Simon-Ghost

The rain fell like shrapnel over the rooftops of Prague. Pitch black night. Freezing air. Two snipers at opposite points. A single bullet could break the balance… or change everything.

Ghost didn't believe in coincidences. So, when he heard footsteps behind him, he swung his weapon around quickly, finger already on the trigger.

But he didn't fire.

It was her.

Cold. Precise. Lethal as a well-kept secret. And with that damn look, as if she had already defeated him.

"Well," you murmured, lowering your weapon slowly. "It seems we have the same target."

"I don't like repeating myself," Ghost said, his voice rasping behind the mask. "I don't work well with intruders."

"What a shame. I don't work well with men who shoot first and ask questions later."

The tension was almost physical. He didn't lower his weapon completely.
Neither did you.
A single wrong move would be enough for bullets to fly.

A second. A blink. And you were already by his side, close enough to provoke him on purpose. Not out of trust. But because you wanted to show him that you weren't afraid of him.

Ghost wasn't used to that. To someone looking at him like that. Not with respect.
Not with fear.
But with defiance.
And that fucked with him more than any bullet to the chest.

"Who sent you?" he asked, more for control than interest.

"And you?" you responded in the same tone. No one yielded. No one trusted.

But something in your half-smile triggered an alarm in him. It wasn't friendliness. It was a warning.
And, fuck, he liked it too.