- this is an imagine and solely made because I’ve had the worst brainrot yet. I kind of just let my mind write its magic…? Anyways I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it! -
TRIGGERS: everything mission impossible-y. Gore? Enemies to lovers… kinda? And everything you can expect from a mission impossible movie. Please do not copy or translate my work. Thank you.
Fate is what people blame when they get sloppy.
So when I found myself crouched on the rooftop of a government safehouse in Prague—target in sight, countdown in my earpiece—I didn’t chalk it up to destiny that I wasn’t alone.
I heard him before I saw him.
Boots, deliberately quiet, but not enough for me. I’ve lived in shadows longer than I’ve lived in the light. There’s a rhythm to silence. His was off.
I spun, gun raised. He was already aiming his.
“Y/L/N,” he said, like it was both a curse and a challenge.
“Hunt,” I replied, safety off. “What brings the golden boy of the IMF to my little operation?”
He didn’t smile. He never did. “You’re about to make a very big mistake.”
I tilted my head. “Define mistake. Because the way I see it, I’m five minutes from neutralizing a bioterrorist. And you’re standing in my way.”
From the other rooftop, someone was watching us. I knew it. I could feel it in my teeth.
From a building across the narrow Prague alleyway, a pair of binoculars focused in on the scene. A figure in black tactical gear muttered something into a radio. Two elite operatives, pointing weapons at each other on a rooftop, seconds from detonating not just a bomb—but something more volatile: the truth.
I circled him slowly. Ethan Hunt didn’t flinch.
“You IMF types always assume you’re the only ones trying to save the world,” I said. “Newsflash, Hunt: your target is my client.”
“Your client is a war criminal,” he replied. “And the payload he’s carrying is capable of killing thirty thousand people. You still cashing that paycheck?”
“Not everyone has the luxury of playing the hero.”
He stepped closer. Too close. We were nose to nose now, guns pressed to each other’s chests.
“Y/N,” he said again—softer, more dangerous. “This isn’t the way.”
“I’m not you, Ethan,” I whispered. “I don’t get to walk into rooms with a badge and a backup team. I get one shot. And this is it.”
The moment broke when the explosion lit the sky.
We both ducked instinctively, the shockwave blasting glass and debris upward from the street below.
“Damn it,” he muttered, grabbing his comm. “Benji, status?”
I ran. Not away—from him. And he followed.
Two shadows leapt from the rooftop, rolling through smoke and shrapnel. Down in the street, chaos bloomed. Sirens. Screams. Fire.
Y/N Y/L/N and Ethan Hunt—rivals, enemies, unwilling allies—vanished into the Prague night, both chasing the same man for different reasons.
Neither realizing the real enemy was already behind them.
There are only two kinds of people who run toward explosions: lunatics and professionals.
I’ve never decided which one I am.
Ethan Hunt was right behind me—silent, fast, annoyingly efficient. We hit the street at the same time, weaving through flames, twisted metal, and panicked civilians. The blast had come from inside the convoy. Someone beat me to the hit. Someone who wanted everything erased.
I ducked behind a smoldering wreck and scanned the burning horizon. Hunt dropped beside me a second later, blood trickling down his temple.
“Still think I’m the problem?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on the wreckage, calculating, processing. I could see it—the little gears in his mind spinning too fast to be human.
“Your guy,” he said. “Kostov. He’s not dead.”
“You sure?” I asked, scanning with him.
“He wouldn’t risk that much firepower if he planned to be in the blast zone. This was staged.”
I cursed under my breath. He was right.
From a nearby surveillance drone circling over Prague, two heat signatures emerged from the smoke—Hunt and Y/L/N, side by side. Their target was gone, but the trail was fresh.
y/n stood, heart still racing. Ethan rose beside her.
“Then where the hell is he?” she said aloud.
Ethan tapped his earpiece. “Benji? Luther?”
I folded my arms. “No signal?”
“No team,” he muttered. “Not yet.”
“Looks like you’re stuck with me.”
He gave me that look again—the one that said he’d rather be anywhere else. I returned the favor.
We followed the trail through a network of side alleys and abandoned underground tram tunnels. Prague was a maze, and this particular rabbit hole led us beneath the city—into a part tourists never see and governments pretend doesn’t exist.
“I know where Kostov’s fallback point would be,” I said, moving fast.
“That’s not the same as reliable.”
The tension between us wasn’t just professional. I’d crossed him before. Four years ago. Vienna. Stolen list of undercover agents. He’d nearly died chasing me through a moving opera set. I’d left him bleeding with a dislocated shoulder and a broken mission.
We weren’t friends. We weren’t allies.
But tonight, we needed each other.
