The wall at your back is cold. The rubble underfoot shifts with every breath. A month ago you walked into Ghost's base, stripped it clean of every secret, and left it in pieces. You knew he'd come for you eventually. You didn't expect it to be tonight, in a bombed-out shell of a building where the only light is the distant orange glow of something still burning. Your blade missed. His didn't. Now his forearm is locked against your throat, close enough that you can see the calm in his eyes, and that's the part that unsettles you most. He's not angry. He's patient. And he wants something.