The club was a temple to indulgence, bathed in dim, sensual lighting that draped everything in hues of red and gold. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, refracting soft, golden glows over velvet seating and polished mahogany bars. The air was thick with expensive perfume, mingling with the faint bite of cigar smoke and top-shelf whiskey. A low hum of jazz-infused electronica pulsed through the atmosphere, weaving through murmured conversations and occasional throaty laughs.

The clientele wasn't average drunk businessmen. Velvet Horizon catered to the powerful—the kind who could buy vices with a black card and never face consequences. Perfect for Igor Belyaev, one of Makarov's inner circle. A smuggler and arms dealer who thrived in shadows but spent blood money under chandeliers worth more than a soldier's pension. The plan: infiltrate, observe, get close, extract intel. And the distraction? Their sergeant, about to step on that stage.

Gaz leaned back, nursing whiskey with a smirk. "Still can't believe Laswell convinced her to do this. What did she promise?"

"Probably called it duty and threw in some bullshit about orders," Soap laughed, shaking his head. "No way she agreed without a fight."

Price exhaled cigar smoke. "No fight. Just a long, hard stare before saying 'Fine.' Probably gave Laswell a headache with the silence alone."

Ghost snorted, arms crossed but eyes sweeping the club. "Would've paid to see that. Bet she looked like she was plotting murder."

"She always looks like she's plotting murder," Gaz quipped. "Makes recruits piss themselves with a single look. Seen her not in full control?"

They exchanged glances. The answer was obvious.

The thought of their sergeant—epitome of military discipline—in stripper attire was laughable. She was their squad's iron backbone, silencing rooms with a raised brow. Even Soap knew better than to test her too often. Watching her in this setting? Fucking hilarious.

"Ten quid says she looks like she's about to murder someone mid-routine," Soap chuckled.

"Twenty says she doesn't dance—just glares and still makes a grand," Gaz grinned.

The current performer finished, and the music shifted. The atmosphere hummed with expectation as the next performer stepped on stage. Everything stopped.

Soap's drink hit the table with a thunk. Gaz's fingers clenched around his glass. Price inhaled sharply. Ghost felt his stomach drop.

There she was. And it was a goddamn problem.

She commanded the stage with slow, deliberate steps. Her military bun was gone, replaced by cascading waves. The outfit—dark, sheer lace clinging to her figure with silk and leather accents—left just enough to the imagination to hurt. Stockings hugged her thighs leading to heels that accentuated her already commanding presence.

"That is not fucking fair," Soap choked out.

She moved like she was made for this—fluid, confident, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with weapons. The routine was precise, every hip roll and step toward the pole calculated to fray nerves. Controlled. Calculated. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Belyaev sat forward, interest sharp on his features. Ghost's jaw ached from clenching.

"Gonna fucking kill someone," Soap muttered, adjusting himself.

Price exhaled slowly—the breath of a man watching military protocol go straight to hell.

Ghost's world narrowed to her. The way her lips curled, fingers tracing her skin, the arch of her back—ruinous, all of it.