𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔢

Most of the following tumblr links will take you to my original tumblr account (crazyushijimalady.)

- my series;

☠︎︎ Kindness has teeth - Dark!Simon 'Ghost' Riley (ao3, wattpad, tumblr)

☠︎︎ Silent devotion - Dark/Yandere!The Frontman/Hwang In-ho (ao3, wattpad)

☠︎︎ Teach me. - Sebastian Sallow (ao3, wattpad, tumblr)

☠︎︎ A devils pact - Yandere!Oikawa Tooru (wattpad)

☠︎︎ Gho(st)²ories - Yandere!Chrollo Lucilfer (wattpad)

☠︎︎ Sick - Yandere!Armin Alert (tumblr)

︎☠︎︎ Learning to be Gentle - Simon Riley (tumblr, wattpad, ao3)

︎☠︎︎ To love is to forget - Dean Winchester (tumblr, ao3)

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

- my drabbles/headcanons;

☣︎ Simon Riley x afab! reader - Your body as payment (NSFW)

☣︎ Simon Riley x gn. reader - Viking

☣︎ Simon Riley x gn. reader - Viking (Jarl x Thrall, NSFW)

☣︎ Ghost & Soap x fem. reader - stranded on a deserted island (NSFW)

☣︎ Captain John Price x afab. reader - he is your driving instructor (NSFW)

☣︎ Simon Riley x gn. reader - Hedge Knight x noble (slight NSFW)

☣︎ John 'Soap' MacTavish x gn.reader - pick up lines (slight NSFW)

☣︎ Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn.reader - being a dick in a bar (slight NSFW)

☣︎ Yearner!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn.reader - yearning/longing pathetically (NSFW)

☣︎ John 'Soap' MacTavish x gn.reader - pathetically obsessed (NSFW)

☣︎ Simon 'Ghost' Riley x mermaid reader - pirate

☣︎ Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn.reader - mafia boss x escort/sugar babe (NSFW)

☣︎ TF141(💀,🧼,💰,🧢) - type of yandere

☣︎ John 'Soap' MacTavish x gn.reader - he's scared of the dentist (NSFW)

☣︎ Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn.reader - Zombie!Simon NSFW (part 1, part 2)

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

- my one shots;

+ My yandere one-shot book (wattpad)

⌖Yan!Satoru Gojo - Souls don't meet by accident.

⌖Yan!Chrollo Lucilfer - The red string of fate.

⌖Yan!Hawks/ Keigo Takami - Offspring.

⌖Yan!Eren Yeager - Tag, you're it. (part1/part2)

⌖Yan!Hange Zoë - Wish you were gay.

⌖Yan!Dabi&Hawks - That's not my neighbor.

⌖Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick - Be right back

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

⤷ ゛ ˎˊ˗coming soon...

♡ 365 Days - Dark!John 'Soap' MacTavish (one-shot)

♡ Focus Fire - Dark!John 'Soap' MacTavish (series)

♡ Eres mía - Dark!Valeria Garza (series)

♡ Noticed - Dark!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick (series)

Radios crack every now and then as part of gear checks, velcro ripping as pockets are checked and filled.

The mood is light, certain—the quiet before the storm, before intensity and professionalism takes a hold.

Missions are never easy but missions like this one are familiar to your team, to you and the foreign soldiers accompanying and helping out the team today.

And yet, this mission has something special.

Not because you're working with a foreign team, but because you got send one of the best—Sergeant MacTavish, or Soap, from Task Force 141.

He's already fully geared up, standing near the door to the armory and talking with a Sergeant from your Task Force—their conversation seemingly light and joking.

You're tightening the gun-holster around your thigh when Soap approaches.

"Hae ye got the lot?" he asks and you need a brief moment to decipher his scottish accent, though after a few days of having him around as well, you're quick with it.

"Yes, Sir." you nod once—sharp and clean, confident.

He nods back in approval, then already moves on to the next soldier and seemingly checking in with everyone which is greatly appreciated.

Task Force 141, and it's members, have their own reputation and standing between the ranks.

When they're send on missions with other Task Forces, everyone breathes a little easier—this op is no exception.

Captain Miller enters, orders everyone into the briefing room for the last debrief before things get serious.

You quickly check your gear one last time, patting over your tactical vest to feel the filled pockets as you file out the armory with the rest of the soldiers.

Your Lieutenant gives you, as well as a few others of the Task Force, an encouraging slap on the shoulder as you enter the briefing room.

The mood here is different, changed—though not negatively.

The chatter has quieted down in to low murmurs here and there, concentration and training forcing everyone into focus automatically.

When Captain Miller speaks everyone listens, his rank and the way he generally presents himself demanding respect and complying every order given.

The briefing content is the same as before; eliminate the target and extract another high-value one, time's limited, intel promised minimal resistance and Captain Miller will lead while Colonel Sinan will be on comms.

The mission is clear and environment controlled even though corners are clearly cut due to the time limite.

"What 'bout extraction timing?" Soap asks, throwing the question into the room from where he's seated at one of the chairs at the debrief table.

"Once the target is eliminated and the high-value target ready for extraction, Colonel Sinan can get you out in five minutes or less." Captain Miller responds, gesturing to said Colonel.

The answer is unspecific, vague, but no one pushes.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

The engine noise swallows conversation as the vehicle drives through the streets, the bumps in the road making everyone jostle in their seats.

You're in the second of the three armored vehicles currently driving to the mission site—a half-ghost town only inhabited by a few civilians, the rest that had once lived there having moved closer to the city and away from the poor infrastructure of the town years ago.

The houses have remained, seemingly uninhabited, leaving perfect ground for terrorist groups to plan and act.

Three snipers have already been positioned at high ground on tall buildings at the outskirts of the town to cover and scout, communicating over comms with Colonel Sinan as they visually scan the area for activity.

The vehicles part, the first driving along the left of the town, the third keeps going straight while the second vehicle—the one you're in—approaches from the right.

It takes a couple of minutes until you come to a stop, a long block away from the target building.

The air is charged with professional tension and confidence.

Sergeant Zayed informs Colonel Sinan of team two's arrival, then waits for the Colonel's clearance before giving the signal to exit the armored vehicle.

Your skin prickles as you step out, whether that is from the heat of the burning sun or the op you're not sure, not now.

All that matters now is the mission.

Clear the building, extract the high-value target for intel at base and eliminate the other target.

You, and the rest of team two, connect with team one and three via comms after Sergeant Zayed's clearance.

"T-3, how copy?" he speaks into the small mic connected to his helmet and only a moment later Soap's voice, who's on team three, cracks through.

"Loud and clear." Soap confirms and Sergeant Zayed moves on to team one who confirms the signal receive in the same manner.

"Moving in. Regroup at target building." Captain Miller's voice chimes in through your earpiece and Sergeant Zayed confirms the order before beckoning you and the rest of team two to close in on the building.

The streets are empty, almost eerily so, as you follow the Sergeant—the team's rifles pointing down, for now.

Intel informed of civilians left in the half-abandoned town, but no one's walking around and you can't spot any movement from the buildings surrounding you so you guess most people still living here are simply at work in the city which wouldn't be unusual given it's only noon.

Your team moves quietly towards the target building, rifles raising on instinct as the line of sight becomes clear.

You can see team one and three closing in as well—their steps just as quiet and controlled, rifles raised and ready for action as well.

Your team rounds the building from the right, team one from the left while team three immediately closes in on the visible entrance of the building—the only one as it seems since your team didn't find another and Captain Miller shakes his head as he and team one find the regroup point at team three by the door too.

How things go from here on out is clear and needs no further discussion.

Team three and Soap will enter first, rush straight up to the top of the building while your team and Captain Miller clear the ground floor first and then covers team three as they work their way back down and your team their way up.

The rest of team one will stay outside, eliminate enemies who try to escape, keep the entrance clear for extraction of the high-value target and move in for reinforcement should it be needed.

The building, just like the town and the streets, is quiet—no visible movement, no sounds from inside.

Captain Miller nods once as a signal to move in and your heart doesn't exactly starts racing, but it moves.

From here on out, it's violence and precision.

Your shoulders tense, your rifle rising a little higher as a Lieutenant from your Task Force tries the handle of the front door and it swings open with no protest, causing team three along with Soap to rush in without question or waiting.

For a moment, as Soap passes you to get inside, you think you can see his grip tighten on his rifle but you don't think much of it.

Once team three has entered, your team along with Captain Miller moves in.

Team three is filing up the stairs, boots thumping on the old wood, as most of your team fans out on the ground floor.

You're covering your partners, a native soldier's, six as you move down the hallway into the furthest part of the building.

Captain Miller, who's covering the stairs with someone from team one, becomes smaller and smaller in your vision until you round a corner with your partner and he vanishes completely from sight.

From somewhere upstairs you can faintly hear the thump of a door being kicked open, and a moment later your partner nudges you with his elbow which signals you turn to help him clear the room ahead.

He moves in first and you follow close behind, keeping him clear and covered—just like you trained to do for years, just like you've done many times before.

You clear the main room of the seemingly empty apartment first, checking behind doors and visible space first before moving in further.

It's when your partner opens a door in the back of the apartment, probably a bedroom, when there's a sudden shot somewhere in the distance outside the apartment building—then all hell breaks loose.

You don't even get the chance to guess the location of the shot before your partner begins opening fire.

"Contact!" you yell instinctively into your comms as soon as his first shot rings out, vision of the room still blocked by the narrow doorway and his body.

Your partner's shots are returned and you move behind him to help eliminate the enemy, or enemies, when he staggers back and you have to avoid collision with him by stepping to the side again.

For a small moment you can glance inside the room as he moves back, manage to get an overview and the enemy location—one enemy left and standing in the middle of the room, the other already down and unmoving on the floor.

You take your partners place, and fire.

Pain blooms on your left rib as one of the enemies shots hit your chest plate, denting the metal.

A moment later, your own bullet hits and the unarmored enemy falls to the floor lifeless—his blood mixing with the other already dead enemie in a puddle on the floor.

You clear the bedroom, then turn around to check on your partner.

"Fuck." you breathe quietly when you see him.

He's slumped against the wall, slowly sliding it down and clutching his stomach with blood spewing from bullet wounds on his abdomen.

"Man down!" you yell into your comms, not yet realizing that shots are still fired somewhere in the building above you.

You don't hesitate, rush to his side and press your gloved hands onto his abdomen to still the bleeding.

"Hey! Hey! Sergeant! Talk to me!" you say loud enough for him to hear, adrenaline making your own ears rush.

Sergeant Rasam only responds in a whimper, then a grunt, before his head lolls to the side and his arms drop limp from where he had been clutching his own wounded stomach that are now only held in place by your hand still pressing down on it.

His blood is warm and sticky, you can even feel that even through your glove.

Using your mouth, you rip the glove off your free hand with your teeth before you wrench your freed middle and index finger under the jacket covering his head and neck, feeling for a pulse on the bare skin at the side of his neck—nothing.

After a moment, you reposition your fingers to feel again but you still can't feel a pulse drum underneath your fingertips.

You pull back, frustrated and angry—the adrenaline of the sudden attack subsiding, the rushing in your ears lessening until you can hear the faint gunfire from upstairs.

Intel promised minimal resistance, just a couple of enemies but this, this feels wrong—too precise, too disciplined, too well timed and not panicked at all.

You take a deep breath as you straighten, regain your bearings and control.

You still haven't gotten a reply to what you shouted into comms, your comms haven't even cracked with a tried response and team three upstairs hasn't informed of enemy contact.

"T-3 this is Sergeant (Y/N), how copy?" you speak into comms and wait for a moment, but there's no reply.

"T-2, how copy?" you then try but the result, or lack thereof, stays the same.

Panic starts rising in the pit of your stomach, clawing it's way up your throbbing ribs and engulfing your chest as it's claws close around your neck.

"T-1? Captain? How copy?!" you try a third time, raising your rifle before you start moving again—you can't stay still, not now.

There's still no response when you reach the corner you rounded with Sergeant Rasam before while the two of you fanned out here as you covered him.

"Colonel Sinan, how copy? I lost communication with the rest of the teams. Enemy contact." you try one last time as you stop by the corner, checking if the hallway is clear while you wait for a response that doesn't come—comms has been capped, silently.

You clench your jaw to force yourself to focus before cautiously and quietly moving back down the hallway with your rifle raised as your eyes and ears scan for activity.

