coma

Whatever you lay on is softer than a floor could be. 

You shift slightly—no ropes, no plastic ties that hold your limbs together and limit your movement.

You're not tied anymore.

Your breath catches.

You sit up with a start but the movement sends a jolt through your skull, your vision greying out for a second—the room tilts and spins around you.

A wave of nausea rises like bile in your throat. 

Your body remembers more than your mind does. 

You feel the ghosts of pressure around your neck, your wrists, your ankles.

The worst is your throat.

It scratches and itches from the inside, it's raw and tender and there is a slightly metallic taste traveling down your throat whenever you manage to swallow down your own spit.

Disoriented, you reach for something to ground yourself and hand hits the corner of what feels like an old nightstand—no sharp edges nor glass, it's rough wood and a thin layer of dust.

The only light comes from under the crack of a door across the room—soft, amber, like a hallway light in the distance.

The silence is thick.

You don't know how long you've been out, not the first or the second time.

You don't know where you are.

Your muscles scream as you start to move, your legs blindly looking for something hard to stand on.

When they drop over a soft edge, they find what feels like an old plank flooring with a blanket of dust on top.

You force yourself to stand, ignoring your bodies attempt to protest.

Your limbs still feel weak and numb as you struggle to balance yourself on them, but once you do find the balance it takes to stand your hand lets go of the dusty nightstand.

As you let all your weight lay only on your feet, your knees threaten to buckle.

You ignore it, determined to not be weak before you look around the dark room you're in.

The room is small, bare. 

You can make out the shape of a bed behind you, the nightstand, a small desk and a chair belonging to it.

No sound comes from behind the door, no movement.

Just you, your ragged breath and the weight of the unknown mixed with fear of what might happen next.

Your knees buckle once more, strained with the effort of holding you upright—to keep yourself from falling, you grab the nightstand.

It rattles against the floor as you hold onto it, using it to push yourself upright again.

It's silent for another moment, then faint footsteps that grow louder with every second.

Boots on wood, slow and heavy—they're coming toward the door.

Your heart lurches, panic flaring up again in your chest but you don't hide—wouldn't even know where.

After a couple moments the door creaks slow and controlled, like the person on the other side doesn't want to startle you but knows damn well they will.

You scramble back, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed behind you—making you almost fall down on top of the mattress.

You grip the nearest wall for support with your chest rising and falling in short, panicked bursts. 

Adrenaline tries to surge through your body but it moves slow, like your blood's been thickened with tar.

The door opens just enough for him to slip through—Ghost.

No mask this time, just shadows draped over the sharpness of his face, a hood pulled low. 

His eyes catch the dim light from the hallway behind him, and for a brief second they almost seem to glow.

You look away, your eyes locking on the floor near the chair.

You don't want to look at him, you don't want to see his face—you don't want to see the monster behind the mask.

Fabric rustles, damp and quiet before it's pulled over skin.

You glance at him, curious and afraid.

He has covered his face again but instead of his typical skull mask, a black balaclava with a white skull print starting just below the cutout for the eyes hides his face.

Now you dare to look at him, eyes fixing on his covered face.

He says nothing at first, just watches you.

He watches you the way someone might watch a cornered animal—calculating, waiting to see which way you'll bolt.

"Yer awake." he finally says, his voice low.

"Wasn't sure if ye'd come 'round on yer own."

He takes a step into the room and in response you press yourself further against the nightstand already digging into your body.

The cabin creaks softly beneath both your weight. 

Old wood and old silence, the kind that makes you painfully aware of how far away from everything you must be.

"Ye don't have to be afraid." he says like that means anything. 

Like he didn't drag you from your home, didn't put his hands around your throat and squeezed until you lost consciousness.

But the worst part is, he says it like he believes it.

Your throat is still painfully raw. 

You try to speak but you can't even form words—only a sound comes out.

It's some desperate blend of disbelief and protest, swallowed halfway by the ache in your throat and the dryness of your mouth.

He sees it, notices.

Ghost moves again, not fast but smooth and quiet like it's a habit. 

