The operations room still smelled like burnt wiring and regret.

Nyra leaned against the edge of the console, arms crossed, honey eyes glued to the blank screen where her brother's file had vanished. Every second it stayed dark felt like a deliberate insult. Ghost loomed near the door, a wall of black tactical gear, skull-pattern mask, and the kind of silence that could fracture a man's spine. His grey eyes, sharp as a sniper's scope, tracked her with unnerving precision.

The rest of BLACK VEIL lingered in the hallway like condemned men waiting for a firing squad, their shoulders tense, their breaths measured, ready to abandon reason before Ghost even ordered it.

Mateo broke the silence first, medical kit in hand. "She needs rest. You all need therapy."

"Later," Nyra said, voice firmer than she felt. Her hands flexed at her sides. "Right now, I need access. Routes. Contractor intel. Everything Hollow Sun touches. Every last scrap of it."

Ghost didn't flinch. His expressionless mask betrayed nothing, but his eyes — cold grey, almost metallic — measured her like a problem worth calculating.

"No."

Nyra laughed, short and sharp, the sound bouncing off concrete walls like gunfire. "There's that word again. Your favorite."

Kane rubbed his temples, eyes tight. "Quinn, you just hacked our system. You're lucky you're still breathing."

"I'm lucky?" Nyra stepped closer, deliberately closing the distance, close enough to catch the faint scratches along the edge of his mask. Ghost's mask. Ghost. "My brother was listed as cargo on one of your jobs. You owe me."

Ghost remained still. Inhumanly still. Yet something behind the mask shifted — calculation, maybe curiosity, or the first hint of a crack in his carefully built armor.

"Business arrangement," he said finally, voice low and rough, carrying a weight that made the word feel like steel pressing against bone.

Nyra tilted her head. "Excuse me?"

"You repair our equipment. We give controlled access to contractor routes. Nothing more."

Controlled. Of course. Ghost couldn't even surrender a coffee order without a contract.

"Fine," she said, lips twitching into a smirk. "But I want everything on Hollow Sun. And I fix your toys my way. No hovering. No lectures. No hovering."

Lucas whistled softly from the hallway. "She's negotiating with the devil and asking for receipts."

Ghost ignored him. His gaze stayed on Nyra, not the SUV, not the weapons, not even the blood-stained tactical gloves. Her.

"Deal," he said.

The word landed between them like a loaded magazine in the center of the room — heavy, dangerous, deliberate.

By sunrise they were back at her garage. Nyra rolled under an armored SUV—different one, newer scars along the chassis, a fresh batch of problems—and Ghost stood sentinel like a gargoyle in tactical boots, shadowed, immovable. Kane paced in long, sharp strides, while Reed lounged against a workbench, looking casually bored, despite the stitches still fresh on his forearm.

Nyra slid out from under the vehicle, dark curls spilling from her bandana, grease streaked across her cheek. "Your suspension is dramatic. Again."

Ghost's eyes caught the smear, lingered for a second too long.

"Fix it," he said.

She smirked, spinning a wrench between nimble fingers. "Say please."

The garage went silent.

Kane held his breath.

Ghost stepped closer, careful, deliberate. Not touching. Never touching. But close enough that Nyra felt the heat rolling off him in waves.

"Please," he said. The word foreign in his mouth, foreign in context, dangerous in delivery.

Nyra's pulse stuttered. She hid it behind a casual twist of the wrench. "See? Was that so hard?"

She worked through the morning. BLACK VEIL's equipment spread across her bays like an occupying force — armored cases, drone parts, a half-disassembled quadcopter that someone had convinced themselves was inconspicuous. Every time she glanced up, Ghost was watching. Not the equipment. Her.

By afternoon she had access to an encrypted tablet: partial routes, redacted names, satellite coordinates, enough to chase shadows through the city's underground.

Ghost watched her scroll. His gloved hands flexed at his sides, tense. "This stays between us."

Nyra didn't look up. "You mean between me and the man who let me steal his tracker?"

Silence.

Finally, she met his eyes. "Business arrangement, right?"

His fingers flexed once at his side. "Correct."

But the way he said it felt like a lie they both chose to live with.

The rain outside picked up, pattering against the corrugated metal roof. Steam rose from the hood of the SUV, curling in the air like a signal only Nyra and Ghost could read. She rolled onto her back briefly, catching the scent of oil and him, the faint tang of blood and adrenaline lingering from the night before.

Ghost knelt, just a breath away. "Stay alive," he said, voice a rough caress.

"I fix just problems," she said.

Her hands lingered over the tablet for a moment. She wondered what it would take for him to see her as more than a mechanic.

He didn't look away.

Not once.

And for a few heartbeats, Nyra imagined what would happen if she dropped the tablet, leaned over, and kissed him through that mask.

But she didn't.

Not yet.

Because right now, Ghost was Ghost.

And she...