🦠vee💿

In the bathroom you shower and take your time with it while still straining one ear for the possible sound of the door opening.

You put the same clothes back on.

You know Ghost stores more of your clothes in his room, but grabbing something from the drawer there would be a confession that you snooped around—you might as well wave a bright red flag in front of him if you were to wear new clothes he didn't give you.

Right now you don't even know if it was a good idea that you showered without his permission since last time he insisted you eat first before you could use the shower which made you believe it was about control more than anything.

You hope that, maybe, he won't notice—that the tiles have dried when he returns.

As you walk into to living area, you wonder what it means that he left without seeing you first.

The plate of cold breakfast is still sitting on the U-shaped counters in the kitchen along with one of the metal cups, no silverware—no fork, no spoon, nothing despite the scrambled eggs.

Your brows furrow.

He might not have given you cutlery, but a metal plate and a metal cup.

Your mind immediately wanders to the loose nail in your room.

You step closer to the plate, lift it from the counter to examine it with the breakfast still on top.

It's not particularly thick, but not thin either—barely thick enough so it's impossible to bend it.

You eye the cup.

The metal rim of the cup is thinner than the plate that certainly won't fit behind the nail to pry it out, but maybe if you manage to wrench the rim of the cup in between first you can pull the nail out far enough to fit the plate which would allow you to use more strength due to a better grip.

Maybe, just maybe, today you can manage to work your way through the nails and planks keeping the window's boarded—regain your freedom.

Your heart starts beating faster in your chest, hope making it feel warm and heavy.

With a goal, a chance, there is no place for food in your stomach anymore.

You move automatically, your mind fixated on the chance you might not get again.

You walk back into the bathroom with the plate and cup in your hands, get rid of the untouched and cold breakfast in the toilet—watching it being flushed away to make sure there are no traces left behind.

Despite Ghost not being in the cabin, you move quietly through it.

You leave the door open after entering your room before approaching the window, wanting to be able to hear the locks turning as soon as possible so you can react quickly.

As you push the board further back to be able to force the rim of the cup in the small space between wood and nail, you realize that you haven't thought of an 'excuse' yet.

You haven't thought of having anything up your sleeve that might explain why you're having the cup and plate in your room should he ask, which you are sure he will.

What are you supposed to say? 

You need something believable, perhaps something mundane that makes it look like you didn't pay any mind to it at all and that there is no bigger plan hidden.

Maybe you can tell him you just felt more comfortable eating in your room? That the living room was too cold?

The wood in the fireplace is long burned up from last night, you don't have access to firewood or a lighter since Ghost seems to have taken the lighter once by the fireplace with him and the windows and planks aren't able to fully keep the chill out.

You could tell him your room is warmer, which you're pretty sure is true right now, though by the time he comes back that might not be the case anymore since you're leaving the door open.

You manage to force the rim of the cup in the small space the give of the wood grants you, your heart still pumping in your chest.

Dust whirls around as you move the cup back and forth a little by the bottom to loosen the nail—the windows must've been boarded up for a longer while, several weeks to months at least.

Ghost never outright told you just for how long he had this cabin and how much time he spent here, but he had said 'long enough' which may indicate he boarded up the windows before he even ended up in Frankland prison where he ultimately escaped.

The amount of dust flying your way is an indicator that you're right.

You wriggle to the cup a bit more to loosen the nail, measuring the distance with your eyes first before you push the tip of your pinky finger into the space between wood and nail to see if the plate will fit now—your pinky fits, and so will the plate.

You exchange the cup for the metal plate and repeat the same motion of back and forth with the object to loosen the nail.

How did Ghost even find this cabin?

You don't think it's his even though he mentioned he thought about renting your apartment out before you moved in for privacy, but you simply don't think it's realistic that he'd rent or buy a cabin who-knows-where for just that especially since he did usually live in 3A across from you which would make the cabin useless.

Though if he did buy or is renting this cabin he probably is doing so under a fake name, otherwise police would already be at the door and would've sweeped the place like they did with his apartment the day after his arrest.

The nail seems endless as you continue wriggling it loose from the window frame and plank.

Frustrated and impatient with how long it takes, you put the plate down on the desk in your room and grab the head of the nail now that it's out far enough for you to take a decent hold on it.

You pull hard, loosing your footing as the nail finally rips free and you almost crash to the floor—barely able to keep yourself from falling by adjusting your weight sideways to land on the mattress on the bed instead of the wooden flooring.

Your heart that had stilled it's rapid beating while you were concentrating is now resuming it's rapid pace as you feel the weight of the long nail sitting between your fingers.

After letting the wave of positive emotions wash over you for a moment, you move again—you have to, you're not done yet.

You stand back up, put the nail on the desk next to the plate and cup before turning back fully towards the window.

Two more nails to go on one side, three more on the other to fully get the board off the window.

You can do it, you know you can.

You grab the cup again, push the board back once more and repeat what you did with the first nail—the plank giving way more easily now that the tension the first nail put on the wood is gone.

When you pull the second nail out, this one harder to loosen than the first, you don't fall.

You adjust your footing before pulling the long nail out, having learned of your earlier mistake.

The third nail is the hardest, taking all of your strength and weight before it finally rips free and making you stumble a few paces back.

Sunlight floods the tiny room of the otherwise dark cabin as the right side of the plank slides down, the edge of the plank hitting the floor with a thud.

You did it. You did it.

You're one step closer to freedom, one step closer to escaping this cage Ghost calls protection and care.

You can't fight the victorious and relieved smile that finds it's way to your lips, the motion feeling almost foreign and weird because this smile is genuin—unlike the small ones you forced yourself to give Ghost to withhold the act that you're settling.

The bright sunlight burns in your eyes and you blink against it in an effort to get your eyes to adjust to it.

The sun is brighter than usual, brighter than you remember.

You crouch down in front of the window after stepping closer to it again, trying to get a view of the outside world...

White. Everything is white.

A thin but decent layer of snow covers the ground and branches of naked trees nearby, a blanket of dust laying on the small windowsill.

The snow is untouched—no footprints, nothing.

It's a beautiful scenery, even more so now since the chance of escape is resting sweetly on your tongue.