He crosses the space to the table in the corner of the room and sets something down. 

You can't see what, but the slight clang tells you it's metal.

He doesn't look at you when he speaks next.

"No one's lookin' out this far." he says calm and quiet, simply stating a fact you wish wouldn't be a fact at all.

Your eyes dart to across the room. 

You see it now, how the window is boarded from the inside—thick slats of wood nailed in, not just covered but barricaded. 

You hadn't noticed before in the dark, but now with the light of the hallway flooding in you see it.

Now you understand the shape of the trap.

"Why?" you rasp, finally forcing the word out despite the ache.

Ghost turns toward you, his face unreadable in the dim light and behind the mask.

He doesn't answer at first and just looks at you and part of you wishes he'd look cruel or smug...but he doesn't—he looks steady, like he's the anchor keeping you from drifting away, or at least trying to.

"Ye weren't safe there."

Your breath catches and Ghost keeps watching you closely, gaze sharp and unreadable.

"That neighborhood, 's not safe." he clarifies after a moment, voice still quiet but firmer.

You blink as your mind is still catching up, still trying to make sense of the fact that you're not dead—not restrained anymore either. 

You're just...here.

If he wanted to hurt you, he had every chance—you're sure of that. 

The bruises on your neck where his hands had once pressed in, it's proof that he could kill you easily.

And yet, he hasn't.

You don't feel safe but you don't feel hunted either—that's what unsettles you the most.

You swallow as hard as your raw throat allows.

"What?"

He takes a slow step closer, not menacing, but direct.

"That place..." he continues, eyes locked on yours "ye don't know what happens after dark. Ye think Ah was just there 'cause it was cheap?"

"You lived across from me, never said a word about it." you rasp quietly, jaw clenched to keep yourself reminded that there is still a chance because you're still alive.

He exhales like you're missing something obvious. 

"Because talkin' doesn't stop a break-in, doesn't stop people from watching ye come home alone every night."

Your mouth opens slightly, but you don't know what to say.

"Ye didn't need to know anything 'bout me, was better that way." he adds in a mutter, more to himself.

He glances to your side.

Your wrists are still marked from the restraints and something subtle passes over his face—not guilt exactly, it's something harder to name.

"Ye don't see what Ah see." he murmurs, advertising his gaze from you.

You take a step back, your bare feet meeting cold and dusted wood.

"You dragged me out of my apartment." you say, voice still rough but steadier now. 

You need to take a breath before you manage to speak more.

"You didn't give me a choice."

He nods once, slowly. 

"No. Ah didn't."

Silence stretches between you like wire, thin and tight.

" 'm not lettin' ye go." he adds "Not yet."

You feel your throat tighten again, heart pounding harder in your chest and a sharp ache blooming under your ribs.

You feel nauseous once more, an acidic taste on your tongue.

"Why? Because you think I need you?" you try to keep your tone neutral and steady, to keep your panic and hatred at bay—you don't know if it's working.

He sighs and doesn't answer at first, just keeps staring at a random spot in the room for another few moments before he speaks and meets your gaze again.

"Because yer safer with me than without."

There's no menace in his tone, just certainty—quiet, absolute certainty.

You take another breath, shaky now, gathering your courage.

"That's not your decision."

He studies you for a long second—not blinking, not speaking.

Then he inhales long slow, like that breath carries something weighty with it.

He gestures toward the table behind you. 

"Water 'nd food, if ye can stomach it."

You don't move.

It's not kindness, it's maintenance.

He steps back, not turning his back on you but instead just giving space.

"Ah won't tie you again." he says.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

"Unless you run."

"What if I do?" you question, the words slipping past your lips before you can stop them.

"Ah'd bring ye back." he responds almost instantly, as if he expected that question.

He doesn't clarify what he means by that, doesn't threaten—just turns, walks toward the door of the room where he pauses in the doorframe for a moment.

His hand rests on the knob as he seems to think but he doesn't close it and instead just steps out—disappearing into the hallway, his boots echoing on wood until they fade.

You stay standing for a while. 