The bottom of the stairs where Captain Miller and someone from team one had stayed to keep watch on the stairs and keep it clear comes into view after a couple moments, but now no one's standing there.

The sound of shouted orders too distant to make out clearly and gun fire carry down the stairs and you know where you have to go—with comms disabled, you have to reach your team and stay close.

Still cautious you approach the stairs, heart racing in your chest as your body produces adrenaline once more and pushes it into every vain.

The smell of blood and gunpowder clings in the air as you ascend the wooden staircase, gaze trained up and focused since you can only rely on yourself until you reach the rest of team two and three.

Shouts and orders become louder, clearer, as you get closer to where you guess the rest of the team is based on the noise—the dead body of an enemy lying on the break of stairs floor five marks where you need to go and you step over the body, mindful to not slip on the blood.

You step straight into hell when you enter the hallway leading to the different apartments on the fifth floor—blood, gore and bodies of foe and friend alike littering the narrow space.

The shouted orders and yells haven't stopped, but they have lessened.

A bad sign, a really bad sign.

Due to the early noon sunlight filtering into the hallway through a window, you can see your hands trembling slightly in the sunlights reflection on your raised rifle shaking.

You move on training and instinct, your footsteps quickening with certainty while staying quiet as you continue down the hallway to where the shouts seem to mainly come from.

The shouted orders overlap into inaudible chaos, coming from everywhere all at once.

You recognize a few voices when they shout, but can barely catch a word or two—there are other yells and shouts over the gunfire too, but they're in the local language that you don't understand.

Suddenly, door of one of the apartments lining the long hallway swings open and you immediately train the mouth of your rifle to the movement.

You're about to pull the trigger, to shoot and kill as soon as the opportunity presents itself, when two wrestling people file out the apartment—one in gear you recognize, the other without.

It's Soap who slams the enemy into the wall of the hallway before drawing his combat knife and stabbing it right into the enemy's windpipe in one fast and decisive move.

The man, the enemy, gurgles with wide eyes as his own blood fills his throat...then falls onto the floor when Soap releases his hold on him and removes his knife.

"Soap!" you call out, lowering your rifle just a bit so you can see him clearly.

His head snaps around to you.

"Ambush. Intel was wrong. Comms' capped, more enemies than expected. This 's a right fucking disaster!" he responds almost immediately, confirming what you had already guessed.

"T-1 came in to back us up after the first shots rang out an' noticed the comms were down. We've taken friendly fire, lost a lot o' good lads." Soap continues as he sheaths his combat knife back into his vest.

There's nothing left of the easygoing, joking man you first met a few days ago—now there's only a soldier standing a few feet across from you in the hallway amidst chaos.

Soap is pure discipline and cold precision right now, a soldier shaped to work in a hell like this.

He turns his back to you, frees the handgun from it's holster on his right thigh.

"Captain's down too." he adds as he raises his arms, pointing the gun straight ahead further down the hallway where shots and shouts still ring out like a doomed melody you had become way too familiar with over the last few years.

"We support what's left of T-1 and T-3, aside from you T-2 was probably eliminated." Soap commands clearly as he begins stepping forward.

You don't move, can't.

You're the only one left from Team two..?

You hesitate—not from fear, from uncertainty.

"(Y/N)!" Soap snaps your name sharp and grounding, his blue eyes fixed on your frozen form from over his shoulder.

That get's you moving instantly, all hesitation gone.

You follow him a few paces further down the hallway before he stops at a slightly ajar door and motions you to the next—yelling, shots and the sound of fighting ringing out from behind both apartment doors.

Soap nods once, the signal to move and you do.

You kick open the apartment door while Soap rushes into the other apartment.

With your rifle firmly raised you quickly scan what you can immediately see of the furniture-less apartment while simultaneously moving further in towards the sound of the fighting.

A single shot rings out right as you reach the door to what must be the kitchen, your ears ringing due to the proximity of the fired shot—you turn to the sound immediately, eliminate the enemy who barely has time to straighten after killing your LT before your bullets pierce his back.

The enemy slumps forward, hitting the ground in a pool of blood with a wet thud and unable to move.

He whimpers and grunts in pain, but you don't have the time for mercy killing right now—he'll have to bleed out.

You clear the apartment, then step out into the hallway again to move to the next and you can hear Soap shouting something over gunfire further down the hallway in another apartment he has already moved onto.

When you open the next apartment door where shots had just rang a moment ago, you can barely dodge the knife thrown your way as you're about to enter—a knife thrown by a comrade.

This is how you recognize the real disaster this situation is.

The chain of command is broken, communication with base and help impossible and leaving everyone to act on pure survival instinct which gives the perfect base for panic and mistakes.

"It's me!" you quickly say before carefully waving your hand in the doorway to show you're from the Task Force.

"Holy shit Sergeant, I almost fucking killed ya!" Sergeant Peralter calls back breathless, his voice tight and higher than usual.

You step into the open doorway of the apartment, see Peralter stand over an enemy's body.

He's heaving, his arm bleeding with a bullet wound in his biceps.

"Apartment's clear." he says, noticing your gaze on his wounded arm and covering it with his gloved hand briefly.

"Isn't as bad as it looks." he comments drly and you only nod in acknowledgment, having no choice but to trust his words.

You step into the apartment, fish out the bandage roll you always have in a pocket on your gear belt and throw the bandage his way before turning to face the apartment's entrance to cover him while he takes care of his arm.

From behind you, you can hear him catch the wrapped bandage.

" 'm out of fucking ammo." he mutters as he rips the package open and takes the bandage out.

"I can give you two magazines." you say, eyes and ears on full strain as you keep the Sergeant clear.

All of you always carry at least five magazines plus the one in the rifle at move out and one extra for the handguns—did he use up all of it in such a short time..?

You've barely used half of your original rifle magazine, haven't once needed to draw your handgun and use it.

Your sense of time is inaccurate due to the adrenaline cursing through your body and the chaos happening all around you, but it cannot have been more than five minutes since you breached the building.

The intel was wrong, terribly wrong, or rather a medium to get you here and killed judging by the power of the attack.

Sergeant Peralter gives you a firm slap on the back of your tactical vest to free you from watch and you immediately grab the two magazines from the front of your vest before handing them to him without looking.

He clicks the first magazine into his rifle and you noticed how the sounds of shots have lessened even further, shouting only audible occasionally.

You move out of the cleared apartment and back into the hallway again, Peralter hot on your heels for a few moments before overtaking and walking in front of you—his muscles coiled like a spring, his injured arm shaking with obvious effort.

He moves far down the hallway, to the end of it, and ignoring the handful of closed or slightly ajar apartment doors on the way—you don't question it because the Sergeant is T-3 and was therefore here first which gives him more knowledge of the situation than you could have.

He stops in front of the last door down the hallway, motions you to step back which you do.

Peralter lifts his boot, kicks the door hard and it splinters—not due to his force, though.

The door explodes, sending splinters, debris and flesh flying everywhere.

The Sergeant's pained scream is muffled in your ringing ears, your head pounding due to the noise and your senses so thoroughly disarmed due to the explosion that you don't notice wooden splinters slicing your skin and getting stuck in your flesh.

Smoke emerges from the apartment, coming from the explosive that detonated a moment ago.

Your eyes tear involuntarily at the smoke when you open them again since they closed instinctively.

Your ears are still ringing in a high pitch, deafening your ears, when you catch sight of Peralter—he's clutching his leg that's missing just above his knee.

Blood spews violently from the stump and you stagger forward, dropping to your knees with visual on the hallway in the corner of your black-smoke clouded vision.

You quickly unravel the bandage Peralter had wrapped around the bullet wound on his biceps with shaking hands, wrap it tightly over the flesh where his leg has been blown off.

You don't think, you just move—the high pitched ringing still so prominent in your ears and the smoke so dark and thick that you don't notice Soap until he grabs one of Peralter's arms and wraps it over his shoulder.

Without thinking, you do the same with the injured Sergeant's other arm.

You cough through the smoke, Soap leading you and Peralter away from the fire starting to lick out of the apartment—you don't even know if he speaks, if he gives you orders, because of the ringing.

Only muffled you can hear the injured Sergeant cry out in pain, his head thrashing violently from side to side as constant agony courses through his body.

You let Soap guide, following him—the ringing in your ears slowly starting to subside, very slowly.

The two of you, carrying Sergeant Peralter, make it through the hallway and to the stairs where Soap then takes most of the other Sergeants weight to a floor below while you support what you can.

At an apartment door on the fourth floor right next to the stairs, Soap releases Peralter who now manages to help you keep him upright using his only left leg—you still have to press his body against the wall to keep balance and maximize the support.

Soap quickly clears the apartment, alone, before coming back out and helping you get the Sergeant inside—he closes the apartment door quietly after the two of you manage to get the from pain moaning soldier into the guest bathroom next to the front door.

The ringing in your ears is still high-pitched and prominent, though it has lessened into a pulsing headache blooming at your temples and forehead since the initial explosion.

Soap checks you first, temporarily ignoring the weak Sergeant slumped against the tile wall.

Muffled you can hear Soap speak but the ringing is still so loud and the headache so agonizing that you can't concentrate, the smell of fire and smoke starting to carry through the building.

You blink, squeeze your eyes shut hard a few times before opening them again in an effort to regain your focus and get rid of the ringing, but it doesn't work.

It's only when Soap grabs your shoulder and turns your upper body towards him that you can concentrate on him.

For a moment you can only see his lips moving but can't hear him before the ringing finally subsides into a background blur that allows you to hear what's happening outside your head.

Sergeant Peralter's pained moans and whimpers, thudding footsteps above, shouts in the local language, the crackling of fire and Soap calling out for you.

You snap back into here and now, snap back into reality and training.

"(Y/N), ye alright?!" he asks and by his tone you can guess that he's asked that a few times already.

"Yes, I'm fine. You?" you respond after a moment, your brain needing a bit longer than usual to process while it calms from shock at everything that has happened so far—your team wiped, comms cut, the ambush, the explosion.

Soap nods to your question, gives you a once over.

His gaze stops for a moment at your legs, his brows furrowing for a moment and lips tightening into a thin line and you look down on yourself at his odd reaction.

A splinter roughly 2 inches (5cm) thick is loged deep in your thigh, probably barely missing the bone.

It's when you see it that the pain of the injury finally registers, your knees threatening to give out for a moment but you refuse to let them buckle.

Automatically your hand reaches down to the splinter, about to pull it out, when Soap catches your wrist and stops you.

"Don't." he says firm but calm, collected.

You stop and don't try to move your hand toward it again to pull the splinter free, nod almost on instinct with your eyes still fixed on the piece of wood stuck in your flesh and muscle.

Soap's right to stop you and you know it, there are no medic's available and none on close standby.

If you were to take the wood out of your thigh, you might bleed out within minutes if an artery was cut or even severed so keeping the splinter in will buy you time and maybe even save your life.

You can still feel your leg, move it and walk on it, so for now it'll have to do.

Soap releases your wrist again.

"How ye fixed for ammo? Whit've ye got left?" he asks next, nodding at your vest where you store your magazines.

"Two full rifle rounds left, handgun's unused with one extra magazine and Sergeant Peralter has two more full rifle magazines from me." you say after swallowing down the nausea riding up your throat.

When you mention the Sergeant, you realize that the bathroom has grown quiet—too quiet.

Your head snaps towards him and you find him still slumped against the tile wall limp and silent, the bandage you wrapped tightly over and around the stump completely soaked with crimson blood that already forms a puddle beneath.

Soap's crouches down, checks for a pulse before turning his head to you and shaking it slightly—he's dead.

Your shoulders sack, your vision becoming blurry with tears for just a moment before you blink and banish the excessive moisture from your eyes.

Soap sighs, straightens back to his full height.

"It wisnae on ye. Ye did the best ye could." he says quietly, comforting, after a moment as he grabs your shoulder again—this time to hold, to ground.

He squeezes, then let's go.

"We need tae get back tae ground level and tae one o' the vehicles so we can get the fuck out o' here and reach the Colonel for extraction. Ye take my six, I'll cover yer reload. We're no usin' the front door, we'll go out a ground-level window 'cause they'll be expectin' us at the door. Snipers are already dealt wi', so it's just us for cover. We'll make for T-1's motor first since it's the closest. If we get hit on the way, we'll use the other buildings for cover and push for T-2's, then T-3." he explains and you nod along as you memorize the plan, a good one at that.