The slowly lowering sun feels warm on your skin and your dried down hair as you let it just shine down on you for a few moments, your body drinking in the Vitamin D it's been missing for days since Ghost took you.

Your fingertips are itching with the need of freedom, with the need of just mindlessly pulling and ripping on the plank to get it off the boarded up window.

The window is smaller than the planks suggest but still plenty big enough for you to get through if you can loosen two of the three planks fully.

Maybe you can squeeze through with just one of the planks off if you can reach the lock of the window and push it up-

You pause, freeze.

You heard something.

Your head snaps up, turns towards the door and you hold your breath—the sound you think you heard becoming undeniable.

Metal, keys, hitting the wooden door as the locks outside are undone one by one.

"Shit." you curse under your breath, now you have to move fast.

You grab the three nails you just pulled out with one hand, push the plank back up into position with the other.

The wood is heavy, but you manage.

One by one you push the nails back in just enough to hold the weight of the plank, the nails obviously too far out.

You can't let Ghost see this, can't let him know.

Under pressure and panic, since you're working against time and might only have a few seconds until the front door opens with the locks undone, you grab the cup and push the nails as far in as you can using the bottom of the metal drinkware.

Just as the last nail is pushed in far enough to look like you never messed with the board at all, you can hear the front door open.

You quickly but silently put the cup down on the desk, grab the book before lowering to sit on the mattress in an effort to make it look like you were just reading comfortably—even putting your blanket over your legs.

This is what Ghost needs to see.

He has to think you're calm, settled, compliant—no matter how rapidly your heart is beating in your chest, no matter how much it longs for freedom and life instead of survival.

But as much as your heart longs, it's also afraid—of him, of his hands, the things it knows he can do.

While you still believe no one is born evil and that Ghost didn't become who he is without reason—that he isn't just violence, cold steel, greed, selfishness and indifference—you don't want to be the one finding out wether your criminal justice teacher was right or not when saying that there are always threads left in people that just need a little pull to free them of the things they felt they needed to do.

Testing might mean failing, that your teachers theory was wrong and that some people are too far gone to be helped—for you failing might mean pain, or worse, death.

'I didn't kill you back there, don't make me change my mind.'

That's what Ghost said and you're careful not to make him change his mind, at least not until you're far, far away from him.

But you're not going to live here, you couldn't even if you wanted to since you're only surviving and not living—measuring each word and action by the consequences they might carry.

To do is to dare, and you're daring to escape—to live.

Footsteps enter the cabin, then more.

More.

The sound makes you freeze at a random page in the middle of the book, having flipped through the pages to underline your cover and make it believable.

Murmurs ring through the silence, voices you don't think you recognize and your brows pinch together at the sound.

People?

Ghost is bringing people here? Into the cabin?

Why? What does that mean? Who are those people?

The voices are deep, male.

You sit up straighter, strain to listen and perhaps make out what is said but the voices are too low and too far away.

Should you get up and get closer to the door to try to eavesdrop better? Should you go look who it is?

You don't know, aren't sure—left helplessly sitting on the mattress as if you're sitting on the beach with the tide rising but not moving despite the water coming inevitably closer and threatening to wash you away.

The footsteps continue through the cabin, moving through the living room judging by how distant they sound even with the door ajar.

Is it better if you don't move and don't go look?

What does Ghost expect you to do? Why are they speaking so quietly?

Curiosity finally gets the better of you after a few more moments, making you rise to your feet with the book clutched tightly in your hand.

You need to know, need to know if those strangers might help you get out of here.

Carefully, you peek out from behind your cracked open door only to immediately meet at set of brown eyes.

Ghost is standing at the end of the hallway—seemingly just about to walk down the hallway either to the bathroom, his room or yours.

He stops when he meets your eyes, his broad frame obscuring your view on the living space behind him—denying you a glimpse of whoever is in this cabin as well.

Ghost freezes when he sees you.

Just for a fraction of a second, so brief you think for a moment that you might've just imagined it, but it's there. 

A hitch in the way his shoulders set, the way his head tilts ever so slightly to the side as if he hadn't expected you to be standing there—like he'd planned the timing differently.

Then it's gone.

He straightens, his body slotting back into place at the other end of the hallway. 

The original mask is on again, the one he had worn during his crimes and the skull on the black balaclava feels like it stares more than his eyes do.

"Thought ye were sleepin'." he says a bit sharply, his eyes narrowed slightly—at least he doesn't sound angry though, just...a bit surprised perhaps.

You swallow, fingers tightening around the book. 

You make yourself step just a little closer to the doorway, enough to look like you're not hiding.

"I heard voices." you say honest, but not too honest. 

You tilt the book slightly to make him see it clearly, making it look like you'd only just gotten up from reading. 

"I uhm....didn't know if you wanted me to...stay in my room." you say carefully, neutral—not accusing, not asking who the people you can't see past Ghost in the living room are.

You wait.

Ghost studies you for a long second. 

You can feel it, the weight of his attention pressing down on your skin like he's measuring the rise and fall of your chest and the way you hold yourself.

Behind him, a voice carries faintly from the living room.

It's low, calm, older and strangely familiar in a way you can't quiet pinpoint—like lyrics to a long forgotten song.

"Everything good, Simon?"

Your breath catches for barely a second before you can stop it, posture straightens slightly by being caught off guard and your grip on the book tightens subconsciously.

Simon.

The name lands wrong. 

Too intimate, too real, too familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

You've heard it before, of course you have, because the pretty news anchor said it when she informed about his arrest and later on his escape. 

But hearing it now, spoken by someone else as Ghost is directly addressed, sends a sharp prickle down your spine.

Ghost doesn't turn around when the voice calls him, doesn't break eye contact with you.

"Yeah. Sorted." he answers evenly.

Then he speaks to you, quieter.

"Stay here."

It's not a request and you know it, yet you're rooted in place for a moment—a moment too long for Ghosts liking.

He steps forward, closing the distance, and gently but firmly guides you back with a hand at your upper arm. 

You flinch before you can tell yourself not to, your muscles tightening under his touch but you don't pull away. 

You force yourself to move with him and endure it, let him steer you those two steps back until you're safely hidden by your doorway again.

"Just...guests. Won't be long." he says like an afterthought, low and gruff.

Guests.

The word makes your stomach twist.