Maybe only a minute, maybe longer.

Eventually, your body pulls you toward the table slow and careful—the thirst you didn't want to acknowledge is dull and deep.

The bread is stale, torn unevenly—you don't touch it.

The water's cold and metallic but it's something.

You sip slowly, testing it first and then drink more until the cup is empty.

Your throat doesn't seize this time but the water running down it still hurts.

You exhale shakily, take in your surroundings once more.

The room is small and wood-paneled, shut out from the outside.

When your legs stop shaking, you drift toward the door.

You don't try to leave, not quiet yet—you just want to see if you can hear him somewhere in the cabin.

Dim yellow light spills in, too warm for the rest of the cabin's chill.

You step out after listening for a few moments, not a single sound that could indicate where exactly he is reaching your ears.

The hallway is empty and quiet, you follow it with one hand on the wall.

You pass a closed door, a bathroom maybe.

When you look behind you, you can see another closed door down the hall—then the hallway opens into a wider room. 

A open kitchen, a fireplace, a couch with an armchair and coffee-table.

There he is, sitting on the couch near the cold fireplace with his elbows on his knees and fingers laced.

He doesn't move, doesn't speak until you stop.

"Didn't leave." he says simply "Figured ye'd want space."

You stare at him. 

He doesn't even lift his head fully, just glances toward you like he's waiting for you to bolt or breathe—maybe both.

"Why here?" you ask, your voice still scratchy as it continues recovering from his hands that once pressed in.

" 's quiet." he says.

That's it?

You stare at him, chest aching and fists clench.

Another silence blooms—thick, stretching across the floor like a fog.

He speaks again, not looking at you this time.

"Ye were only safe 'cause Ah was watching."

You don't move, feel like you can't.

Your eyes widen involuntarily at the confession, at the fact that you didn't notice and not even questioning if his statement is true.

He lifts his head, meets your gaze again.

"Ye never knew how close ye came to bein' in the wrong place, to bein' mugged or threatened."

You flinch, jaw tightening.

"I don't want this." you whisper.

"Ah know."

"I don't trust you."

"Ah know." he repeats.

You step back and his eyes drop again.

"Ah just need time to make sure." he murmurs, his eyes fixed on the cold fireplace.

"Sure of what?" you press but he doesn't answer.

You feel helpless, feel the heat of anger bubbling just beneath your skin.

But then the feeling of fear and panic gives way to anger and frustration.

You're tired of feeling helpless, tired of the constant edge he holds you on, tired of his unreadable expression.

You know you shouldn't, know it's a bad idea but you can't help it.

''People will come looking for me, they will-'' you start, your voice growing stronger, angrier and more steady with every word you manage to force past your lips.

Ghost cuts you off, effortlessly.

''But they won't find ye. If they come lookin' for ye, come to get ye, they won't find ye because yer with me.'' he says.

He doesn't say it angrily, doesn't say it threatening but more like a promise—like he is sure of his words, knows they're true.

You flex your jaw, your teeth clenching as the anger surges through you full force.

''Fuck you.'' you spit out roughly, your mind too consumed by anger to understand the possible danger your words could get you in until it's too late.

Once your brain finally catches up, you take a step back in shock and surprise.

You expect him to react.

Maybe lunge, hurt you, maybe only shout—but instead he exhales. 

A slow breath that rolls into something almost... amused.

Ghost leans back on the couch, spreading his thick legs with his eyes still locked on you.

Then, he chuckles lowly.

''Ye sure have a lot of hostility for someone who has no choice but to surrender.'' he says.

His words linger in the space between you like smoke—thin, suffocating, impossible to grasp.

You hate that he's right, hate the truth of it sitting in your chest like a stone and weighing it down to make it hard to breathe.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out.

He watches you with that maddening calm, like he's dissecting every twitch of your face, every flick of emotion in your eyes. 

There's a flicker of something his eyes.

Interest, maybe, or calculation but it's too buried to read.

"Ye gonna keep barkin'..." he says, voice low "...or sit down 'fore ye pass out again?"

