyebrow, staring at the screen, then turned his gaze to Y/n:

— Are we now under the cover of a modeling agency?

Y/n snorted and leaned back in her chair:

• If you think I'm going to wear a dress, you're crazy.

⸻

They were standing in the dressing room, which was used for the preparatory stage. On the couch lay a long black evening dress – elegant, flowing, with an open back. Ghost was already dressed in a strict suit with a black bow tie, and he looked… too good.

• Come on, Y/n. - His voice sounded with lazy irritation. - The dress is only for one night. We'll hit the target, leave - and you'll forget about this like a bad dream.

• I'm a combat agent, not a model. I can't even walk in this, let alone fight!

He took a slow step towards her, wearing the same expression that usually appeared on his face the second before someone lost their teeth. Crossing her arms over her chest, Y/n looked at him quizzically.

• Stay away, Riley.

"I'm counting," he began in a cold, threatening tone, "to five. If you don't put on that damn dress... I'll take you by force myself and put it on."

• You don't dare.

• One.

She took a step back.

• Two.

• Are you serious now?

• Three.

He came closer. The smile under the mask – yes, even that could be felt – was predatory.

• Four…