"Okay." you nod, small and obedient—arguing now won't do you any good.

The fact that Ghost is 'hiding' you away, might mean nothing at all—they know him by his real name, know of this cabin so there is no guarantee that they'd help you get out of here.

You'll have to judge the situation from outside for now, gather what you can for as long as you can before you're able to decide your next move.

Once you're back between the doorframe of your room again, Ghost releases you immediately as if the contact never mattered nor happened.

He glances past you into the room, his eyes scanning the interior and making your heart pick up it's pace in worry and fear that you weren't as careful as you thought you were but then he turns away wordlessly.

As he steps aside, the hallway opens up just enough for you to see past him.

Three men stand in the living room and your heart stutters—you know them.

It hits you all at once, sharp and dizzying, like the floor has dropped out beneath your feet and you're falling into an abyss.

The tall one with the bucket hat, well trimmed beard and thick mustache is leaning casually against the back of the couch with his hands folded like he owns the place and clearly favoring one leg.

A younger one, broad with a brown mohawk and sharp blue eyes is sweeping the living room of the cabin as he scratches his stubbled chin.

And the third, a bit shorter than the other two and Ghost with dark close-cropped hair has curious brown eyes as he glances toward the hallway.

Your mouth goes dry because you remember them even though they're dressed differently now—casual and practical clothes, but you know their faces. 

You know them from your doorway weeks ago, from the polite smiles and the easy explanations.

'Got a work order here to replace the water heater.'

'Whole building's been due for upgrades apparently. Yours just got bumped up in the queue. Saturday slot. We'll be quick.'

Your fingers go numb around the book as the realization finally, fully and crushingly settles in.

They were in your apartment, you let them into your home.

Your breathing goes shallow as pieces snap together in your mind with sickening clarity. 

They were never just repairmen, never there to just replace the water heater—they were watching you, checking.

They're the friends Ghost mentioned, probably the same who stuffed the empty envelope into your mailbox to make sure you were still living in your apartment after Ghost was arrested.

Yes, he had mentioned that a friend put it in your mailbox and that he was the one who funded your new water heater though you hadn't quiet considered that the repairmen you let into your apartment so carelessly were his friends and now that realization is crushing you like a bird under a stone.

Ghost steps fully into the living room now, blocking you from their view again. 

He says something low you can't hear and the one with the mohawk lets out a quiet huff of a laugh.

Your pulse roars in your ears.

You retreat a step deeper into your room without thinking, the instinct sudden and overwhelming. 

As you turn, the book hits the doorframe with a thud.

Ghost's head snaps back toward you, his eyes showing a clear impatience and an even clearer message—get into your room.

You don't argue, don't hesitate again. 

You step back, close the door slowly and carefully as if sudden movements might draw blood.

The latch clicks softly.

You stand there in the dim light of your room, heart hammering so hard it hurts while slowly lifting your hand and pressing it to your mouth to keep your breathing quiet with the book still in your other hand.

They know you and they probably know about the kidnapping and captivity too.

This wasn't one man watching you from across the hall before you even knew Ghost truly existed, it was three after his arrest and now it's four.

You sink down onto the edge of the bed and stare at the door like it might dissolve, like they might come through it any second. 

Your eyes flick to the window, to the plank you freed and just shoved the nails back into where the heads are sitting just a little too proud out of the wood.

You beg they don't look.

You can only hope Ghost doesn't decide to show them your room, not that you truly think he would but the paranoia is stronger than reason, and you hope that he won't take a look too close either.

Voices murmur through the walls, too low to make out words but familiar in their rhythm now—easy, comfortable, light.

It's the sound of men who trust each other, men who've done worse things together than standing in a cabin talking quietly and knowing each other for a long time—long enough to share secrets and atrocities with each other.

Minutes stretch, your hands shake in your lap.

Then footsteps move again—heavier, closer to the door.

You straighten instantly, heart slamming into your throat.

A knock comes—soft, a slow rhythm with three raps.

"They'll be gone in a minute." it's Ghost, his voice carrying slightly muffled through the wood.

Your lips part, but your voice sticks for a second. 

"Alright." you manage, surprisingly steady though still quieter than you wanted to.

A pause before Ghost speaks again, as if he's considering what to say.

"Yer doin' fine."

The words curl through you like smoke, reassuring and terrifying all at once—light but bo less suffocating.

The footsteps retreat again.

You sit there on the edge of your bed as the voices continue to be barely audible through distance and wood, staring down at your lap and at the thin line between almost and never.

You almost had the chance for an alliance, for an escape—but with them, you'll never get it because now you know the truth in its full and ugly shape.

If you escape, it won't just be him you have to outrun.

If you escape, it won't just be a lonely predator you need to hide from—it'll be an entire pack.

The minute stretches and turns into two, then another and another.

You count your breaths to keep from spiraling, fingers digging into the mattress beneath you since you put the book down to not damage it and give a visual presentation of your nervousness and unease.

The voices don't fade the way Ghost promised, they don't move toward the door—if anything, they settle in.

A chair scrapes softly across the floor, something metal clinks which may be a cup or a weapon set down carelessly as if it's nothing worth thinking about because it's them.

Glass clinks as well, many times.

Laughter follows low and familiar in its ease, making your stomach knot.

They're comfortable while you feel more and more uneasy, restless.

You can't sit here and wait, you just can't—so you carefully stand up and walk closer to the door to press your ear against it, avoiding squeaky planks on the floor you've grown familiar with.

Through the wood, the words sharpen just enough to catch fragments.

"-told you this place'd hold." the older voice says calm and assured "Quiet. Remote."

"Yeah, well, definitely beats the flat. Less neighbors to worry 'bout for Ghost." a younger voice with a scottish accent, if you remember correctly he's the one with the Mohawk, replies amused and you can't help but notice that he doesn't refer to Ghost with his first name.

A pause then he speaks again, amusement gone but his voice still light.

"The bonnie alright?"

Your breath stutters.

There's no name, no need for one—they all know exactly who you are.

" 's fine, Soap." Ghost answers steadily, unbothered and you immediately lock the name away.

'Fine'.

The word feels like a slap and you can't decide if you're pissed off that Ghost thinks you're okay or if you're grateful for it because that would mean your act is working.