At first you don't move as the nausea rises again, curling cold and oily in your gut but it's your own fury that holds you upright—or maybe pride, you're not sure anymore.

He doesn't rise, just sits there relaxed and confident like he's already figured out how the rest of this will play out and maybe he has.

Your gaze drops, flicking to the door behind him—the only way out.

Several locks keep it shut securely, a mixture of key and number locks keeping you trapped.

You have no idea what number combinations to use, have no key for any of the other locks or even anything to pry the door open with.

You swallow, throat raw.

"I didn't mean it." you murmur, surprising yourself.

His head tilts, just slightly.

"Mean what?"

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen..." you say, slower this time, voice cracking.

That makes him smile, barely—a faint twitch of his mouth behind the mask, you can see it as a shadow in the corner of your eye.

" 'nd yet, here ye are."

Your arms wrap around yourself, cold seeping into your bones now that the adrenaline is wearing off and has nowhere to go.

"You...you said I didn't see what that neighborhood really was..." you say, careful now.

"But if that's true...why are you doing this?"

Something darkens in his gaze though it's not anger, not quite.

Ghost leans forward, forearms bracing on his thighs.

"Ye think Ah dragged ye out here just to prove a point?" he asks, voice quiet and steady like he's reeling you in without needing to raise it.

"Ye think Ah didn't notice how many times ye came home late? The way ye checked over yer shoulder? That guy from 1B harassing yer? The way yer front lock never really clicked in right?"

You shift slightly taken aback and confused, eyes finding his masked face again.

"What?" you ask, almost desperate for an answer.

"Ah couldn't ignore it anymore." Ghost shrugs and then the silence blooms again, thicker this time.

Did he pressure, or even threaten, Mr. Levington to change your lock...?

You want to look away, but you don't—his stare pins you like an insect under glass.

"There's a thousand people out there who talk 'bout me." he goes on, ignoring your question completely.

"Call me a monster, a myth...but Ah watched yer door every night. That buildin' wasn't safe and ye were the only person who treated me with politeness in that place. The only monsters were the ones outside our floor."

"I didn't even know you were...real." you whisper carefully, referring to him being 'Ghost'.

"You were just...that guy across the hall."

He huffs softly, shaking his head.

"Yeah. And even then, Ah was already keepin' ye safe."

The shame hits like a wave, hot and cloying.

You were just being polite, nothing more—you would've never thought that being polite would get you into a situation like this.

You're still standing in the hallway on the edge to the living room, the stale quiet pressing between the two of you like insulation—too thick to speak through, too thin to really hide behind.

"This isn't protection." you say eventually, low but firm.

"It is." he replies flatly.

You almost scoff, barely able to stop yourself from making the sound.

"Kidnapping someone and locking them away in the woods...that's not care, that's control."

Ghost pauses, finally turns his head fully towards you.

His eyes catch in the light of the overhead lamp—steady, dull.

" 'm not here to hurt ye." he says calm and low.

Your jaw sets. 

"You already did."

Ghost tilts his head slightly, voice quieter now but harder.

"Kindness.." he scoffs "ain't always gentle."

You stare at him as his eyes narrow and darken but not in anger, in firmness—like he's saying something important that you need to understand.

"Kindness has teeth."

The words hang in the air, sharp and final.

"Y' think safety comes wrapped in silk, but the world doesn't give a fuck about soft thing like ye. It chews 'em up 'nd spits 'em out once the softness is gone and the sweet core broken." he adds.

"I didn't ask you to protect me." you say quietly, intimidated by his harsh tone and the harsh look in his eyes.

"I know. 'm doing it anyway" he murmurs.

You glance toward the kitchen, anywhere but his eyes.

There's an old kettle on the stove, a half-melted candle on the counter, signs of someone living here longer than just a few hours or a day.

You want to change the subject, distract the attention away from you because you don't feel like you can keep going back and forth over and over again right now.

"How long have you been here?" you ask, voice faint as you divert the conversation elsewhere.

"Long enough to make it safe." he shrugs, his gaze not leaving you.