"Good." Soap nods as well, then takes Sergeant Peralter's rifle he grabbed before helping you drag him away and pocketing the extra magazine in his vest before you hand him the extra magazine of the handgun which he pockets as well.

You check what's left in your original magazine and upon seeing that it's just two bullets, you click a new one in.

The pain in your leg has worsened, blooming with every slight move and twitch of the muscle and you're certain that only adrenaline is keeping you upright right now.

The thundering footsteps and shouts from above have quieted down as the enemies seem to have separated into small groups in search of survivors.

Technically you don't know it for sure, but the way in which Soap explained the plan makes you almost certain that only the two of you are left.

You clench your jaw, molars grinding together, as you force the pain to be background noise in your body while you follow Soap's lead of straightening your posture and getting ready to move again.

You follow him out the small guest bathroom to the front door of the empty apartment where he then stops and turns to look at you over his shoulder, pure focus lining his face.

"Ye ready?" he asks and you nod, tightening your grip on your rifle.

Soap turns back to the door and opens it with one gloved hand.

The smell of smoke and fire worsens, a thin veil of it creeping from the top of the stairs over the hallway floor—even the heat from the fire above is noticeable when you follow Soap into the empty hallway.

You cover his back, scan the area and for now everything's clear.

As a pair you start descending the stairs, keeping watch and boots quiet on the wood.

Soap doesn't stop for the third or second floor, he keeps moving straight down and you follow—with only four rifle and two handgun magazines in total and an unknown number of enemies, stealth and avoidance is the best strategy.

At the break of stairs on the first floor both you and Soap open fire simultaneously at a group of enemies gathered on the stairs.

They don't have much time to react or raise their guns, but the sound of gunfire attracts more enemies who start filing up from the ground floor.

For a few moments, you let Soap fire and take down the enemies who approach from downstairs while you stay ready to cover him.

"Reload. Focus Fire." he says firmly and you step in immediately, taking down enemy after enemy as the high ground gives you and Soap a great advantage and angular cover.

Soap steps in next to you, supporting your shots with his own until your magazine is empty.

He covers your reload wordlessly without you having to say you need to reload, puts himself between you and the enemies trying to close in through the stairs.

You've barely clicked your magazine in place, already turning back to the staircase railing to continue firing, when a single shot flies past your face and missing you only barely.

Before you can react, Soap does—moving too fast for you to think or process.

One moment he's letting bullet rain on the enemies below, the next he has his handgun drawn and sends a single precise shot upwards that send the single enemy from upstairs who tried to kill you hang over the railing motionlessly.

His momentary lack of attention towards the enemies below comes with a prize though—a shot lands, lodging itself in his shoulder.

As soon as you register that the hit Soap took isn't fatal, you're firing downstairs again and wiping the last bit of approaching enemies.

The force of the bullet lodging itself into Soap's shoulder has forced him back two paces and once no enemies or approaching footfalls are in sight, you turn to him.

"You good?" he asks and Soap responds with a pained grunt.

"Just a wee scratch." he chuckles and, before you can mention that he doesn't move the injured shoulder which means he's lying, he nods you down the last floor and moves himself.

This is Soap, Task Force 141, at peak performance—fast but precise and absolutely fatal.

You follow Soap down the last flight of stairs to the ground level, keep his six covered.

He leads down the hallway, around the corner and to last apartment—the one you cleared with Sergeant Rasam at the very start of this doomed operation.

You stay cautious without being asked for—the smell of death and decay, of burning flesh, mixing with the thick smell of fire and smoke.

Soap moves away curtains and then opens the glass door in the living room that leads into what must've once been a well taken care of garden before he steps back and gestures for you to go first.

You manage a single step towards the open glass door when the whole building suddenly seems to vibrate which makes you pause—white, hot pain shooting through your injured leg and your bruised ribs at the violent shake.

"Move!" Soap barks, grabbing the scuff of your tactical vest to keep you steady as he shoves you out the building and follows suite close behind.

The building groans dangerously and instead of steering you to the left where T-1's vehicle is, he pulls you to the right—adjusting the plan on the fly.

You're barely out of range when the top of the building collapses due to the fire the explosion that killed Sergeant Peralter caused, the top of the structure tilting and falling to the left which completely crushes a smaller building next to it—Soap forces you to duck low to avoid debris, still having a hold on your vest.

"Tae the right, T-2's motor!" he commands as he gives you a firm push before letting go of your vest.

Training takes over again and you move to follow the command without hesitation—the order grounds you, keeps you moving and conscious as your body starts running out of adrenaline.

The pain in your leg becomes harder and harder to ignore as you keep moving, using the buildings as cover as you close in on your team's armored vehicle.

"Yer still with me?" he asks firmly as he covers your six, leaving you to locate your teams vehicle.

"Yes, Sir." you respond but the tightness and slight shake in your voice is undeniable even to yourself.

"Good, 'cause we're nae loosin' anyone else." Soap says without missing a beat.

His words should be comforting, are probably meant that way, but they only make your throat tighten with the realization of how dire the situation is once more.

The two of you reach the vehicle without incident, without enemy fire, and Soap unlocks it with the key he must have gotten from Captain Miller before he helps you into the back with a careful shove—the pain in your leg is worsening by the second.

"Colonel Sinan, how copy?" Soap speaks into comms as he climbs into the driver's seat and shoves the key into the ignition, his rifle with you in the backseat.

There's still no reply which makes Soap curse quietly in what you can only assume is Scottish.

He turns the key and the engine roars to life, a moment later the vehicle is moving fast through the streets.

The bumps and turns make the pain unbearable, making you reconsider leaving the piece of wood in your flesh and muscles because it hurts.

Sweat makes your hair clinge to your forehead, makes the clothes under your gear stick to your skin—whether that's from the heat of the burning midday sun that made the interior of the vehicle uncomfortably warm and stuffy or if you're sweating from pain and subsiding adrenaline, you can't tell.

You can't even tell that you've lost consciousness until you hear the roaring of helicopter blades and your earpiece cracking with noise.

You barely manage to stay conscious for long enough to hear Colonel Sinan's voice and Soap briefly but thoroughly explaining what happened before you're pulled under again.

It can stay like this, you think—dark and painless.

You're forced back into reality and pain though when Soap grabs your shoulders to pull you out of the vehicle that has already come to a halt with a chopper just roughly 40 feet (12 meters) ahead waiting on the ground.

You fight to stay conscious and to keep your eyes from fluttering shut, using the pain and Soap as an anchor to keep you grounded and awake.

You blink the sand and dust out of your eyes as the rotating helicopter blades whirl it up and whips it around.

Once at the chopper, Soap pulls you inside and straps you in—one hand firmly staying on your shoulder as the chopper leaves ground.

You keep blinking to rid your eyes of sand and dust stuck in them while Soap removes your helmet and puts the noise canceling headset over your ears, then you glance out the open heli door.

The target building has erupted into high and biting flames, smoke, ash and soot tainting the collapsed structure.

There's nothing left to recover and everything, including you, suddenly feels unreal because this is the certainty you've been refusing to acknowledge—everyone else is dead.

Your team, your Task Force, your friends and comrades wiped out.

A team of armed soldier's of what must be the native military close in on the building, they seem almost comedically small as the chopper continues flying higher and away.

You force your gaze away, too occupied with staying conscious to process what Soap is talking about with the pilot.

You focus on the pain again, on the feeling of your hair and clothes stuck to your sweat-wet skin, on the hot liquid pooling at the bottom of your pants below your injured thigh.

The chopper ride isn't long since it doesn't bring you straight back to base but instead to the medical team that has been on standby a few kilometers away from the supposedly half-abandoned town for the mission—just in case.

The seats are empty aside from Soap and you, places vacant where others should be.

The moment the chopper lands on solid sandy ground, medics shout.

Soap helps the two medics get you out of the chopper, you're too weak to get out yourself, and into the med-tent that is pure chaos.

Soldiers that came for reinforcement from the base try to reach their comrades using comms and radios, desperately trying to reach anyone that might still be alive.

You and Soap, who keeps your right side supported, are swarmed by a team of medics.

You feel cold and hot, the pain blooming across your leg, head and ribs sharp and dull at the same time and you seem to slip in and out of consciousness in sudden waves.

Your right foot of your pierced leg leaves bloody prints in the sandy ground and the rest of the ringing left in your ears from the explosion dulls the chaos around you.

"Let go, Sergeant!" one of the medics barks at Soap, trying to take his place but Soap doesn't budge.

He helps the other medic get you on one of the stretchers already waiting, and you don't even realize you're protesting to lay down until Soap forces you to by pressing your shoulders flat onto the surface of the stretcher.

You slip under, then back in again and when you do your upper body and calves are strapped to the stretcher—Soap is still standing above you by then but another medic ushers him away, a concerned look on the medics face due to the still bleeding bullet wound in Soap's shoulder.

If you were able to react faster, Soap wouldn't be injured now.

If you were able to react faster, maybe you could've kept Sergeant Peralter from loosing his leg and bleeding out.

If you would've reacted faster, maybe you could've saved your comrades, your team, your Task Force—your family.

The long sleeve of your shirt is cut open, exposing the bare skin of your arm to the stuff tent air.

You're shaking and writhing on the stretcher you're strapped to—bloodloss, pain and subsiding adrenaline making it impossible not to move and stay in control of your body.

There's a sharp sting in your exposed arm for a moment, then the pain lessens quickly before it's gone—leaving you relieved and in pure bliss for the time being.

You can feel the strap of your gun holster being tightened as much as possible on your injured thigh, medics shouting orders at each other and yelling about getting you to a hospital as soon as possible.

You catch the word's bloodloss, artery damage, infection and other medical terms your hazy mind can't make sense of at the moment.

The straps keeping you on the stretcher are loosened, then removed fully and two medics force you to sit up.

Soap is sitting on another stretcher opposite of you, his helmet off and blood on his face he hasn't wiped away yet.

He's watching you as the medic checks the wound on his shoulder, his brows furrowed slightly and his lips once again pressed into a thin line—maybe pain, maybe concentration as he watches you breath, maybe something else entirely.

One medic supports your back as the other grabs your boots and swings your legs over the edge of the stretcher, Soap moves.

He's by your side within moments, grabs your arm and swings it over his shoulder again before lifting.

With his and a medics help, you limp back to the waiting chopper.

You don't remember how you got in, probably falling unconscious again for a small while, but when you open your eyes again two medics are also sitting in the helicopter along with you and Soap.

Soap is sitting opposite of you again, watching you closely, with one medic sitting next to him and the other sitting next to you.

When you catch his gaze, your own eyes only half lidded, he smiles.

"We made it." he say's, his voice barely audible in the headset someone put on you.

You manage a weak 'yeah' and nod which makes the medic next to you realize you're awake again.

The rest of the fly the medic keeps you awake with simple questions, probably checking for your mental wellbeing as well and how lucid you are.

You answer correctly, at least you hope so because you answer automatically without being able to really think of the questions you're asked.

You respond with your name, your age, blood tyle, where you're from, your rank, your Task Force and respond to everything else you're asked.

By the time the medic stops asking questions, you arrive at the military hospital where the chopper lands on the designated spot.

Once out, again with help you definitely need, you're strapped down on a stretcher once.

You're feeling tired, weak, cold, lightheaded, dizzy and you can't stop your limbs from shaking—your heart racing and your breaths short.

The medics and doctors are exchanging information about your situation and injuries as they roll the stretcher into the elevator.

Soap talks to you, tries to keep you awake but your eyelids become so heavy that you can't keep them open anymore—your body pulled under the black nothingness once more.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

Soap's face was the last thing you saw before fainting, and it's also the first thing you see when you wake up again.

You're laying in a hospital bed, head resting on a pillow and a blanket covering your body with Soap sitting on a chair in the room between your bed and the door.

He smiles when you shift.

"Ye awake?" he asks, but it's more of a statement.

You blink against the bright fluorescent lights, rushing your eyes to get used to the brightness faster before you nod to his question, still a bit lightheaded.

You sit up using your core strength and a bit of support from your arms, sharp pain shooting through your right thigh at the movement.

Part of you want to look, to see the damage done to your leg, but part of you hesitates.

What if it's really bad? What if your leg will never return to normal?

Your hand reaches for the blanket to expose your thigh to your eyes, but you don't lift it yet—pausing, still pondering.

Soap sees it but doesn't comment, doesn't press or say anything and giving you the time to decide for yourself.