The tunnel opened into a forgotten maintenance chamber beneath the old city. Y/n took point, sweeping with a silenced Glock. Ethan moved in sync, quieter than a ghost. Somewhere deeper in the labyrinth, a door creaked. The air shifted. And the temperature dropped.
A laptop, still humming. Surveillance feeds. Blueprints. Flight logs. A burner phone.
Y/n reached it first. “Not Kostov.”
“No,” Ethan agreed. “But this guy worked for him.”
The body had a clean hole through the head. Execution-style.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “He’s burning his crew. Tying off loose ends.”
“I told you,” I said. “This wasn’t about money. He’s erasing something.”
Ethan picked up the phone and scanned it with a device on his wrist. “Flight charter logs. He’s heading for Lisbon. Tonight.”
I smirked. “Guess you’re getting on a plane.”
He turned to me. “We are.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Since when did this become a partnership?”
“It didn’t,” he said. “You’re a liability. But you’re also the only person Kostov might recognize before he runs again.”
“You just love holding a gun to my back, don’t you?”
His expression didn’t change. “Just don’t make me pull the trigger.”
We left the dead man behind, stepping into the night air, two enemies bound by a shared objective and no trust between them.
And if I was right… this wasn’t about bioweapons anymore.
This was something worse.
Lisbon after midnight is a lie in motion. The cobblestone alleys are too quiet, the moonlight too clean. A city built on secrets, polished just enough to make you forget they exist.
Perfect place for a monster like Kostov to hide.
Ethan and I touched down separately—naturally. I used forged MI6 clearance to reroute a private charter and slipped through the airport in a silk scarf and sunglasses. He probably skydived in through a thunderstorm or something equally dramatic.
Still, when I turned the corner at Rua Augusta, there he was. Leaning against a streetlamp, hands in his coat, scanning the square like he’d memorized every face.
I shrugged. “Fashionably.”
They walked together without walking together—two ghosts in Lisbon’s heartbeat, passing lovers and pickpockets, heading toward the rendezvous point with cold purpose. Neither trusted the other, and neither slowed their pace.
I wasn’t entirely sure why I was here. I told myself it was the mission—Kostov, the payload, the body in Prague. But it wasn’t that. Not entirely.
Part of me wanted to see how far Hunt would go.
And maybe… if he’d go far enough to stop me if he had to.
The safehouse was buried beneath an old bookstore—one of those places where the air smelled like forgotten pages and bad intentions. A code phrase, a nod, a hidden passage behind a shelf of Dante translations. Classic.
Inside, we found a man named Fialho, IMF asset. Middle-aged, twitchy, Portuguese accent thick as fog.
“You have five hours,” he said, unlocking the hard case on the table. “Then I burn this location.”
Inside the case were blueprints of a tech expo happening at dawn, a facial recognition loop, and a folder stamped CLASSIFIED – LETHAL AI.
I looked at Ethan. “He’s not just buying weapons.”
“No,” he said. “He’s buying a mind.”
Turns out, Kostov had brokered a deal with a Chinese syndicate to acquire a black-market AI prototype—one capable of intercepting and rewriting drone command codes in real time. Not just a cyber weapon. A thinking one.
Ethan gestured to the expo map. “Here. VIP vault. One hour before doors open.”
“And he’s walking in with a fake UN delegation?”
“Ballsy,” I said. “I almost admire it.”
He didn’t smile. “He’s planning something bigger than Lisbon.”
I leaned over the map, calculating. “So we intercept before he gets it. Clean. Quick.”
“You take the south exit,” he said. “I’ll move in from the west.”
And just like that—he was giving orders again. I bristled.
“No,” I said. “We go in together. If Kostov sees you, he’ll run.”
“He knows your face too.”
“Yeah, but he still thinks I might be on his side.”
He hesitated. Just a flicker. But I caught it.
“You planning to use me as bait, Hunt?”
Ethan looked at her—really looked this time. Eyes searching hers for any trace of the woman who once sold secrets to survive. The one who slipped through his fingers in Vienna. The one who might still be playing him.
“No,” he said finally. “But I won’t stop you if you make the choice yourself.”
The silence between them stretched, heavy with unsaid things.
Then y/n turned away. “See you at the vault.”
⸻Hours Later Inside the Expo⸻
Disguised in a sharp black suit and heels, I moved through the security gauntlet like smoke. The ID badge said I was Elena Mikhailova, cybersecurity attaché. The real Elena was unconscious in a trunk somewhere outside Lisbon.
I spotted Kostov near the rear of the vault area—tall, composed, ice-blue eyes scanning his buyers. He looked older. Meaner.
For a split second, his expression faltered. Surprise? Amusement? Maybe something darker.
“Y/n,” he said in Russian. “Like a bad penny.”
“You look good for a corpse,” I replied.
He gestured toward the private vault. “Walk with me.”