"Looks like it too?" a velvet smooth voice, probably from the guy with the close-cropped hair, asks curious rather than concerned and somehow the casualty in which he asks stings.

Ghost doesn't answer right away.

You imagine him standing there, arms crossed or hands on his hips with his head tilted in that way he does when he's deciding how much truth to give.

"Settlin' takes time." he says finally.

The couch groans faintly as someone shifts their weight on it.

"Told ye the bonnie would. You've got a way, mate." Soap snort softly and his words makes bile rise in your throat—hot, acidic, disgusting.

A deep voice hums thoughtful. 

"She see us?" it's the same voice who called out for Ghost earlier, the one you heard first after starting to eavesdrop.

The question lands like a dropped plate and you freeze, every muscle locking.

"Just now. Hallway. Didn't mean to." Ghost responds immediately.

There's a beat then the older voice chuckles deeply, low and knowing.

"Ah. Small world, eh?" it adds.

Your nails bite into your palm as you clench your fists.

'Small world' is a big term considering the cabin is small and that they were the ones who entered your apartment under the pretense of changing your water heater.

The smooth voice follows, quieter. 

"She recognize us?"

"Dunno, Gaz. Maybe." Ghost says as he exhales deeply and you lock that name away as well.

Soap laughs again, a little sharper this time. 

"Wouldn't that be somethin'. Fancy that, fixin' her boiler one time and-"

"Enough." Ghost cuts in.

The word isn't said harshly, but it carries.

For a moment there's only the fire popping in the hearth, the low hum of the fridge and the distant rush of blood in your ears.

The man which voice you don't have a name to yet clears his throat. 

"Easy, Simon. We're just talkin'."

" ' know." Ghost replies "But not 'bout her."

About her.

Ghost shutting them down like that makes you wonder if you're a sensitive topic, if he just doesn't want to talk about you either with them or in general or if he's suspecting you're listening.

Silence stretches again for a moment, thick and deliberate, before Gaz murmurs something you can't make out which makes the men chuckle in unison.

Minutes pass in which they just mindlessly talk about unimportant stuff, tell each other shitty jokes with even shittier punchlines, clink glass and metal together—you're about to sit back on the bed to let the situation rest for now when Soap speaks up again.

"Place still feels lived-in." he says, his voice drifting down the hallway in a light and conversational tone. 

"Not like one of your bolt-holes." he adds with a small snort.

"Yeah. Got warmth to it. Like someone actually stays." Gaz hums in agreement.

Your jaw tightens.

"Someone does." Ghost answers easily and in your head you can practically see the small shrug he must give the men.

There's a brief pause before the older voice comes next, thoughtful rather than lightly like the other two.

"She's adjusting, then?"

Ghost doesn't hesitate to agree with a hum and you can feel yourself subconsciously clenching your jaw even harder.

There's another small pause before the man speaks again, seemingly having considered Ghost's agreeing noise.

"Good. Would've been worse if she wasn't." he says.

"Yeah. Quiet ones either settle...or snap." Soap throws in light-hearted.

"She always looked like the first kind to me." Gaz muses and your nails dig even deeper into your palms where you clench your fists once again.

You clamp your jaw shut so tightly your teeth might as well shatter under the pressure as you fight the urge to scream, to grab the book and throw it or to stomp for the window and rip the plank off with your bare hands consequences be damned.

Ghost exhales, almost amused. 

" 's stronger than she looks."

The words make your stomach twist—not because they're kind, but because they're claiming as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

"Still..." Soap starts casual and not at all bothered by the facts at hand "...must be strange for her. New place, new rules."

The older man's voice lowers, more measured. 

"Change is easier when there's structure."

"That's the point." Ghost agrees.

Your jaw tightens impossibly more at his words before you force yourself to release the tension in your jaw and hands to not actually accidentally injure yourself.

"Place suits her though. Quiet, outta the way...safer than a flat with thin walls and a dangerous neighborhood ridden with criminals." Gaz says, the couch creaking faintly again as he seems to adjust his sitting position.

Suddenly you feel like laughing because his statement just seems to utterly absurd and hypocritical that you can't believe he actually means it.

Safer than your flat? Danger and criminals?

You're locked in a cabin in the woods, forced to live with a criminal—a murderer who cut off your air supply with his bare hands until you blacked out, what on earth is safer about that than the life you lived before all this?

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, the copper taste laying on your tongue even as you swallow a moment later.

Ghost doesn't contradict him.

"Exactly." he say's instead and you can feel yourself starting to loose control of your emotions as anger, disbelief and disgust bubble over—threatening to burst out of you like a recently shaken soda can being opened.

You take a deep breath, force yourself away from the door and take a seat on the edge of your bed again.

You stay quiet, close your eyes and focus on your breathing until the burning feeling in your veins subsides to a small simmer.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

Time passes in strange, warped chunks. 

Their voices drift, shift, rise and fall through the cabin walls and your bedroom door.

You catch snippets of how they talk about routes, about weather, about places you don't know and things you don't want to understand. 

Once, you hear the clink of a bottle opening and more low laughter.

At some point, a shadow crosses the thin strip of light under your door and you hold your breath as the footsteps stop just outside.

A voice, Gaz's you think, murmurs something too low to catch through the wooden door.

Ghost answers quiet as well and then the footsteps move away again, the bathroom door next to yours opening and then closing.

Your lungs burn by the time you remember to breathe.

Though eventually, the energy changes. 

The couch creaks loudly again, fabric rustles and boots thud against the floor.

"We'll check in again soon." The older voice promises, carrying easily all the way through to you.

"Don' be a stranger, yeah?" Soap adds teasingly and you can practically hear the grin in his voice.

"You know where I am." Ghost huffs and then the front door opens without the sound of the locks being worked on.

Cold air creeps in from under the gap of your door, carrying with it the smell of snow and pine and something metallic you can't place.

The locks sound after the door is shut again, each one sliding home with awful finality.

Silence follows though it's not the tense, layered silence from before that you know all too well from your own conversations with Ghost—instead, it's just...quiet.

You don't move, not even when footsteps approach your door again and not when they stop either.

Ghost knocks soft and controlled, same three rhythmic raps.

"Ye can come out." he says through the door.

Your legs feel like lead as you stand almost automatically. 