"Safe for you or for me?" you question bitterly.

He stands, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitches again as you fear you might've pushed him too far...but he doesn't approach. 

Ghost just stretches, joints popping under the motion, then he turns his back to you and moves towards the kitchen.

"Safe for us." he says.

You freeze as that single word wraps around your chest like a chain.

Us.

The sink groans as he turns the tap, water splashing.

He's filling something, probably a pot, and doesn't look at you when he speaks next.

"Yer not a prisoner. Yer here because Ah chose for ye to be here."

You flinch slightly, take another small step back.

"Isn't that the same..?" you question out loud, more careful again.

He doesn't respond.

Burned out firewood crackles faintly in the hearth, cold from having burned out a small while ago.

The cabin is quiet again, the stillness pressing in around you from all sides.

Your legs finally unlock and you slowly step into the main room fully, the door frame no longer holding you back.

Ghost turns slightly, catching your movement with his eyes, but says nothing.

You don't know why you walk to the chair next to the couch he sat on and sit down—maybe it's exhaustion, maybe it's strategy or maybe, though you hate to admit it, it's that you don't want to stand alone in the dark anymore.

The silence sits between you like a living thing—not warm nor gentle but real and, for now, unbroken.

The chair creaks under your weight as you sit and though you try to make the movement feel casual, your body is rigid and tense.

Ghost finishes filling the pot and sets it on the stove. 

The flame clicks a few times before it catches, casting a soft, uneven glow across the small kitchen.

You watch him move—not like a brute, not like the creature from your nightmares, but with an unsettling sort of ease. 

Everything he does is intentional, controlled and measured.

You study the side of his masked face as he works, wondering why he took off the mask when he entered the room you woke up in before pulling it back over his head and face. 

Now you wonder what you'd see under it.

A beat up face? A nose broken too many times? Scars? A beard, maybe?

"You cook?" you ask, voice faint but laced with something—perhaps it's sarcasm or just curiosity disguised as defiance.

He doesn't turn to look at you. 

"Ye think Ah survive off rage?"

A surprised huff escapes your nose before you can stop it—it's not quite a laugh, just a breath, just human.

You lean forward a little in your chair, eyes flicking toward the back of the cabin. 

You saw another door down that hall—maybe a storage room, maybe something more like a exit he forgot to secure from you.

You shiver at the late autumn cold slipping into the cabin, your fingers and feet uncomfortably cold.

"You said I'm not a prisoner..." you murmur "so I can walk around?"

Ghost glances at you now, just over his shoulder, with that unreadable look again.

"Ye can walk around, in here." he says simply. 

"Ye can't get out without my permission anyway 'nd there is nothin' out there but woods 'nd bad choices."

You stand slowly, watch him as you do. 

He doesn't react, no movement and no protest.

You don't know what happened to the fear that just cursed through your body, but it's gone now and it leaves you trying to see just how far you can go.

You take one step then two, walk across the room toward the fireplace and let your fingers trail over the old stone mantle. 

It's dusty and mostly untouched as if he doesn't really bother with it.

"You don't light fires?" you ask, your back still to him but your ears sharply listening for any move he makes—keeping your guard up.

"Only when it's too cold to think straight." he says.

You glance down, notice a fire starter kit tucked in the shadows then look up to where a nail holds a lighter. 

You're surprised by how...human it all is. 

There are worn things here, quiet things—things that weren't placed for show.

You turn slightly, facing him again.

"Why not the basement?" you ask.

There is curiosity and disbelief in your voice as you try to understand why.

His head turns to look at you, brows lifting under the mask before they slightly knit together.

"What?"

"If you were going to keep me somewhere, the basement would make more sense wouldn't it?" you question.

Why would he go through the trouble of boarding up the window with planks if he could just keep you somewhere that has none to begin with?

Is he truly trying to only keep you in, or keep prying eyes out?

He pauses for a beat before he responds.

"There's no basement."

You don't know whether that's a joke or not.

Ghost turns back around, focusing on whatever he's doing in the kitchen right now—his broad shoulders and muscular frame not allowing you to see what his hands are occupied with.