Being able to feel the pain must be a good sign, or so you think, and to test the feel in your leg you wriggle your toes—they listen to your command, move even if it hurts.

You hold your breath before reluctantly lifting the covers just enough to take a look at your thigh.

The thick wooden splinter is gone, the torn skin stitched back together neatly—dark bruises already littering the skin around it.

You sigh in relief.

You're fine, you're fine.

Smaller cuts and scrapes are littering your arms where the explosion send debris flying your way, they've been cleaned and taken care of though not bandaged since they're too small for that to make sense.

"How long...was I out for?" you ask a bit hesitant, worried of the answer.

"Just a couple o' hours, four or five. Ye lost a fair bit o' blood. Doc' took the splinter out under local, got ye blood an' fluids too." Soap responds calmly and you nod at his explanation.

"What about your shoulder?" you then ask, vaguely gesturing to the shirt covered injury with your chin.

"Aye, nothin' I can't handle. Just a wee scratch." he chuckles and you can't help but smile weakly.

You scoot back on the bed until you can rest your upper body against the pillow and wall, still feeling a bit weak and energy deprived.

Soap puts his hands on his thighs, pushing himself off the chair.

"I'll get the doc." he says and you nod, noticing the bandage peeking out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt as he turns to the door.

When the door clicks shut behind Soap, the silence swallows you.

You're fine, you're alive...but the rest is not.

Moisture builds in your eyes as memories you share with your fallen comrades flood your mind, but you blink the tears away before they can fall and only a moment later the door opens again.

The doctor paces in the room as she informs you about the procedure of removing the splinter while a nurse gives you a last round of fluids.

She tells you all about the process; the removal of the foreign object that was stuck in your thigh but luckily didn't seem to have done any nerve damage or hit a major artery, how she had to cut you open wider to remove small broken off fragments and that she cleaned out the wound to prevent infection since wood carries bacteria.

She tells you about the healing process, too.

In one to two weeks, the swelling and bruising will worsen before subsiding again.

Pain will remain when walking or bending your leg though she'll prescribe you pain meds along with antibiotics to ease the pain and prevent infection during the healing process.

Your thigh muscles will stay weak and you'll need to train the muscles back to full strength once the recovery process is complete, in the mean time you're to rest and avoid putting too much pressure on your injured leg for extended periods of time.

Over the following weeks the soreness and pain will lessen, all in all she guesses it'll take about two to three months until your strength and comfort fully return based on your age and health.

Two or three months is not as bad as you expected, you thought you'd be out of duty for longer.

After taking a look at your wound, dressing it with a bandage and giving you your first round of pain meds and antibiotics, she leaves again.

Soap steps back in, gives a nod to the doctor which she returns.

He sits down in the same chair between your bed and the door again, sinking down on it with a small groan—then he smiles, leans forward in his chair a little.

"We made it." he say's.

And yes, you survived...but at what cost..?

a/n: I wanted to pre-write the entire story, but I'm impatient af

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

The cover's worn but intact, the title barely faded.

You blink, having already forgotten that he said he'd bring you one.

It's not new or recently bought—probably second-hand or picked up from somewhere no one would miss it. 

But it's real, and it's for you.

"Didn't know what ye liked, so just grabbed one." he says, voice low and even.

You look at it—fiction. 

Something he must've thought is enough to keep you calm, slow and engaged.

He studies you while you study the cover.

No threats in his posture, just observation though there seems to be some sort of tension between his shoulders.

"Next time tell me what ye like, 'll look for it." he adds more quietly after a few beats.

You lean forward, letting your fingers brush the edge of the cover like you're unsure whether to take it—like this small offering might burn you.

But you nod softly once, not too eager but trying to match his measured movements. 

"Something with...character." you murmur, trying to keep the tone neutral but grateful.

He watches you for a moment longer, nods once in acknowledgment before he turns back to the kitchen and you make it a point to not follow him with your eyes no matter how much you want to.

You hear the fridge open and the sound of paper rustling.

You wait, eyes lowered onto the book, and trace the edges with your thumb.

He brought you something, something just for you.

You don't know if it's because he thinks you deserve it, or because he wants you to believe you do.

But it doesn't matter, you'll use it either way because you know it's true—that if you don't have something to do, you'll go mad.

Every act of care he offers will become another stone in the foundation of your plan, another reason for him to believe you're becoming what he wants.

In the kitchen he opens cabinets, shifts things on shelves. 

You don't turn your head.

You just open the book slowly, pretending to skim a page and pretending you haven't snooped through all the cabinets and drawers and know exactly what's in them.

Eventually he comes back into view, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"Food'll last a while longer now." he says like it's meant to reassure you.

You nod, subdued, and look at him with just enough of a tilt of your eyebrows that it could suggest gratitude.

He tilts his head slightly, like he's still trying to read something under your expression.

But there's nothing there, at least nothing you let him see.

Just stillness, obedience—just the perfect amount of gratitude from someone who's too tired to plan and too resigned to try.

And it seems to work because Ghost just nods again before taking his usual seat on the couch—near, but not hovering. 

Watching, settled, satisfied even.

The only sound left is the soft rustle of the book's pages as you turn one, eyes skimming a story you're not really reading.

You're not in it for the fiction, you're in it for the chance to keep pretending and the closer he moves toward trust the closer you get to the door—to freedom.

You turn another page, slow enough that it seems like you're following the plot.

From the couch Ghost leans back, arms stretching across the top edge like he owns every inch of space you're not occupying. 

He's not staring hard, at least not enough for it to look like a threat, but you feel it. 

The weight of it, of his eyes on you.

You let him think it doesn't bother you.

"Didn't take long." you say lightly, your eyes still on the book.

It's not a question, not exactly, but it's enough to let him answer if he wants to.

His reply is slow and almost careful. 

"Didn't need to. Just grabbed what was needed."

Something in his tone makes you think that only he decides what counts as 'needed', that you wouldn't get a say in it even if you wanted.

You hum, turn another page like it matters. 

"Guess you don't like being away from here long." a statement, a quiet testing of the water.

Ghosts head tilts slightly but from the corner of your eye, just below the shadow the cap throws over his face, you can see his eyes narrow slightly.

"Guess not."

Nothing else, no explanation.

You pretend to read, letting a beat of silence pass before you speak again—casual, as if you're talking about the weather.

"I don't think I've ever met someone who spends so much time indoors."

There's a pause, a faint scrape of fabric as he shifts forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

"Home's where ye keep what matters."

You glance up—just a flick, just enough for your eyes to meet his before dropping back to the page. 

"Guess that makes sense..."

It's an easy agreement, one that doesn't give anything away, but inside you're filing it away. 

Home. What matters.

The fridge hums, rain starts to tap against the boards covering the windows. 

Ghost leans back again, seemingly satisfied with your answer.

You let your fingers idly smooth the corner of the page, keep the act going. 

A small, tired twitch of the corners of your lips as if the book's distracted you from the walls pressing in. 

A glance his way, just long enough to look like you're getting used to him being there.

The slower you move, the more you seem to accept this, the more he'll start to talk and when he does you'll learn what really makes him tick.

You continue dragging your eyes over the page, though none of the words stick. 

The quiet scratches at your nerves—too thick, too close.

The cold creeps in around the edges, through the boards, through the thin cotton of the t-shirt he gave you now that you're not walking around anymore and looking for chances to get out of your cage.

You rub at your arm absently, letting the motion seem casual but a small shiver slips through before you can smother it.

Ghost notices—of course he does.

He's eying you like a hawk and even though he seems to try to be subtle about it, his gaze pricks your skin uncomfortably.

His head tilts slightly, a pause, then the scrape of the couch as he leans back fully.

"Cold?" he asks.

You hesitate, weighing it. 

Admitting weakness feels dangerous, but refusing when it's obvious might look worse.

"...A little." you respond, the words are soft and reluctant like you only said them because he asked—which you did, technically.

He rises slowly, every movement underlined with weight. 

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he crouches by the fireplace, makes use of the untouched fire starter kit.

He doesn't look at you while he feeds the fire, just stacks the kindling with practiced motions. 

It grows quickly, snapping and spitting until the room starts warming by degrees.

"Better?" he asks without turning, voice low over the crackle.

"...Yeah. Thanks." you nod careful and small.

He glances over his shoulder, the shadows shifting over his eyes and they linger on you for a beat longer than necessary before he stands and brushes his gloves against his thighs.

"Ye should've said sooner." it's not a scolding, it's more like an expectation—a reminder that he notices everything.

You lower your eyes to the book again. 

"Didn't want to bother you."

That earns you silence—heavy, thoughtful silence. 

You risk a glance up and catch him still watching you, something unreadable in the set of his shoulders.

Then he moves back to the couch, the leather of his gloves creaking faintly as he leans against his knees. 

The firelight catches the side of his mask, sharp angles made sharper by the flicker of orange.

You smooth your thumb along the edge of a page casually before you close the book. 

If you want to make your plan work, you have to engage with him no matter how much you don't want to—no matter how nauseous it makes you feel, no matter how much it makes your skin crawl.

"You've done this before." you say, eyes carefully searching his.

His head tilts, just slightly. 

"Done what?"

"Kept a place like this stocked. Organized."

You let the words sound half-curious, half idle—like you're just making conversation, not trying to pry.

His eyes don't leave you. 

"...Suppose I have." he responds after a moment, after a beat too long as if he considered answering at all.

You hum softly, as if satisfied but continue to press carefully. 

"So...what, like military? Or just the kind of person who likes things neat?" you ask.

You can't shake the feeling that his precise movements and his overall control is a simple thing he just has, it seems trained—plus the chain around his neck he keeps hidden under his clothes holds at least one dog tag, if you saw right.

There's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you've nudged too far, then he shifts back against the couch.

"Little of both."

You nod, letting a small smile flicker like you're indulging him. 

"Makes sense."

"Bet your friends don't keep things as tidy." you add after another beat, deliberately lighter.

That earns a short sound—low, almost amused under the mask. 

"Not even close."

You chuckle short and soft, enough to make it seem like you're sharing a moment and not probing for cracks. 

But inside, you're picking it apart and trying to memorize every tiny crumb he feeds you.

Friends, messy, different from him.

Maybe even a point of tension, but trust and favors since he told them to watch you and make sure you're still there.

Loyal because they do their criminal work together without stabbing each other's backs.

The fire pops sharply, sending sparks up the chimney. 

You shift in your chair, curling slightly closer to the warmth as your eyes swim to the fire as well.

On the surface, it's casual and harmless—but every word you draw from him is another thread to hold onto, another shape forming in the shadow of the man who cages you here.

And you know you'll need every piece of it, every piece of that monster who had no issue with almost killing you just to say he wants you safe.

The fire builds, licking at the logs until the shadows dance higher along the walls. 

The warmth creeps toward you steadily, loosening the tight ache in your shoulders.

You keep quiet and let the silence stretch like you're comfortable in it.

Ghost doesn't let it sit long.

"Ye read much before?" he asks, voice quiet, like it doesn't matter to him whether you answer or not.

You blink once, feigning a slow pull back to awareness even though his voice almost made you flinch.

"Sometimes." you shrug careful and light, glancing down at the book in your lap. 

"Not as much as I could've and should've, probably." you admit a moment later.

He hums—deep, neutral. 

You can't tell if he's filing that away like you have been every of his words or if he's actually just trying to hold a conversation.

"What'd ye do, then?" he asks after a beat.

"For all that time ye weren't reading."

The question hangs there, deceptively simple—casual on the surface but you know that if you're not careful with your answer, your words might just get used against you in one way or another.

You keep your tone level when you respond.

"Work, friends, just...normal things. Nothing interesting." you settle as your answer, shrugging slightly as if your life before you knew he existed is a distant memory you don't care about.

His gaze lingers like he's weighing the truth in your words, like he's measuring you against some unspoken picture he already has in his head—exactly what you expected him to do.

"Normal's not bad." he states after a moment.

Your lips twitch into something that could pass for agreement.

"Guess not."

The silence returns but it feels different this time like you've both given each other something small and unimportant but still a piece of yourselves.

You open the book again, pretend to read. 

Then, gently, you nudge back.

"Guess you don't get much of that. Normal, I mean."

He knows what you're referring to, you're sure of it.

Living as a criminal and hiding in plain sight while one's hands are slick with blood isn't really the definition for normalcy.

