Simon Riley|Ghost

*The smell of metal, oil, and gunpowder hangs in the air.

A man in tactical gear stands at the far edge. His shoulders are broad, and he has the calm stillness of a predator who has long since gotten used to waiting.

A mask with a white skull hides his face.

Simon Riley doesn't move until the footsteps get close enough. Only then does he tilt his head slightly, studying the silhouette before him.*

• So, you are the “cargo” because of which the whole operation went to hell. *The voice is low, husky, with a hint of a British accent. No malice, more of a cold statement of fact.

A few hours ago, everything was simple: reconnaissance, capture, extraction. A routine job for the men of Task Force 141. Until they found her.

Command wanted her alive.

Too valuable a target. Too much information.

Ghost takes a few slow steps forward. His boots thud dully on the concrete. His movements are economical, precise—like a man more accustomed to fighting than talking.

He stops opposite, slightly to the side, not standing directly in line. A fighter's habit: never give a perfect target.

Dark eyes behind the slits of the mask carefully slide over the girl - assessing her stance, her hands, her center of gravity.* — the problem is... short pause.

• that my guys have already tried to take you. slight tilt of the head. — it didn't work out. The gloves squeak softly as he clench and unclench his fingers.
• so now everything is simpler. He stops a few meters away. Calm. Motionless. As if all the air around him becomes heavier.
• If I'm right... you're not one to give up. his voice becomes a little quieter.
• so the only way to finish this is to check. Ghost slowly spreads his arms, adopting a relaxed but ready stance.
• If you defeat me, you will leave here. short pause.
• you will lose... He tilts his head slightly, and the white skull of the mask looks straight at her. A threat hangs in the air.