You smooth your hair and your shirt, wipe your palms on the fabric of your pants by your thighs—you don't want to look as undone as you feel, don't want to display all the emotions you felt while Ghosts friends or companions or colleagues were here.

When you open the door he's there—the mask is still on, or rather on again judging by it's slightly crooked position on his head and face.

There's the faint smell of alcohol lingering in the cabin and around him.

Ghost looks down at you for a long moment, eyes searching—weighing, calculating.

"They know 'bout ye." he says plainly after scrutinizing you under his gaze.

Your throat tightens but you nod because there's no point pretending otherwise and you feel like you have to agree to his words or give him acknowledgement to them.

"They won't say nothin', won't interfere." he continues.

You don't ask with what because you're already sure you know.

"They're on my side." he adds, voice lower and firmer now "Same as they always have been."

You meet his gaze for half a second.

"Yeah, figured." you say quietly.

Something flickers in his eyes at that—not anger or surprise, approval.

"Good. Means ye understand how things are." he says softer again after a beat.

He steps aside, gesturing back toward the living room.

"C'mon, 's late. Ye should eat. " Ghost says as if eating is possible for you right now, as if the cabin doesn't feel smaller than it ever has and as if four sets of eyes aren't burned into your memory—watching you from a place you can never reach nor destroy.

You step past him anyway because you're still alive and the nails in the plank are still loose enough that you can take them out once you get the chance again.

You follow him back into the living room on legs that don't quite feel like they belong to you anymore.

The space looks the same but it feels wrong now, like the walls have absorbed the presence of the others and are holding onto it—like there's more than just Ghosts weight pressing down on you.

Empty glasses sit on the table, one bottle of whiskey stands uncapped near the edge and more than half of the amber liquid is missing.

The fire Ghost must've started with his and their arrival is burning lower now, coals glowing red beneath ash.

Ghost moves through it all with an ease that makes your stomach twist.

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch before sitting down, rolling his shoulders once like he's loosening something tight beneath the muscles. 

The mask stays on but you look away when he pushes it up just enough to reveal the line of his mouth when he reaches for the bottle again—despite wondering what he looks like, you don't dare to look.

He pours without measuring.

The smell of whiskey curls sharp and sweet through the air, stinging slightly in your nose.

You sit where he gestures, the same armchair you always sit in that is angled just enough toward the fire to look considerate. 

He's caretaker again, like nothing about the last hour or two mattered.

He notices your hands before you do—how they're folded too tightly in your lap, how tense your shoulders are and how rigid you look overall.

"Easy." Ghost murmurs as he sets the bottle down before picking up the filled glass and taking a long swig of whiskey, turning just out out of your view as he lifts the bottom of the mask to drink before pulling it back down into place.

"They're gone now." he adds quietly, almost in a soothing manner, as he sets the glass back down on the table and turns towards the kitchen area.

"I know." you nod quietly, too quickly perhaps.

He doesn't comment on how thin your voice sounds, though you're sure he noticed just like you did.

A pot clinks softly as he sets it down in the sink, turns on the tab and lets the pot fill with water before putting the pot on the stove.

The stove clicks on in a slow, methodical rhythm as he turns it on—like the sound and the routine of it is something he can wrap around both of you and make it stick.

The silence stretches again as Ghost moves quietly around the kitchen and it's suffocating in a way that presses inward instead of outward, making your heart feeling restricted as if a chain is tightening around it.

You watch his hands move, the way his shoulders sit, the way his back looks when it turns to you.

He's steady, relaxed—that's what gets to your attention most of all.

You swallow and take the risk, careful to keep your tone light and curious—casual even, like you're asking about coworkers and not literal partners in crime.

"They've...been around a while?" you ask.

Ghost glances at you over his shoulder and there's a pause where you brace yourself, waiting to see if you've stepped too far, but instead he hums softly in agreement.

"Long time, yeah."

You let the words settle for a moment, internally exhaling in relief that you're doing okay so far.

"They help you with...things." you add, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a question though you don't think you quiet succeeded at that.

He snorts quietly though not amused, lucky not offended either.

"That's one way to put it."

The water in the pot begins to steam. 

You ponder what to ask next, what to pick on without sounding accusing or angry or anything other than just lightly curious, when Ghost already speaks again.

"Ye don't have to worry 'bout 'em." he says, his voice looser now—buzzed, you realize. 

Not quiet drunk you think, just softened around the edges. 

"They won't do anything to ye, won't question me."

Your fingers tighten in your lap because his words aren't as reassuring as he must think they are.

"I wasn't worried." you say, half-truth and half-lie.

He glances back at you again, eyes sharp even now.

"Course not." he says mildly, as if he knows exactly how untrue and true that is.

He steps back out of the kitchen and you watch him from the corner of your eye as he approaches and sits down in the middle of the couch—differently than where he usually sits, closer.

He picks the glass back up, gloves off.

"Ye did good." he says quietly, almost softly and you turn to look at the fire because you know it's meant as a compliment and a compliment from your captor feels too wrong to accept.

"Stayin' put, not makin' a scene." he adds and by the low rustling of fabric you can guess he's lifted his mask again to take another swig of alcohol.

Your throat tightens and you involuntarily remember how they spoke about you when they thought you weren't listening.

As if you're truly adjusting, settling, staying—wanting this like there has always only been snapping or staying and you were always doomed to be the former.

"Didn't feel like I had much of a choice." you mumble, hoping Ghost won't listen too closely and notice the hint of bitterness in your voice.

Something flickers behind his eyes, not anger—something closer to resignation.

"There's always a choice." he replies, then exhales through his nose as if he regrets saying it the moment the words leave his lips.

He reaches for the bottle once more, filling his glass and chugging it in one go without turning away this time.

Your eyes stay away from his face, watch his throat move instead and the way his adams apple bobs as he swallows but you advert your gaze again before he can notice you're looking.

"How do you know them?" you ask "I mean, did you work together or...?"

Ghost leans back into the couch, empty glass hanging loose between his fingers as he turns it slightly against the fire burning in the hearth.

For a moment you think he won't answer, that he'll retreat into that tight and sealed-off place he keeps locked behind the mask but he lets out a slow breath through his nose before he speaks.

"Price first. I was sixteen." he says.