Ghost's head turns toward the fire. 

The mask shifts slightly as he exhales, not exactly deeply but still a bit heavier.

"...Not really."

You let your gaze linger on him for half a heartbeat before dropping it again as if you're only curious, not digging.

"Must feel strange..." you murmur, softer now "...staying still for once."

He doesn't answer right away, just leans back with his arms spread across the top of the couch again and claiming the space.

"Doesn't feel wrong." he finally says.

Your fingers press against the spine of the book to keep steady.

There it is—a small piece you can use to your advantage because he wants a quiets life, normalcy, but didn't have it before.

You nod, slow to feign satisfaction in the answer but internally don't let yourself relax in the slightest because you know better.

He's asking questions too, he's searching for pieces the same way you are.

And the more you both play this game of small exchanges, the clearer it becomes—whoever slips first loses.

The fire keeps cracking in the hearth, the smell of smoke and burning cherry oak curling faintly into the room.

You let the warmth settle into your skin, enjoy it while it lasts because fires don't seem to be lit here often.

Ghost shifts, his gloved hands pressing against his knees as he pushes himself up.

You keep your eyes on the dancing flames, tracking his motion from the corner of your vision as he walks to the front door.

The locks scrape and click, heavy and metallic, each one undone with deliberate care.

The sound makes the hair on your arms and neck stand up.

You tighten your grip on the book, force your gaze to the page now like it doesn't matter that he's working on the door—like it isn't dangerous that he's opening the one exit that stands between you and freedom.

The door creaks. 

Cold air brushes through the room, stirring the firelight.

The smell of rain and wet earth follows not soon after and it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

You're so close yet so far of getting out, of getting away but Ghost is a brick wall you can't break through and you know that.

He'd slam you back into the furthest wall of the cabin the second a single strand of your hair gets a fleeting taste of freedom.

You hear the rasp of a lighter, the faint inhale, then the soft exhale of smoke.

He doesn't step outside onto the small porch you can barely make out behind the door, doesn't even give you the illusion of a chance—a small mercy at least.

He's leaning with his back against the doorframe, his body a solid shadow against the grey spill of daylight beyond the cabin door with his mask rolled up just enough to expose his lips so he can smoke.

'He's not a frequent smoker' you think.

This is the first time you've seen him smoke, the smell of cigarettes isn't in the cabin either and the smell of smoke on his jacket doesn't come from cigarettes—you're sure of that.

The silence stretches again, but not comfortably—it's tense on your end.

It's a test, a trap with razor sharp teeth.

"Place ye worked..." Ghost says finally after a few drags, his voice carried by the fresh air coming from outside "...ye like it?"

Your heart jolts at the casualness. 

You wet your lips, tilt your head slightly like you're weighing the memory.

"It was fine." you answer. 

You could tell him how much you hated going to work in that company every day, but you decide against it.

Not only because you don't want him to think that you hated anything in your life before it became this, but also because right now you kind of miss it.

You miss interacting with other people, even if they were nosy and annoying.

"Nothing special. Paid the bills." you add.

He exhales smoke after having taken another drag as you talked, a faint plume catching the gust of wind before vanishing.

"People treat ye alright?"

It sounds simple on the surface but you know it isn't. 

He's watching how you answer, how you react to all of it.

You nod once, this time deciding for a half truth you can believe yourself.

"Mostly. Everyone's got someone they don't get along with though. It's just how people are." you shrug soft and harmless.

There's a beat of silence, then the faint grind of the cigarette as he flicks ash out into the cold.

"Suppose so."

You risk your own nudge, keeping it light.

"And you? Ever do that kind of thing?"

The shadow of his shoulders stiffens just slightly but his voice stays even.

"No. Not my sort of work."

You hum like that's all you wanted to know but you're turning it over and pressing on the edges of it to see what kind of use you can get out of that information.

The silence lingers, heavy with things he doesn't ask and answers you therefore don't give.

The locks clank one after the other, slow and firm, as he shuts the door and seals it again after crushing the cigarette under his boot.

He turns and pulls his hood down a fraction, just enough for the firelight to catch the dark hollows of his eyes. 

Ghosts watch flashes briefly at his wrist when he adjusts his sleeve, then disappears again under the fabric.

"Hungry?" he asks, tone flat but not unkind.

" 's kinda late already."

Your stomach twists—not just at the thought of food, but at the reminder that time is slipping in ways you can't mark.

You crush the thought of asking what time it is exactly because you're certain he won't give you an answer or that, if he gives you one, it will throw you off enough to loose your act since you don't even know what day it is anymore.

You glance at the fire, then down at the book again before answering.

"...Yeah. I could eat."

Ghost nods satisfied like that's what he wanted to hear, then he pauses mid-step towards the kitchen.

He watches you for a few very long moments, not moving a single muscle before he suddenly begins to move.

He's coming towards you with certain steps, not rushed but determined.

This in itself already makes you panic but when you look up to see how close he already is and notice that his eyes are narrowed, you almost break into a cold and panicked sweat.

He stops in front of you, stares for another second before his gloved hand suddenly grabs your chin and almost your entire jaw.

Your breath hitches in fear involuntarily, the familiar fabric of his gloved hands near your throat enough to almost make you scream—to take the chance you didn't get last time.

But you smother that thought, that instinct, before it can take root.

You don't know what his intention is yet, acting too fast might make things more difficult for you.

Ghost's voice cuts through the tension, his narrowed eyes fixed on your neck.

"What's that?" he asks and his tone is different from before—it's lower, more commanding and therefore turning his question into a statement.

He's not asking you to tell him, he's telling you to do so.

"What..?" you question in return, oblivious to what he's referring to.

"The scratch marks on yer fucking neck." he responds angrily, almost in a growl, his eyes snapping up to meet yours.

"Scratch..marks..?" you question once more, trying to force your voice to be steady.

Scratch marks? Why would there be scratch marks on your neck?

Your fingers twitch against the book in your lap, nails digging lightly into the worn paper to ground yourself and deny yourself moving away from his hand still holding your jaw.

His grip on your chin doesn't hurt, not yet, but it's solid and unshakable—he could tilt your head any way he wanted and you'd have no say in it.

The heat of the fire and the smell of the smoke suddenly feel suffocating.

Your mind reels back, trying to find the reason for the scratch marks.

You go back to the time period he was gone, knowing the answer has to lay there.

In a rapid blur you fly through your memories until you find the answer.

The pressure of his hands around your throat, the desperate, clawing panic until your body sunk in under the lack of oxygen it kept from itself after you touched his jacket and all the memories came flooding back from how he even got you into this cabin in the first place.

Now you remember—the panic attack you had in his room.

You forced yourself to keep moving to find weak spots in your prison afterwards, causing you to push that incident into the back of your mind until you forgot about it—until now.

You blink fast, force your voice into something small but certain.

"I...I must've scratched myself."

His eyes narrow even more, the rest of his face still hidden underneath the mask and the hood of his hoodie—giving you only his eyes as an indication of what he might think or feel.

He clearly doesn't buy it, not yet.

"When?" he asks sharply.

Your throat tightens under his hand and you swallow while trying not to make it obvious.

"...Earlier. I was drawing and I guess I...wasn't paying attention. Must've done it without noticing."

It sounds weak even to you, but it's all you have.

His thumb brushes against your jaw, slow and deliberate—a ghost of pressure that leaves a burning feeling in the trail his thumb leaves behind.

You freeze, everything in you screaming not to flinch or pull away.

"Absentminded." he mutters, the word grates.

You nod, quick, as though agreeing will make him let go.

"Yeah. Didn't even realize until you pointed it out."

Another long pause as hiss hand lingers. 

His eyes bore into yours like he's stripping away the lie piece by piece.

A log in the fire pops, crumbling in the flame—the sound makes you want to jump, dangerously close to tripping over the tension.

But finally, his hand drops. 

He straightens, shadow stretching taller across the room.

"Need to be more careful." his voice is flat again, almost calm, but the edge in it remains.

You rub your palm quickly across your throat and jaw, brushing away the phantom ache of his grip.

"...I will." you agree quietly, hoarseness in your voice even though you tried to sound sure.

He studies you a second longer before turning steadily back toward the kitchen.

You don't breathe until his back is to you, until he opens a cupboard.

The warmth from the fire doesn't reach your skin anymore.

It doesn't matter how carefully you lie, how steady you keep your mask—Ghost sees too much.

And if he looks long enough, you're terrified he'll see everything.

The cupboard he opened closes again, a aluminum can gets set down on the counter.

You force yourself to shift slightly in your chair, casual, a quiet hum in your throat like you're trying to settle back into comfort.

He glances at you once, quick but sharp, then returns his attention to what he's doing in the kitchen.

The silence weighs heavy, almost unbearable, until he breaks it.

"Ye like soup?"

Your head snaps up before you can stop yourself. 

The question is so startlingly mundane that it disarms you for a beat and you just respond without thinking.

"Um...yeah. I do."

He nods once, as though cataloguing it, then sets two cans aside.

Even if you didn't like soup, would it matter?

He gave you soup to eat already, so why would he ask now?

You grip the edge of the book tighter. 

Even this, the simple act of asking what you like, feels like another test—another layer of control dressed as care.

He pulls a pot from under the counter, sets it on the stove. 

The soft hiss of the burner clicking fills the air, followed by the slow glug of liquid pouring.

For a while it's just the sounds of him moving in the kitchen and he doesn't speak again until the soup is heating.

"Ye ever cook?"

Your mouth goes dry for a moment, still fighting the phantom ache.

"Sometimes."

He glances at you over his shoulder, unreadable under the mask.

"Good."

That single word hangs in the room like an anchor and you can't tell if it's approval, a reminder or a warning.

You shift your eyes back to the fire, hiding the way your shoulders tense.

The smell of simmering broth curls into the air, filling the cabin.

You close the book, lay it carefully on the table beside you and draw your knees closer to yourself.

For a moment, you let yourself pretend it's just dinner—just two people at the end of the day, one cooking, one reading by the fire.

But the phantom ache at your throat drags you back fast and you know that you can't afford to forget, not even for a second, what he did to you or what he's capable of—who he is.

The fire snaps beside you, the smell of simmering broth blending with smoke and burning wood.

Ghost stirs the pot with unhurried motions, his back broad and solid in the low light. 

Every scrape of the utensil feels deliberate, like he knows the silence is pressing you down.

You try not to fidget. 

You fold your arms loosely across your stomach, shift your legs under the chair, then force yourself still again. 

Any more movement and it'll look nervous, restless—the kind of thing he'd notice, the kind of thing he'd pry into.

But your skin still tingles where his hand had held your jaw, your throat burns from the passed weight of his fingers closing around it.

You wonder how much of that you can take before something in you buckles, before the act slips and before you break.

He doesn't have to strangle you again for that to happen. 

His touch, even when it's just a brush of his thumb and even when it's disguised as care, presses down on something inside you until you feel yourself fraying.

How many more times can you sit through it?

How many more times can you let him test the edges of your faked obedience before the panic pushes through and ruins everything?

The scrape of the plastic utensil in the pot stops. 

He sets it aside, turns, and leans back against the counter. 

His arms fold across his chest, casual but watchful.

You look down quickly to pretend interest in the fire again, though you can feel the heat of his stare even through the shadow the hood throws over his eyes.

The silence stretches until your chest aches with it and somewhere, deep down, you know he doesn't believe your lie—he just doesn't press because he wants you to torture yourself in it.

The smell of food thickens in the air, mixing with the smoke from the fire more noticeably. 

It should be comforting but instead it presses heavy against your chest.

Ghost stays leaned against the counter, arms folded, head tipped slightly up so he can watch you from between the edge of his mask and the hood—not taking off either or exchanging the black surgical mask for the balaclava with the print.

The light makes the dark hollows of his eyes sharper, more cavernous.

His voice cuts through the low crackle of the flames.

"Travel much?"

You shift slightly, rubbing your thumb along a spot of the armchair.

"Not really." your tone is quiet, subdued.

Ghost hums low, not breaking his stare.

"Never wanted to?"

You force your shoulders to lift in a faint shrug, as though the thought never mattered much.

"Sure. But wanting something and getting it aren't the same thing."

That earns you a pause, a heavy one.

He doesn't move or look away—he studies you like he's measuring the truth behind every word and any implication that might be hiding behind it.

You risk a gentle push, careful and feather-light.

"...You have, though?"

It's not a question, not really, and now you're the one watching closely and waiting.