I did. Ethan would be watching from the security grid, waiting for a signal.
“You came to stop me?” Kostov asked.
“I came to see if you were still worth killing.”
He chuckled. “You still blame me for Vienna?”
“You were never meant to take the fall,” he said. “You chose that.”
He unlocked the vault. Inside, the prototype sat sealed in a titanium shell.
From the vents above, Ethan Hunt waited. Trigger finger tense. He had a clear shot at Kostov. But if he pulled it now, the explosion would wipe out everyone in the room—including y/n.
And she didn’t know it yet… but Kostov was holding a deadman switch.
“I could kill you right now,” I said.
“You could try,” Kostov replied. “But if you do…”
He raised the small black trigger device.
And just like that, the ghost of Vienna returned.
Kostov’s finger hovered over the deadman switch.
Small. Sleek. Black. Nothing to it, really—just a button wired to three kilograms of high-velocity explosive stitched beneath his suit jacket. Push it, and the entire vault goes up in white fire.
I didn’t blink. Couldn’t.
“You’re not a martyr,” I said. “You’re a coward with a failsafe.”
He smiled. “Maybe. But a coward with leverage always lives longer than a hero with none.”
He motioned me inside. I followed, heels echoing softly on the steel floor. The prototype sat in a vacuum-sealed case—compact, unassuming, and the deadliest piece of tech I’d ever seen. An AI shell, untrained, with no allegiance. No limits.
Above them, Ethan Hunt adjusted his line of sight through the vents, rifle steady. He could take the shot. But if y/n wasn’t clear of the blast radius, he wouldn’t risk it. He’d failed to save her once.
Flashback ⸻ Vienna: Four years ago
I was cold. Soaked in adrenaline and rain, tucked inside a cathedral’s backstage rigging, a USB drive clenched in my fist and blood in my mouth.
Ethan Hunt—leaner then, angrier—came through the trapdoor like a knife, gun raised, eyes locked.
I laughed. “You don’t even know what’s on it.”
“I don’t have to. You’re selling it.”
“Selling it?” I took a step toward him. “You think I want this?”
“You always want something.”
I should’ve shot him then. Should’ve ended it. But I didn’t. Instead, I ran. Shoved him hard, rolled off the catwalk, and hit the street three stories down. Landed hard. Left him bleeding behind me.
Kostov was waiting in the car. Smiling like a man who’d already won.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
I said yes. And believed—for about five minutes—that I’d done the right thing.
I didn’t know then that Kostov would sell the list anyway. That five agents would die before sunrise.
One of them was Ethan’s friend.
“I’m not here to negotiate,” I told Kostov. “You hand over the prototype, and you live.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what Hunt told you to say?”
“I don’t take orders from him.”
“Still running from who you really are?” he said.
I tightened my grip on the pistol beneath my jacket. “No. I know who I am now.”
“And who is that?” he asked.
I smiled coldly. “The woman who finally shoots you.”
His eyes flicked. Not to me—behind me.
And just like that, I knew: I was compromised.
Two armed guards stepped from the shadows at the same time Ethan dropped from the ceiling in a silent arc of motion. The room exploded in gunfire and smoke.
Y/n hit the floor, rolled behind the case, and fired twice—clean shots. One guard down. The second lunged at her, knife out.
Ethan moved like instinct. A knee to the attacker’s chest, a snap of the wrist. Down.
I chased him down the hallway, footsteps pounding like war drums. Behind me, alarms screamed.
“You’ll never get out of here!” I shouted.
“Neither will you!” he called back.
Then he turned the corner—and vanished.
When I caught up, all I found was the detonator. Sitting on the ground, blinking red. Not pressed. Armed.
“Ethan,” I said, into the comm. “We’ve got a problem.”
“We need to disarm it,” he said.
I hesitated. A flicker of that night in Vienna.
But I nodded. Handed him the switch.
He crouched, tools out, eyes locked on the blinking light. “We’ve got thirty seconds.”
I covered him, heart in my throat. “If this goes wrong—”
“Cut the green wire,” I said.
“There is no green wire,” he snapped.
Then we both laughed. For half a second. Almost like old friends.
Later — Rooftop Safehouse, Lisbon
The city stretched beneath us, quiet again.
He handed me a glass of something strong. I didn’t ask what it was.
“Today,” he replied. “But I haven’t forgotten Vienna.”
I looked at him. “I don’t expect you to.”
“But I’m not her anymore,” I added. “The woman who ran.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Then:
Let me know what you all think of this and whether you guys want a part two maybe?? Explore his relationship with you more??
I’ve never written mission impossible before so I apologise if it isn’t the greatest. But I truly enjoyed writing it! If any of you would like another chapter like/ repost and or comment!! Thank youuuu(:
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