You make your way to the edge of the room where the coat rack stands next to the locked front door.

For a moment you just stare at the locks and count them before you run your hand along the fabric of the old jacket hanging from the rack, your hands lightly shaking due to the cold.

It's too big for you and you don't recognize it as your own so it's clearly his, it smells faintly of gunpowder and smoke.

You tug it down from the hook.

Ghost's head turns sharply in your direction but he still doesn't move from where he stands.

"I'm cold." you say simply though a little startled, before slowly slipping the heavy thing on—giving him the chance to stop you so you don't accidentally take it too far.

"You said I could eat, drink...stay warm."

He watches you for a long moment then he nods, once.

You're surprised how much that small act steadies you, how he lets you touch what's his and how you didn't seem to have crossed a line yet.

The fabric swallows your body, but it's warm—heavy, grounding.

You wander to the table and sit again, dragging your finger across the grain of the wood as Ghost finishes whatever he's doing at the stove.

The silence stretches thin again.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" you ask finally and quietly with a hint of caution.

He doesn't answer right away.

"Until Ah know Ah can trust ye and that 's safe."

You glance up at him, confused.

"That sounds backwards."

" 's not."

He brings a cup and a bowl over, something like soup sitting plain and dark in the bowl, and sets it down. 

A single spoon rests in the bowl and he places it on the coffee table, close enough for you to reach.

You pick the spoon up, fingers trembling slightly but not from fear—from uncertainty.

You dip the utensil in, test the warmth—it's not poisoned, you don't think.

Ghost doesn't watch you eat, just walks around the couch and lowers himself back into it—one arm slung over the backrest, body relaxed again.

"Thought it would be easier to eat than bread." he says offhandedly.

"You always act this normal?" you ask, spoon paused halfway to your lips.

He smirks faintly, the mask moving slightly on the lower part of his face.

"Ye always ask this many questions?"

"Only when kidnapped." you say witty, the words slipping past your lips before you get the chance to really think about them.

That earns a quiet sound from him, almost a laugh—almost.

You eat a few bites, eyes flicking to the hallway behind him. 

"There's no lock on..my..door." you say, gently testing again "What if I left at night?"

"Ye wouldn't get far."

"How do you know?"

" 'cause Ah'd hear ye."

You swallow because it's not a threat, just a fact—still, it makes your spine tighten.

You push a little harder. 

"You sleep with one eye open, then?"

Ghost chuckles lowly. 

"Don't sleep much."

You set the spoon down gently, eyes locked on the bowl as you wonder how much of the darkness around his eyes is paint and how much is from sleepless nights—not that you care, you're just wondering.

"Because you're afraid?" you ask, trying to sound casual and that shifts the air.

Ghost doesn't move but something about his posture tightens, subtly—like a rope pulling taut.

But then, he tilts his head again.

"No." he says low "Just don't sleep much."

You sit with that, let it settle.

You don't want to push the subject or push him further and risk something, anything.

The power here isn't just physical, it's psychological. 

A web of blurred lines, spoken promises and unspoken threats.

But you're not dead, not tied nor silenced and that, that feels like something you can use.

Eventually, he stands and walks past you—pauses only when he reaches the hallway.

"Ah'll be down there." he says, tipping his head towards the hallway.

Then he disappears, the tension lingers behind him like smoke.

You don't return to the small room, stay seated and draped in his jacket as you stare at the fire that isn't lit—knowing full well he's not far.

The silence in the cabin returns like thick tar and you let it sit like that for a small while.

He's gone down the hall, you don't know to where to exactly.

The bathroom? The other room? 

Maybe he sleeps somewhere near the front door just to hear it creak if you ever actually managed to work through the locks?

You don't know how much was a warning and how much was a challenge.

Still you wait, listen.

Even after a full minute there's no sound—no footfalls, no breath.

You rise slowly from the chair, your cup in hand.

Every muscle is on edge as you move, careful not to shift the wood too loudly beneath your feet—his coat still draped around your shoulders. 