The name settles heavy in the room, the name slotting into place along with the face—must be the older man with the beard.

You don't move, not even your hands and just listen.

"Met him at a underground boxing club." He rolls the empty glass once more between his fingers before setting it down. 

"Needed somewhere to put the...energy."

Energy.

Your mind comes up with other words—rage, violence, damage, pain.

He doesn't look at you while he talks, his gaze fixed on the fire like it's showing him something only he can see.

"Home was..." Ghost pauses, letting out a humorless huff "Shite."

You feel something tighten in your chest, not sympathy exactly but a shift—a tiny satisfaction that you were right.

"Dad drank. Fought. Hit whatever was closest." his jaw flexes once beneath the mask, eyes darkening. 

"Me. My brother. Mum." he continues flatly, not dramatic nor angry but just as facts.

"She never left, just took it. Guess she thought 's how it was meant to be." he adds after a beat.

Your stomach knots.

You've heard of it, of people staying with their abusive partners—especially women with kids and how common this actually is.

"Figured that's how it worked, too." his voice lowers slightly. 

"If someone crosses ye, ye make 'em hurt. 's what Ah'd been shown."

The fire cracks softly, wood snapping under heat.

"Got suspended a lot for it in school. Expelled, eventually. Stopped botherin' at fifteen, became a butchers apprentice-ol' friend of my dads." he continues, grabbing the uncapped bottle of whiskey again and filling his glass.

You press your lips together, maybe in worry that Ghost will be how his father had been when drunk.

"Knife work came easy." he says, almost absently as he picks up the glass again and you force yourself to keep breathing steady.

"Price saw me fightin' at the club after a former school mate brought me." there's a faint shift of his shoulders as he settles back into the couch.

"Price was twenty-two, didn't belong there either."

There's something different in his tone now, not warmth—weight.

"Saw himself 'n me, Ah think. Pulled me aside after a match 'nd old me Ah hit like Ah had somethin' to prove." he pauses for a moment, then continues with a small huff "Wasn't wrong."

You risk a glance at him, Ghost still staring into the fire like it owes him answers.

"He helped. Kept me from doin' worse than Ah already was." Ghost says simply, a small shrug accompanying his words.

You let that sit, then remember something.

"And the military?" you ask gently like you're just following the timeline, remembering when you asked if he ever was in the military and he hadn't denied it.

He nods.

"Seventeen. Signed up soon as Ah could. Figured if Ah was gon' be violent, might as well get paid for it." he scoffs the last bit, no pride in it.

"Met Soap there, same age. Wanker. Didn't have much at home either." a whisper of something almost fond slips into his voice.

You store that carefully, lock it away with everything else you've gathered about him and the others so far.

"Price noticed Ah was gettin' worse, that military didn't dull it and fed it instead." he continues and his jaw tightens. 

"Told me if Ah didn't get out, Ah'd end up enjoyin' it too much."

You swallow.

"So you left...?" you ask quietly.

"Nineteen." he nods before he lifts the bottom of his mask with his thumb to drink from his glass, his hand shielding the lower part of his face.

He keeps the glass in his hand as he lowers his mask again and lets his free hand drop onto his thigh, muscular legs parted.

"Ran into Price not long after. Found out he'd been keepin' busy." Ghost tilts of his head slightly though not in the measuring way he usually does, this time it resembles...amusement. 

"Burglaries. Stealin'. Real clean work." he says, the mask stretching in what you assume is a smirk underneath.

Your heart beats louder, you ignore it.

"Asked to join."

"Just like that?" you question, brows pinching together slightly.

That makes him look at you and even through the mask, the weight of his gaze pins you.

"Just like that." he confirms by repeating your question to you as a statement.

There's something unsettling about the calm way he say's it, the ease in which he describes it all—as if it hasn't ruined his life, those of many other's...yours.

"He didn't want me to, knew what Ah was like. Thought Ah'd take it too far." Ghost admits. 

You don't comment on the implication that he eventually did join, that they did take things further than burglaries and stealing—let him get to that point himself.

"But he let me in." he says "Soap came along, later Gaz."

He leans back once more, shoulders sinking into the couch cushions behind him.

"Price keeps it structured, owns this place." he shrugs and your pulse skips.

"This...cabin?" you ask, just to be sure.

He nods once.

"His bolt-hole originally, then we planned our heists here. Ah use it more now."

That explains the older man's position now, the authority and the fact he called Ghost 'Simon' even though the others didn't—because he holds the authority, keeps them in check and is the head of this spider of which two legs keep you trapped in its net and locked in a silk cocoon disguised as care.

Silence falls between you, but it's different now—heavy as you replay his words in your mind.

Abusive father. Violence normalized. Expelled. Butcher. Boxing. Military. Crime.

It doesn't excuse what he did to you, it doesn't soften the memory of his hand crushing your throat but it explains the shape of him—and you're scared of the small spark in your chest that might just threaten to be sympathy.

"Price helps you still?" you question, keeping your voice neutral.

Ghost hesitates.

"Sometimes." he says finally "Keeps me steady."

The admission is quiet, almost reluctant, but you feel something click into place nonetheless—Price matters, structure matters, control matters.

You nod slowly like you're just absorbing the story, not cataloging leverage.

"That's...a long history." you murmur, not expressing any emotion and only stating a fact.

"It is." Ghost agrees.

The fire burns lower.

Ghost is watching you now instead of the flames but you keep your gaze firmly locked on them.

"Ye scared of me?" he asks suddenly and your heart slams into your ribs, eyes widening just a fraction for half a second before you catch yourself.

This is the test, one you should've known had been waiting for you because he always does this—setting traps he may or may not hope you'll step into.

You let a beat pass.

"I...think I'd be stupid not to be." you say carefully honest but not defiant, though you don't risk a glance at him.

Something shifts in his posture, you can see it from your peripheral vision.

"Fair." Ghost half nods and half shrugs after a moment—he doesn't sound angry, if anything he almost sounds oddly satisfied.

"But Ah've never lied to ye ' bout what Ah am." he adds, voice roughened slightly by the whiskey. 

No, he hasn't.

You force your shoulders to ease, just a fraction.

"I know." you agree softly.

Inside, your thoughts are racing.