There's the faintest shift in his posture, a tightening across his shoulders before he lets out a low sound—neither confirmation nor denial, just a breath.

"Had to." he finally says.

Had to. 

Not wanted to, probably didn't choose to.

You note the wording and lock it away.

"Sounds like you didn't like it much." you murmur, your voice soft and non-confrontational.

Ghosts head tilts a fraction, the black mask getting a golden glow in the firelight.

"Doesn't matter if ye like it. Ye just do it."

You let the words hang there, let him think you're too tired to press or understand what he means.

Inside your pulse keeps drumming a little faster because every small crack, every piece of his past he doesn't mean to give you, is another thread you can pull.

And you wonder how many of those threads you can collect before the whole thing unravels, before his touch and his voice and his scrutiny finally make you slip—hopefully you'll have enough threads by then to pin him down.

The fire pops, a sharp snap that makes you flinch before you can mask it. 

Ghost doesn't miss it, he never does.

He leans back in the counter again, one arm resting casual but deliberate on it.

"Ye've been sittin' in that chair since Ah left." he says evenly, not quiet gruff but not quiet casual either.

Your stomach knots. 

It's not what he's saying, not directly at least, it's the weight underneath it—the subtle push as if he wants you to break and say you've snooped around like he already knows you did, at least that's what it feels like.

You lower your eyes back to the book on the table, force your voice steady. 

"I was tired, it was easier to stay put."

A hum rumbles low from Ghost, unreadable and he drums two fingers against his thigh slowly like a ticking clock.

"Mm." he hums "Just doesn't look like ye, is all."

Your throat goes tight. 

He's not accusing, not yet, but brushing right against the line of it.

You draw in a small breath, keep your reply soft and almost dismissive—too scared to even question how he thinks he knows what you're usually like.

"Guess I'm not myself lately."

That earns you another silence, long enough that you almost look up to check his expression.

But then he hums in acknowledgment before you raise your gaze.

"Suppose that's true." Ghost murmurs finally, leaning his hips further against the counter.

The way he says it makes your skin prickle.

As if he knows there's more to it, like he's waiting for the moment you slip and knows exactly how to get you to that point.

The silence feels thick, like tar you're trying to breath through.

You start tracing the armrest of the chair again, grounding yourself and focusing.

Ghost doesn't let it go.

His voice cuts through the crackle of the fire again, steady and close to conversational.

"Funny, though. Ye're usually fidgetin' more."

Your thumb on the armrest presses into the cold wood as you force yourself to stay composed, to stay soft and not snap.

"Guess I'm tired of pacing." you say with a ghost of a shrug "Doesn't get me anywhere."

He tilts his head again, the shadows shifting across his masked face again.

"So ye've given up?"

The words sting and you can't tell if it's because of how sharp they are or because of the trap underneath them.

You force yourself to exhale slowly through your nose, desperately trying to find a response that won't give away your act while still being convincing and egging him on to lower his guard.

If you were to tell him that yes, you have given up, he'd be suspicious and if you tell him you haven't given up he'll keep the walls high and unyielding.

"Just...trying to save my energy." you settle to say carefully, skin prickling with possible consequences to your words.

Another pause, another hum—he's weighing it.

Then he leans his upper body forward slightly, crossing his arms over his chest while his hip stays pressed against the counter.

"Guess 's just strange, that."

You almost break.

You almost ask what's strange, almost yell at him and admit that you've searched around the cabin for an escape in hopes of damage control if you admit—but you bite it back. 

If he wants to press, let him. 

Don't give him the satisfaction of chasing it.

He waits like he expects you to fill the silence but when you don't, he speaks again.

"Strange seein' ye quiet when ye used to talk to yerself."

Your chest tightens. 

He's right. 

You used to fill the silence with mutters, half-thoughts, scraps of noise—not anymore. 

Now every word you spend is measured, rationed and too draining to just throw out.

You press your lips together then let out a small, practiced chuckle. 

"Perhaps I'm running out of things to say."

Ghost doesn't laugh with you. 

He just watches, still and heavy, as though he's trying to peel your skin back to see what's underneath.

"Hmm." he hums, tone unreadable "Don't reckon that's it."

The fire cracks louder, the heat pressing against your skin. 

You feel like you're suffocating in it—in him, his questions, the silence between .

He leans back again finally slow and deliberate which makes your heart stutters because you don't know if that means you've passed his test or if he's simply letting you sweat a little longer before the next one.

Ghost doesn't move, doesn't speak. 

He just stands there, head tilted the slightest degree and eyes pinned to you through the shadows of his mask.

The air feels tight in your lungs. 

How much longer can you hold this? 

How much longer before he sees the cracks, the act slipping?

You're getting anxious and paranoid in the silence he leaves, in his gaze constantly trying to pick you apart.

Your fingers itch to rub at your neck again but you don't dare, not while he's watching you this way.

The silence stretches like he's daring you to say something first.

Your pulse thunders in your throat. 

You wonder how much of his silence you can continue to take before you break, before the words would spill raw and unguarded from your mouth in an attempt to earn at least some mercy—your mind keeps spinning back to it, again and again without you being able to help it.

But just as you wonder that again, he exhales.

Low and steady, the edge snapping clean at the breath.

Ghost leans further against the counter, stretching an arm along the top like he's claimed the whole space again while the predator's focus softens if only just.

"Food." he says simply, voice back to that flat and practical tone "Need t' eat somethin' before it gets darker."

You almost sag with relief, but you catch yourself before it shows.

"Okay." you nod, careful.

He turns back to the pot he sat aside, the weight of his presence easing as he turns away from you.

The firelight flickers over the back of his shoulders, the black fabric of his hoodie shifting as he moves.

Already, he's slid back into that strange rhythm of caretaker and captor all at once—tightening the leash then loosening it, just enough to keep you walking in step.

And you know it's not because he cares, it's control and tactics.

The kitchen seems so small when he moves inside it—too quiet, too deliberate.

You swallow once, twice.

Your throat feels tight like his hand is still there, like he saw everything.

He didn't, he couldn't have—you were careful, you were.

You even wiped down the handles of the drawers with your sleeve, erasing any trace you might could've left behind.

But the way he stared just now...you can't shake it, can't stop replaying it.

You can't stop imagining him standing in his room earlier, looking at the jacket you touched, the things you moved, the air you disturbed-

Stop.

You force your expression softer and force it to turn into something tired, something calm and settled—exactly the way you've trained yourself to look, exactly what you expect him to want you to look like.

Behind you, he stirs the soup.

The soft scrape of the metal spoon against the pot's sides fills the room.

It shouldn't feel threatening, but it does and you can't shake the thought that he's testing you—still testing you.

He's waiting for you to make a mistake, to flinch at the wrong time, to answer too fast or too slow or too honest or not honest enough.

Your heart pounds but you tip your head slightly toward the kitchen and pretend to listen with mild interest, not fear.

The burner clicks off and footsteps follow.

Ghost steps into your periphery holding two bowls—steam curling from both, carrying the faint smell of processed vegetables and salt.

He sets one in front of you, his gloved hand lingers a second too long near yours.

Your pulse stumbles.

"Eat." he says quietly, gruff and rough like usual.

A command, a 'caring' one—dangerous one.

You wrap both hands around the bowl, letting the warmth soak into the cold of your fingers.

You take a slow sip using the spoon, the hot broth burns your tongue but you don't let it show.

Ghost sits across from you on the couch, not too close but close enough that you can feel him watching you even when he lowers his head toward his own bowl—his body and face angled away from you as he seems to just stir the soup around.

You lift your spoon again, intentionally steady.

You can't let him see how your mind is sprinting, still worrying and panicking.

Does he know? Did he notice something out of place?

Did you put everything back exactly right?

The jacket, the drawer, the duffle bag in his closet, the angle of the door handle leading to his room?

"Yer jumpy tonight."

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth for a moment, then you force the soup into your mouth and swallow as you make it look like you're thinking and not startled.

"Just tired." you say softly.

You angle your gaze downward, let your lashes lower—a quiet confession that gives him nothing.

He hums.

A low, thoughtful sound that curls down your spine in the worst way.

The fire cracks again, the rain keeps tapping the boards and the soup steams between you.

"Mm." Ghost hums once more after a beat, still not making a move to actually eat.

"Yer thinkin' hard."

Your stomach knots so sharply you almost choke on your next sip but still you force a faint smile, making it look small and embarrassed—like you've been caught daydreaming about something harmless, not spiraling into paranoia.

"Just...the book." you lie, nodding toward the worn cover on the table.

His eyes lift slightly and you feel the weight of them even more behind the mask.

"Right."

He doesn't sound convinced but he doesn't sound unconvinced either.

He sounds like he's marking your answer, like he's sliding it into some internal ledger you'll never see.

You take another slow spoonful pretending the warmth calms you, pretending the tension isn't suffocating you from the inside.

It doesn't seem like Ghost is eating, more like he's toying with the food.

But every few seconds, you feel his eyes rise to you again.

Measuring and circling you, trying to see what your silence hides.

Maybe trying to see how much pressure it takes before you crack but you concentrate to breathe evenly, to not keep spiraling—to not show the terror clawing at your ribs, to not let him see how desperately you want to run.

Because right now, just like every moment he forces himself into your space and conscious, Ghost is watching for the smallest slip—the slightest tremor, the tiniest truth you might be hiding under lies.

And you refuse to give him any of it, even as your hands shake around the warm metal bowl.

Even as he studies you like he already knows you lied and is only waiting for the moment you prove him right.

You don't look at him as you eat, focus on your own bowl of soup instead—an attempt to keep the paranoia rising at bay.

From your peripheral vision, you can see that the the black surgical mask he put on is lowered below his chin.

You're still wondering what he looks like, what you'd see if you looked at him now with a face bare and only the cap throwing a shadow over his eyes.

You've wondered about a beard already, a nose broken too many times or scars or any form of disfigurement on his face.

Maybe his face is looking as cruel as he is?

Perhaps his face is as violent as he is? As ugly as the things he's done?

A part of you wants to know, yearns to take a peek, but you don't let yourself.

You keep staring into the broth of your soup, chewing bits you don't even care to taste.

He doesn't ask more questions, doesn't talk or pry anymore for the rest of dinner or lunch or whatever this is.

You wonder what it means that he's willing to let you see him bare faced, to give you the chance of looking at him without a mask and cover.

If you'd look, what would happen?

Would he use it as an excuse to do something? To scold or punish you? Yell or harm?

Or would he maybe even like it? Find some kind of twisted satisfaction in it?

You don't know and you don't want to find out, not now and hopefully not forced to ever.

Ghost is done eating before you are.

He doesn't set his bowl down on the table, doesn't stay seated until you're done—he just adjusts the mask back over the lower part of his face and stands up with the bowl in hand that you can't help but notice looks almost comedically small in his hand.

You watch him discreetly as he turns his back on you and walks into the kitchen, his upper body clearly visible over the U-shaped counters.

The metal bowl and spoon clink against the sink when he puts them in before he turns the tab on.

You eat a bit slower as you watch him move, watch him pull open the locked drawer with the chain of keys around his neck.

He doesn't put the chain back on immediately, stuffs it into the front pocket of his black cargo pants instead.

Your burnt tongue still feels tender and rough when it brushes over the thin skin at the roof of your mouth as you swallow another bite.

You watch him put some dish soap into the filling sink, then put the bottle down next to it.

He's not just hiding cutlery and knives from you, even something simple as dish soap gets hidden from you but he gave you a notebook and pen and even the ceramic mug from the tea he gave you before he left is still sitting on the table.

You're not sure if it's deliberate, not thought over or carless though the latter feels unlikely.

You finish your soup, put the spoon in it and it clinks against the bowl as you move to set it down on the table.

Before you can though, Ghost extends his hand behind him and curls his fingers to beckon you to give you the bowl without turning or even looking at you.

For a moment, this reminds you of how he was back in the apartment complex before you knew who he truly was—before he was arrested, before he told his friends to watch you, check if you left, change your heater and before he ultimately escaped confinement.

You remember that raining morning, the day after he helped you with your coffee maker and carried it the rest upstairs to your apartment door, when he ignored your 'good morning' and walked past you as if you weren't even worth acknowledging.

For a moment you hesitated, caught up in the memories of your life across from him before he took it in his own hands, then you get up.

Automatically you grab the mug as well before getting up from the safe feeling comfort of the armchair and step closer to the kitchen, closer towards him.