Price grounds him, Price owns the cabin and Price once pulled him back from going too far.

Ghost thinks structure keeps you from snapping, he thinks you're settling.

You lower your gaze to your lap then raise it slightly again to the dying fire so he can't see the calculation your face.

He talks more when he drinks and tonight he's still drinking, which makes you wonder what else changes when he drinks.

The question lingers in your head.

What else changes when he drinks?

Ghost reaches for the bottle again and the movement is slower now, less precise though not yet sluggish.

"Ye don't like it." he says suddenly.

Your stomach drops because you know whatever he means, it will put you into a twisted position.

"Like...what?" you ask anyways.

"This." he gestures vaguely around the cabin, the fire, then himself "The way it is."

It's not accusing, it's observational.

You choose your words the way someone chooses which wire to cut when diffusing a bomb, because this situation feels exactly how you imagine that to be—one wrong move and it's over.

"I don't...understand it yet. It's a lot." you say instead of answering the real question, carefully dodging without ignoring.

You keep your gaze on the fire but by the way the silent stretches you just know he's looking at you, weighing your words.

Finally he nods as if that's acceptable, like you passed the test.

Ghost leans forward, elbows braced on his knees with the glass dangling between his bare fingers—the scars faintly illuminated by the golden glow of the dying fire.

"Ye think 'm like him?"

The question hits you before you can brace for it, you know who he means without him having to say a name and you glance at him instinctively at the surprise.

Your mind flashes with the image Ghost painted—abusive father, drunk, violent, unpredictable.

Your throat tightens with responses you cannot give.

"I don't know him, I only know what you told me." you say carefully vague, dodging again without completely ignoring—only this time it doesn't satisfy him.

"That's not what Ah asked."

His gaze is sharper now, eyes slightly narrowed and cutting through the alcohol induced haze.

You swallow hard.

"No." you answer, maybe a bit too quiet but still steady.

He stares at you for a long moment while you avoid his gaze.

"Ye hesitated." he murmurs, amusement in his voice.

Of course you hesitated.

Because you're afraid of him, because he strangled you, because he controls when you eat and when you sleep and who you see.

But you can't tell him that, or at least you're too afraid to do so.

"I was thinking."

"About?" Ghost presses, tightening the noose just enough that you can feel it around your neck but you pull out before it can snap your neck.

"About how you said Price keeps you steady." you say, tilt your head slightly as if thoughtful "You wouldn't say that if you wanted to be like him."

It's a risk, but it's also bait.

His jaw shifts under the mask, pressure building then releasing.

"Ah'm not him." he says low and there's something almost defensive in it.

You nod slowly, as if reassured.

"I know."

The pot of water on the stove begins to rumble softly, he ignores it.

You let the silence breathe, then nudge gently.

"Does Price know...everything?"

He stills.

"Everythin'?" he repeats.

"About me."

There it is, the real question wrapped in softness.

His eyes narrow again, almost as in thought like he's deciding what to say.

"He does." Ghost says after a beat.

'He does.'

It's a small pull back but nothing you can't manage, nothing you didn't actually expect.

You overheard them, you knew already that Price knows but until now you weren't sure to which extent he did.

Your mind races.

"Does he...agree with it?" you ask, careful to keep curiosity in your tone instead of accusation.

Ghost's fingers tighten faintly around the glass and you watch that motion closely.

"Price trusts me." he says.

That's not an actual answer, but it tells you everything.

The water is boiling now, gurgling in the pot on the stove. 

Ghost puts the glass back down on the table and then stands, walking back to the kitchen area.

You exhale quietly once he's turned away.

Price doesn't fully approve, or at least he didn't at first.

Ghost needs Price's trust, wants it—the structure, the approval, boundaries that come with it likely as well.

You file it away.

In the kitchen, Ghost dumps something in the pot you can't quiet see before putting a second pot onto the stove and dumping the content of a can into it.

Your gaze keeps flicking between him and the fire as you ponder, trying to find out how to best use the leverage Ghost has given you tonight.

He talks more when he drinks, allows more, turns even more blunt than he already is—you just can't quiet figure out if it makes him careless as well yet.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

You don't know how much time passes until he returns from the kitchen, two plates with a simple meal in hand—noodles with a simple can sauce.

He sets yours down first.

Caretaker, always caretaker after control.

"Eat." he says, softer again.

You take the plate carefully, making sure your hands don't shake as you put it down on your lap to be able to use the cutlery he gave you freely.

"Ye ever think..." he starts after having let you eat half your plate, voice slower now and heavier with alcohol as he just shoves his food around on his own plate "...that maybe this is better?"

"Better?" you echo after a brief pause.

"Than what ye had." He leans back, studying you openly now as he stops pretending interest in his food.

"Flat with thin walls. Shitty job. No one lookin' out for ye."

Your chest tightens—he truly believes it, that this is an upgrade.

"That's not the same as choosing it." you reply gently.

He doesn't argue immediately, just watches you.

"Ah chose ye." he says suddenly.

The words settle over you like frost, they're claiming again—he said something similar once, but back then it felt lighter than it does now.

You force yourself to keep eating.

Inside, your thoughts are sharp and clear despite the suffocating weight of him.

He chose you, Price keeps him steady, he needs approval, needs structure and seemingly he drinks when the edges get too loud.

You lift your gaze to him slowly.

"What happens if Price tells you you've gone too far..?" you ask, careful not to express concern that you don't have.

The room goes very, very quiet as the question doesn't just hang in the air—it hardens and thickens it.

Ghost goes still in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol and the fire snaps in the hearth with a small, sharp crack that sounds too loud.

His head tilts slightly, but the way the shadows of his mask throw over his eyes makes it impossible for you to tell what it means.

"Why would he say that?" Ghost asks, voice low and level again—the softness pulled tight and away as it's replaced with slight suspicion.

You keep your hands moving even though you can barely taste the food.

"I don't know." you answer careful like it doesn't matter too much. 

"You said he noticed when the military made things worse, that he pulled you out before you...went too far." you shrug softly, let the implication sit without sharpening it "He just seems like someone who steps in."

Ghost watches you in silence before he leans back slowly into the couch cushions, one arm stretching across the backrest.

"Price doesn't tell me what to do." he says.