You walk steady and fast, not too fast though—simply enough to make it look like you're not expecting him to do something other than take the bowl and mug from you, though deep down your stomach tingles with worry and unease.

A few feet behind him you come to a halt, just close enough to his still extended hand to reach the content of your hands out to him when you extent your arms.

He still doesn't look at you, the gloves he always seems to wear already pulled off the hand not extended and revealing thick, calloused fingers—small faded scars spanning across the back of his hands and fingers.

Some look thinner but longer, others short and thicker while one seems so deep that it's visibly raised from his skin just below the knuckle of his index and middle finger.

You blink to stop yourself from staring, only noticing you have been staring when the ungloved tips of his fingers dip into the soapy water to test the warmth.

To conceal the fact you were staring and don't make it seem like you were hesitating, you put the mug in the bowl as well and hold the edge of the metal as you raise the arm holding it and extend it towards his hand for his taking.

Instead of taking it the same way you're holding it though, Ghost takes the bowl by the bottom with his palm and closes his fingers around the middle of it until they graze the edge and trap your fingers between his gloved ones and the warmed metal.

You watch the movement of his fingers, watch it happen and yet don't pull away to stop the contact from happening—force yourself not to even though your heart races and your throat closes.

What were you supposed to do? Drop the bowl? Let the mug shatter on the floor?

Once you feel like the bowl balances steady in his palm and that all responsibility should it fall is off you, you pull away.

It's hastier than you would've liked, hastier than a perfect hostage would pull away—he doesn't comment on it.

He just takes the bowl, lowers it into the sink with a small splash before removing his other glove.

He doesn't react to the touch,as if he didn't even notice it—doesn't even look at you before his hands dip into the sink and grab a sponge.

You turn before you walk back to the living area where you grab the notebook, pen and book.

You need to take a breath, get some distance from him—as much as you can have, anyways.

The fire in the hearth is already starting to burn out since he only put a few logs in, so this room doesn't provide even an inch of comfort anymore.

Ghost doesn't turn around to you until you start making your way to the hallway, then he turns to look at you sharply.

His shoulder twist and his entire head whips around to you, the quick and almost violent looking motion making you pause with a slight flinch automatically.

"What're ye doin'?" he asks, his voice practically booming through the space separating you from him.

"I'm tired." you say after a moment, after you manage to shove the initial shock down.

Ghost's eyes narrow and you think he's about to tell you to sit back down since his shoulders are also still tense, but then he nods—just once and slow in obvious reluctant permission, that's all you need.

You force your head and gaze forward, make your feet carry you into the hallway that's only illuminated by the light coming from the overhead lamp of the living room.

Your heart's still beating faster than usual, not exactly racing but close to it, as you walk the few steps down the hallway to the second door on the left—your room.

The door is still slightly ajar and you push it open fully before slipping inside and closing it behind you.

You inhale shakily but quiet.

You feel drained, exhausted—a feeling that's so familiar and so unfamiliar at the same time that it makes your stomach clench because you only knew it from work.

Never had you thought you'd miss it—the meetings, the paperwork, fluorescent tube lighting, the humming of the printer, the useless conversation with co-workers who only bothered learning your name but nothing more, the war's over the coffee machine, the mindless greetings and niceties of goodbye or taking more work than you were supposed to because your boss couldn't get his own work done—but now you do, terribly so.

You miss work.

You miss the luxury of boredom, miss the half-hearted smiles of co-workers, miss talking to them, you miss having something to do and you miss the control over your own life.

You miss your parents, you miss your friends you left behind in your hometown, miss the few people you got to know after moving to Manchester.

You miss your neighbors, not all of them but some like Mrs. Alleen even though you never had the interest in gossip and rumors she had.

You even miss that guy from 4B, the apartment above you, who'd sometimes blast his music until three or four in the morning.

You miss your apartment, the crack in one of the tiles in the bathroom, the water that never stayed warm for more than a few minutes before Ghost's companions switched your old heater for a new one, you miss the groaning of the old apartment complex when it seemed to settle for the night.

You miss walking up the stairs to the third floor because the elevator was never fixed, miss walking to the subway for work.

Tears rise into your eyes, burn hot and wet on the surface of your cornea as your throat closes up with the realization that you took everything you had for granted—that everything you had has been taken from you for being nice, for being polite.

Ghost's word echo in your head as you blink the tears away and put the book, notebook and pen down on the desk.

'You were the only one who treated me with politeness in that place.'

If he meant what he said, if it's true and kindness does have teeth, when does his 'kindness' of strangling, kidnapping and holding you captive bite him?

You just hope it bites him quick, sharp and tearing him apart as fast as possible.

꧁ ୧‿ ⊰ ♱ ⊱‿୨꧂

When you wake the next morning, eyes feeling puffy from tears you weren't entirely successful of keeping down the night before while falling asleep, the cabin is quiet.

No creaking of furniture or floorboards, no footsteps.

You take your time to sit up and get out of bed, your bladder forcing you out of what little comfort your room gives so you can use the bathroom.

Slowly you open your door, then take a careful step outside—the cabin stays oddly silent when you do.

You step out of your room fully, peek into the living room and at the couch where Ghost usually sits but he's not there.

Is he gone?

You decide to ignore your almost aching bladder and walk down the hallway, keeping your footsteps light as you step into the main room of the cabin.

He isn't in the kitchen either, though there is a metal plate on the kitchen counter with breakfast that seems to have gone cold.

You glance at the door—the locks are gone which makes your brows furrow.

You look behind you, back into the dark hallway, but there's no sign of Ghost.

Rather confused and perplexed you turn your body back to the hallway and walk it down, stopping at the door right opposite of yours which leads to his room—listening for sounds, a sign that he might be only testing you and waiting for you to try and open the front door now that the locks are gone.

You listen closely for what feels like forever but you can't hear anything—no pacing nor breathing that isn't yours.

You pace back into the main room, stare at the door and vacancy of locks as you consider calling out for him—you don't want to.

You'd rather drink a truck full of oil than call out for him, make yourself look dependent on him, but you feel like you have no choice.

You need to know if he's truly not around before you do anything that might get you in trouble.

So, after a few moments of warring with yourself, you part your lips.

"Ghost..?" you call out rather quiet but loud enough so it carries through the cabin, trying not to make yourself sound as hesitant as you are just in case he is around and might question it later.

There's no answer so you try again as you walk towards the hallway once more, still nothing.

The bathroom door is wide open so he's definitely not in there which only leaves his room—you stop in front of the door.

"Ghost?" you call out, reluctantly and almost softly knocking on the door when there's no answer after a few moments.

The cabin stays silent, almost eerily so.

You knock again, a bit firmer this time, but there's still no sound from behind the door.

Your heart pounds when you reach for the handle and press it down, the door opening a few inches by itself—barely enough so you can peek inside which you do after counting to five in your head.

His room looks just like it did yesterday, as if he hadn't been in here at all—only his jacket on the bed has been moved to the edge of the mattress.

You don't step inside, don't dare to.

You don't know for how long he's already gone for, when he'll come back and you don't want to risk this bit of leash he's seemingly giving you.

After closing his door again, you step back into the living area and the front door.

With suspicion you eye the naked looking door, eye the placed the locks usually hang at—you don't let yourself hope.

You take a deep, steadily breath, then slowly and carefully push the handle of the front door down while softly pushing the wooden door forward with your other hand.

The door doesn't budge and through the wood you can faintly hear metal clink from right outside the door as it's forced to move by your push.

Despite having told yourself not to hope, the wave of disappointment washing over you is undeniable.

a/n: so sorry this took a while. I wrote a lot of drabbles/short one-shots since the last part of KHT. You can check them out either on my profile or find them in my masterlist if you're interested, they're mostly CoD :) Also, I listened to the dub of reboot MW2 in my native language for the first time and I cringed so hard TT

Someone on ao3 said Ghost sounds scottish, seems like reddit was not a reliable source for how to write out a manchester accent (My fault though, I should've known better because when is reddit ever a reliable source for anything) So, if anyone could help me correct I'd be very glad <3

Thanks again to my beta/proofreader @donttm1ndm3 for helping me out<3

"Where the hell have you been?" Sam asked sharp but relieved, stepping aside to let him in.

"Slept it off." Dean shrugged while brushing past him "Found a place."

Your chest tightened a little at the words—a place, not with you.

Dean's gaze flicked to you for a second and it felt...wrong.

Not soft nor conflicted, not anything like from last night—only guarded distance.

You swallowed hard, adverting your gaze.

"You okay?" Sam asked his brother, shutting the door behind him.

"Yeah." Dean nodded.

"Djinn venom messes with your head. Needed to clear it out." he added, voice steady.

"You could've called." Sam pressed in complaint, making Dean exhale through his nose in mild annoyance.

"Phone died." Dean shrugged once more in response.

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either and you knew that.

Your hands curled slightly at your sides, but he didn't look at you again—not once and that hurt more than anything else.

Because you knew something was missing, you could still feel it even now, and it wasn't just in him but also in the space between the two of you.

Dean moved around the room like he always did, grabbing his jacket and checking his weapons while talking to Sam about the case like nothing had shifted nor happened and as if you weren't standing right there.

And maybe to him you weren't, not really at least.

You turned away slightly, unable to watch it and unable to not feel it because you knew.

You knew what he had said, what he had felt, what he had given you—and you took it, even if not all of it.

The realization sat heavy in your chest, weighing your heart down and making it hard to breathe.

He loved you, or something close enough to it that it didn't matter what you called it, and now he didn't remember it anymore.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Days passed.

The road picked back up with the same crappy motels, same cases and same routine but something was off.

Dean was different, not just distant—confused.

It showed in small and subtle ways, easy to miss if you didn't know what to look for.

It showed in the way he'd stop mid-sentence sometimes, like he lost a thought or tried to grab one he didn't have anymore.

It showed in the way his gaze would linger on you for a second too long—not soft or warm, but searching as if he was trying to place something and failing.

Like he was asking 'Do I know you from somewhere?' without saying it, but making you feel it all the same.

And then there was the edge.

It crept in slowly, sharp and unsettling.

Confusion doesn't stay confusion forever, especially not with Dean Winchester—it turns into suspicion.

You noticed it first in the way he watched you, not exactly avoiding anymore but observing instead as if you were someone he didn't trust.

One night he caught your wrist when you reached for the first aid kit and the grip wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either.

"You ever use that thing on me?" he asked flat, almost careful.

Your heart stopped for a moment, then beat faster.

"What?"

"Your...ability." he clarified, eyes narrowing.

"No." you said steadily as you shook your head even though your throat tightened at the lie.

Dean held your gaze a second longer, measuring the answer, then let go.

"Right." he said, but he didn't sound convinced.

That's when it hit you.

You hadn't erased his feelings, you had erased the the context—the why.

You had erased the memories that gave those feelings he had towards you meaning, so they were still there.

Now they were only buried again, unanchored which made them wrong and dangerous because now he felt something he couldn't explain toward someone he didn't fully remember—and Dean didn't like things he couldn't explain or feeling out of control, it made him angry and suspicious.

It made him look at you like you were something to figure out, or something to eliminate.

Your stomach churned.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

He remembered something else too, not clearly or fully but enough to question it.

"I asked you something."

The words came out of nowhere one morning, low and sharp.

You froze.

Dean leaned against the motel dresser, arms crossed as he watched you closely—no warmth, no softness.

"Back at the bar. I don't remember everything, but I remember asking you to do something." he said slowly.

Your chest tightened painfully because you didn't know what to tell him, though you knew the truth wouldn't work—if anything, it would only make things worse.

"I just don't remember what." he continued, pausing as his jaw clenched and letting you hang there in the suffocating silence for a moment.

"And that doesn't sit right with me." he added, his narrowed eyes locking onto yours with suspicion.

"Feels like something's missing."

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

"Did you–" he started, then stopped himself and recalibrated.

"Did you take something?"

The question hung dangerous because the answer was yes, with the worst part being that he wasn't wrong to ask.

You forced your voice to work.

"No."

Dean held your gaze longer this time, searching for a crack or a tell or anything that would expose your lie.

Then he looked away.

Not because he believed you, but because he didn't know what to believe and that was worse.

Across the room, Sam watched the entire exchange quietly.

Later, when Dean stepped out, he turned to you.

"What's going on?" he asked soft and patient, completely opposite to Dean.

Your throat close up with everything in you wanting to tell him, to fix it and to undo it, but you couldn't—because you didn't know how and because you already did what you had done.

You took parts of you from Dean, memories that explained why he felt this romantic affection towards you, and you could never give them back to him because you could only take.

"He's just...stressed, I guess." you said instead.

Sam frowned.

He didn't buy it, at least not fully, but he nodded anyways—if only because he had something else to focus on right now.

"Bobby might've found something." he said, lowering his voice slightly like Dean might hear somewhere outside the motel room "About the deal. We might be able to get Dean out of it."

Sam's voice was filled with fragile and desperate hope which made your chest tighten again because even if they did, even if Dean lived, he still wouldn't remember why you mattered and you'd have to live with that—every second of it.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The lead didn't last long, of course it didn't.

Bobby had called it in like it mattered, like it might actually be it.

His voice was gruff like always, but there was something under it—something almost hopeful.

"Got somethin'." he said over the phone "Old text. Mentions a way to void a contract, demon deals included."

Sam had been on his feet before the call even ended.

Dean was reluctant and skeptical, already halfway convinced it was a dead end but he still went along.

You followed—of course you did.

The place Bobby guided all of you was a ruin.

A old church that was half-collapsed, rot and dust thick in the air having been sitting there too long.

Sam and Bobby worked through the texts in a book they found under the altar—latin, symbols, looking at ritual markings carved into stone that had no business still standing.

You stayed back, watched and waited because that was always your role.

"This could be it." Sam said, voice tight with hope.

Dean didn't answer, he just leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed and jaw tight—watching just like you did.

Hours passed as research turned into translation, translation turning into theory and theory turned into a ritual...but nothing.

The symbols didn't react like they were supposed to, the ritual didn't take and the air didn't shift.

No sign, no change, not anything.

Silence settled heavy in the broken church, then Bobby sighed first—low and frustrated.

"Son of a–" he started to mutter, but Sam shook his head immediately.

"No, no, maybe we did something wrong. Maybe the wording..."

"We didn't." Dean cut in flatly and that was it—simple, final.

"You don't know that." Sam argued nonetheless after spinning around to him sharply.

"I do." Dean shot back "Because this is how it goes, Sam. There's no loophole, no get-out-of-jail-free card."

"There has to be–"

"There isn't!" Dean snapped and the sound echoed through the empty space.

You flinched slightly but not because of the volume, because of the certainty in Dean's voice.

Sam's jaw clenched.

"We're not done. There's always something." he said, quieter now but more frustrated and maybe even angry.

Dean shook his head.

"Yeah. There is." Dean agreed, shaking his head with a humorless scoff.

"It's called a deal, and I made one."

Sam didn't back down, his shoulders tensing.

"And we'll break it, get you out of it." he insisted.

"You really think you can outplay demons?" Dean asked in response, brows raised in challenge.

"I think I have to try." Sam grit out and that hit something.

Dean pushed off the pillar.

"Yeah? And how's that working out so far?" Dean taunted harsher than he needed to, pushing off the pillar—but he wasn't wrong.

Sam didn't answer, because he didn't have one that felt right.

Bobby stepped in before it could get worse.

"Enough." he muttered, glancing between the brothers "We regroup and start over."

'Start over.''

The words landed like a weight because they meant being back to nothing, back to square one while time kept running out without pause or mercy

The drive back was painfully quiet, but Sam didn't stop—he couldn't.

The moment you got back to the motel, he was already on his laptop again.

Books open, notes scattered and his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he called anyone who might know something while staying in almost constant contact with Bobby who asked other hunters if they knew a way.

"I don't care how obscure it is." Sam said into the phone at one point "If there's anything, anything at all, you tell me."

His voice was tight, fraying.

Dean hated it, that much was obvious.

"You're wasting your time." he said at one point deeper into the night, leaning in the doorway.

Sam didn't look up, his fingers still flying over the keyboard of his laptop as he responded.

"Then let me waste it."

Dean's jaw tightened at the answer.

"This isn't something you fix, Sammy." he almost barked.

"Watch me." Sam mumbled in response, undeterred.

That was the problem—Sam wouldn't stop, even if it broke him and Dean knew it which only made everything worse.

While Sam spiraled into research, Dean spiraled into something else—you.

It started small, again—always small at first.

Questions that didn't sound like questions, looks that lingered too long with silences that felt loaded.

Then it sharpened.

"You're real quiet lately."

The comment came out of nowhere, making you look up from the book in your hands.

"Sorry?"

Dean sat on his bed, arms crossed and watching you.

"Just an observation." he said casually, but it didn't feel casual.

"I'm always quiet." you replied carefully.

"Yeah, but this is different." Dean said, tilting his head to the side as his eyes narrowed slightly.

"How?" you asked in response, already feeling like an insect pinned under glass.

He didn't answer right away, just studying you for another few seconds.

"Like you're thinking about something you don't want to say."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the page at his words, at the observation, because he was right.

"I'm not." you denied, but Dean's gaze didn't waver.

"Sure." he said dismissively but not the kind of dismissive that let things go, rather in the kind of dismissive that locked things away for later to file them down.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Another day it was another shift.

You reached for a book on the table and Dean's hand moved first, stopping you—the contact made your breath catch.

His fingers rested over yours for half a second too long, then he pulled back as if realizing that wasn't supposed to happen.

Something flickered across his face—confusion, irritation and something deeper he couldn't place while you couldn't either.

"Sorry." he muttered, but he didn't sound like he meant it.

He sounded...off like the reaction didn't match the moment—because it didn't.

You knew why and once again that only made it worse.

Dean still felt what he felt for you when he was trapped by the Djinn, still felt what he felt that night in the hotel and you just made him forget why.

Later that night you heard him pacing restlessly, going back and forth across the motel room with heavy steps.

You stayed still, pretending to sleep.

"Something's not right." Dean muttered, his voice cutting through the quiet.

"What do you mean?" you heard Sam ask in return.

"You ever feel like you're missing something?" Dean questioned, his pacing suddenly stopping.

Your heart stopped.

"What kind of something?"

Dean hesitated to answer as if he didn't have the words but was looking for them, scrambling to grasp them.

"I don't know." he admitted finally "Just...something important.''

A beat passed, then you felt his eyes on you as they burned into the back of your head.

"Like a gap." he added quieter.

Silence, then the wooden chair you knew Sam sat on creaked as he turned to glance at you too.

Your stomach dropped because now it wasn't just Dean noticing, it was Sam too.

"I think she did something." Dean said suddenly and the words hit the room like a gunshot.

"What?" Sam asked and you could hear the mixed feelings in his voice.

"Her." Dean repeated, sharper this time.

When Sam didn't respond, he continued.

"I remember asking her to use that...thing she does. I just don't remember why or what."

Your pulse pounded, blood rushing in your ears—you forced yourself to stay still, to keep pretending to sleep.

Sam finally spoke up, careful but certain.

"Dean, that doesn't mean-"

"I'm just saying something's off." Dean cut in, pausing briefly.

"And I don't like not knowing what." he added quieter, more dangerous.

This was the consequence of using your ability on him—a consequence neither immediate nor obvious, but inevitable.

You didn't just take something from him, you left behind the absence and Dean didn't ignore gaps—he hunted them.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The change didn't stay with lingering gazes and questions, it turned into an edge.

Everything you did seemed to catch Dean's attention now—too much attention.

"You always read this stuff?" he asked one evening, watching you flip through one of Sam's lore books.

"Yeah." you nodded and Dean hummed low, unconvinced.

"Funny." he muttered "Feels like you've been around longer than you have, knowing more than you should."

Your fingers stilled briefly on the page, he noticed—of course he did.

"Sorry, is something wrong?" you asked carefully, lifting your eyes to meet his.

"Don't know. You tell me." Dean challenged in resounding.

That was how it went.

Every conversation felt like a test, every glance like a question he couldn't answer and underneath it something else began to stir.

You could feel it even when he couldn't name it—the pull.

The way he'd step a little too close before catching himself, the way his voice would soften for half a second before sharpening again, the way his hand would hover like he almost reached for you before pulling back as if he touched fire.

It didn't make sense to him, so he turned it into something that did—suspicion, frustration and finally anger.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

"Did you mess with me?" the question came even sharper than all the others, even less careful.

You looked up from the motel table slowly.

"No." you denied and Dean scoffed lightly.

"Yeah, you fucking said that already."

"Because it's true." you said, making his jaw tighten.

"Then why does it feel like it's not?"

Silence fell as you didn't have an answer you could give him, not one that wouldn't make everything worse.

Dean shook his head slightly, pacing again.

"I don't like this." he muttered "I don't like not knowing what the hell is going on in my own fucking head."

Neither did you and that was the problem, because every day you came closer to your breaking point where the confession would spill over unguarded.

And then Sam started noticing it more.

At first it was just a glance between the two of you, then longer looks that turned to full-on interruptions.

"Dean." Sam cut in one night when Dean's tone got too sharp "Drop it."

"I'm not doing anything," Dean shot back.

"You are." Sam objected firmly.

"Yeah? What am I doing, Sam?" Dean laughed, but there was no humor in it—only frustration and anger.

"You're–" Sam stopped himself because he didn't have the words either because he didn't know what you did and therefore couldn't possibly explain why his brother acted this way.

Then Bobby saw it too.

He didn't say much, but when he did it landed.

"You keep lookin' at her like that, you're gonna start a fight you don't even understand." Bobby grumbled one afternoon.

Dean didn't answer but he didn't stop either, and sometimes neither Sam nor Bobby were fast enough.

"You think I'm stupid?!" Dean's voice cut through the motel room one night, sharp and sudden.

You froze, too stunned to respond which made Dean step closer—not threatening, but not safe either.

"You think I wouldn't notice if something got taken out of my head?!" he pressed angrily.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest.

"I didn't–"

"Then fucking explain it!" he cut in, yelling.

"I can't explain something that didn't happen..."

Dean laughed again, short and bitter.

"Right."

Dean didn't hit you, he never did and you were certain he never would, but he did get rough with you and his eyes didn't let it go—they never did.

Every time it happened, every time the tension snapped tight between you, you thought about it.

About going back in, about fixing it, about doing what he asked of you by erasing yourself completely—no more confusion, no more suspicion, no more...this.

Your hands would tremble just thinking about it because you knew what could go wrong, you always did.

What if you took too much?

What if you slipped, just slightly, and erased something else?

Something important?

Something like the crossroad deal?

The thought made your stomach drop every time.

If you took that, even if unwanted and by accident, Sam would have to tell him.

Sam would have to look him in the eyes and say 'You're dying and going to hell because you sold your soul for me because I died while you watched it happen.'

You couldn't do that to him, to either of them...so you didn't.

Even when it got worse, even when Dean's frustration turned colder and more violent—even when the looks he gave you started to hurt more than the words.

Underneath it all you still knew that he loved you, he just didn't know why and that made the feeling wrong—making it unstable like something stretched too far and ready to snap.

So you made a choice.

Not in the moment, not suddenly or from one moment to the other—it built slowly, painfully, until one morning you woke before them.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

The motel room was quiet and still.

Dean was asleep, Sam too, and for a second you just stood there looking at them.

This, this was the closest thing you had ever had to something real—something that felt like it could've been yours, and you were about to walk away from it.

Your chest tightened, throat seizing as the all too familiar burn of tears found it's way back to your eyes.

You didn't want to go, but staying wasn't helping either of them—it was making it worse.

Every day you stayed, you were the thing Dean couldn't understand.

You were the thing that kept pulling at him, the thing that made him angry because he couldn't place it, the thing pulling him apart from his brother since they had been fighting more and more because Sam kept trying to defend you as Dean's anger grew.

You were the gap Dean was tearing himself apart trying to fill it.

You swallowed hard, blinking against the tears threatening to spill over and down your cheeks.

"I am so, so sorry." you whispered, not even sure who you said it to—Dean maybe, Sam, or even yourself or maybe all three of you.

You grabbed your bag quietly.

You didn't leave a note, didn't trust yourself to write one because if you did you might stay but couldn't—not like this.

The door clicked shut softly behind you.

The morning air felt too cold, too empty.

By the time the Winchester brothers noticed your absence, you'd already have a new number buried under a new identity.

And just like that, you were gone—long before the deal could take Dean, leaving behind the pieces of something he almost remembered and the space where you used to be filled with love that had nowhere to go.