The words are firm and certain but there's something under them, something almost stubborn.

"He gives advice, Ah decide." 

You nod as if that makes sense.

"But you consider his advice?" you murmur, question instead of stating so he won't feel trapped or accused or like he's not in control.

A pause in which Ghost doesn't deny it, making your heart beat a little harder because that's something.

The only person he's described as grounding him, the only one he met before the violence sharpened into something more organized and more intentional, tells you that he respects Price deeply.

Ghost studies your face again.

"Ye think he'd tell me to let ye go?" he asks but there's no anger in it, that's what makes it worse—he's genuinely wondering what you think.

You let your gaze drift back to the fire, as if you're thinking it through instead of trying not to step into another trap.

"I don't know him." you say again. 

"But you said he didn't want you joining him at first, because he thought you'd take it too far." you glance at him now "He seems...cautious."

Ghost's jaw once more shifts under the mask, clenches then unclenches.

"He is."

"And you're not." you say quietly and the words slip out softer and without thought.

Ghost doesn't move, doesn't breathe.

"Careful."  he then says and the word is almost a quiet growl, rumbling deep in his chest—a clear warning.

You lower your eyes immediately, letting your shoulders ease as if suddenly you've realized you pushed too much because you know you have.

"I didn't...mean it like that." you murmur, not straight up apologizing but making him think you are.

Silence follows, the kind that feels like standing at the edge of a frozen lake not sure if the ice will hold—not sure if you'll drown or reach the other side.

After a long moment, he exhales deeply and some of the tension leaves his posture along with the breath.

"Ah know what Ah'm doin'." he says.

You nod—of course he believes that.

You adjust your sitting position slightly, keeping the plate balanced in your lap.

"I wasn't questioning that, I just...wondered if anyone ever questions you." you nudge gently.

There it is again, the circling—the thing Ghost and you have done since he took you here, the dance you're always careful not to accidentally step on his feet with.

He watches you like he's trying to see through your skull, to pull your thoughts and intentions straight out of your brain.

"Why does that matter to ye?" he asks.

'Because if someone else can influence you, maybe I can survive this. Because if someone else has weight in your decisions, maybe I'm not alone in here. Because if Price thinks this is a mistake, that's a crack in your certainty.'

You shrug faintly.

"I guess I just think it's strange, being somewhere where one person decided everything." you say.

That lands and you see it in real time, how your words twist the look in his eyes to recognition.

He leans forward again and abandons his plate onto the empty spot on the couch next to him before putting his elbows on his knees once more, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for his glass again.

"Ye think Ah don't consider what ye want?" he asks.

Your throat tightens.

"I think..." you start, though reconsider your words into something more cryptic and careful because you've made progress you can't loose—Ghost thinks you're settling and adjusting, so do his friends, and despite that stinging it is exactly what you want.

"I think you believe you're doing what's best."

Ghosts eyes lock onto yours.

"And?" his eyes lock onto yours and you can faintly see his eyebrows raising expectantly since they disappear under the edge of his mask.

"And I don't think you're used to someone disagreeing with you." you're walking a thin line, trying to sound soft and be careful by also wanting to sound steady and certain.

Despite you pushing once more, he doesn't explode.

He doesn't lash out but something shifts behind his slightly alcohol glossed eyes—something darker, more guarded perhaps.

"Price disagrees with me." he says.

"Do you listen?" you probe.

"Sometimes." Ghost shoots back almost immediately this time.

That's honest, more honest than anything else he's said tonight—maybe because he just spoke instead of measuring his words.

You nod slowly in acknowledgement.

"Then maybe you're not as far gone as you think."

The words leave your lips before you can stop them and the second they're spoken, you regret them.

His posture changes instantly, staying seated but now coiled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks quietly.

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

"I didn't mean-" you start, then force yourself to stop scrambling because scrambling looks guilty.

You soften your expression instead.

"I just meant...you talk like you're already set, like this is who you are and that's it." you say as you gesture faintly between the two of you.

"But if you still listen to someone, if you still care what he thinks, then maybe you're not just...violence." you finish, the last word barely above a whisper.

The fire pops again.

Ghost stares at you for a long, long moment.

The alcohol is still there—you can see it in the slight delay in his blinking, the looseness in his shoulders—but the sharpness is faintly simmering underneath.

"Yer tryin' to fix me now?" he asks.

It should sound mocking, but it doesn't—it sounds wary.

"No." you say quickly, truthfully "I'm trying to understand you."

That, at least, is real because understanding him is survival.

Ghost leans back again, slower this time.

The tension doesn't disappear, it just settles lower in the room.

"Ah don't need fixin'." he says.

You don't answer because you feel like arguing that would snap the thread completely.

Ghost studies you a little longer, then reaches for the bottle again but this time he hesitates.

His hand hovers over it, then drops.

He doesn't pour himself another glass...because he noticed.

You mentioned Price, structure, going too far—and now he's choosing not to drink more because he knows being drunk messes with his wariness.

Ghost stands instead, collecting the plates without looking at you.

"Get some sleep." he says, voice rough but steadier " 's late."

You rise carefully.

Every step feels heavy like walking through deep water and at the hallway entrance, you pause.

He's at the sink, back to you.

For a second, you consider saying something else and pushing further...but you don't—not tonight.

"Night." you say instead to reason your pausing at the hallway.

He doesn't turn around, but he returns the word to you.

You step through the hallway and into your room before you close the door gently, your hands starting to tremble slightly the second the latch clicks.

It's not because he yelled nor because he touched you, but because you saw it—the hesitation, the fracture line.

Price matters, structure matters, and somewhere under the violence, under the obsession with 'keeping you safe', under the belief that he chose you and that makes it right...there's still a boy who needed someone to tell him when to stop.

You sink down onto the edge of your bed, heart racing.

If Price can make him pause, then maybe you can too.

Or maybe you've just made him realize you're not settling nearly as much as he thought.

a/n: I just said this on wattpad and ao3, but if I get one more genuinely negative comment abt this story I'm fucking deleting it. I'm just so tired of constant comments like 'do this/write that' or 'this doesn't fit/that doesn't make sense/these things are bad'. I am doing this FOR FREE in my FREE TIME. I know I complain a lot in my authors notes, but I'm just really fed up TT