You consider taking it off, in case it rustles, but it keeps you warm and from trembling.

It covers you, makes you feel less exposed so you keep it on.

You step around the table first, avoid the squeaky plank by the right leg you noticed when you clocked it earlier before you sat down while Ghost was busy in the kitchen.

There's a back corner of the cabin that curves around the kitchen, a small alcove where a pantry or utility closet might be—you see it clearly now that you're walking around.

As you get closer you notice the air back there is colder, you can feel it even before you fully reach it.

Your heart jumps and to keep the cup from slipping out of your hands, you set it down on the counter.

Carefully you run your hand along the wooden wall of the kitchen, tracing a seam where the wood was stacked before it was connected. 

Your fingers find a groove in the wall behind a stack of crates that you quickly but silently move out of the way.

It's something like a tiny back door, barely the size of a window and almost more like a upright hatch.

It's not large and it's been covered—not hidden exactly but tucked away under just enough clutter to avoid attention unless you're looking for it. 

You drop into a slow crouch, brushing dust off the edges.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you wedge them under the handle of the small door.

It gives just a little, it's not locked—not locked.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You glance past the U-shaped counters that frame the kitchen—the hallway is still empty, the cabin is still silent.

Your heart thunders so loud it feels like it'll crack your ribs.

You twist the handle just an inch—slowly, quietly and a faint breath of cold air drifts into your face. 

You can't see where it leads, it has to lead outside though.

The sun has probably already settled and made it impossible to see anything without a proper source of light.

You don't know for sure where it leads but it leads away, out of the cabin, and that it more than enough.

You shift lower to the ground, trying to gauge if your body would even fit.

Then, a single footstep.

Your blood turns to ice.

Not heavy, not close yet, but unmistakable—a floorboard creaking under pressure from down the hallway.

You freeze, hold your breath.

Nothing happens for a moment, then another footstep and another.

He's walking, coming back already?

You twist the handle back into place with trembling hands, shoving the heavier crate in front of it again and one of the lighter crates back on top of the other.

It thuds softly—not loud, but still enough to make you flinch.

You straighten too quickly, making your head swim. 

The coat slips off one shoulder and you quickly readjust it, pull it back into it's original position.

Another step, this one closer.

You quietly bolt to the sink, grab your cup that you didn't drink from yet as you try to make it look like you were just getting more water—acting natural, innocent.

The hallway is still empty when you glance at it with only your eyes.

You pour the cup fuller under a slowly running tab, fingers shaking. 

You keep your back to the room as long as you can, heartbeat up in your ears.

"Thirsty again?"

You flinch hard.

Ghost's voice is coming from behind you, you didn't even hear him enter the room or come to a halt so close to you.

You school your face before turning.

He's standing just a few feet away—not too close but not too far either, just watching.

You force a nod. 

"My throat's still dry."

His gaze flicks to the coat hanging off your shoulders, then back to the cup in your hands.

Ghost doesn't say anything and neither do you.

You just turn the tab off, hold the cup in your hand as you tense your fingers to stop them from trembling.

He walks along the other side of the counter and stops at the edge before stepping towards the table, looking down at the mostly untouched bowl of food.

"Ye should eat more." he says, quiet.

Your fingers clutch the cup even tighter. 

"I can't stomach more."

Another pause, silence between you two then Ghost speaks again without looking at you.

"Ye moved somethin'." he states.

Your stomach drops and you turn your head slowly toward him. 

"What?"

"The crates. They were different earlier." he says, turning around and stepping closer slowly.

Your mouth goes dry, blood rushing in your ears.

He still doesn't sound angry but his eyes are sharper now, more alert.

You try to keep your voice level. 

"I was...trying to see if there was a towel, I spilled.."

A beat, then two, before he nods. 

"Ye like it tidy."

It's not a question even though it should be, you just nod in response.

Ghost walks back into the open kitchen, walks past you with as much distance as the counters allow and slowly moves toward the crates.

You force yourself not to react even though you feel nauseous.

He crouches slightly and moves the top crate, lifts it before checking the door—then he gently sets everything back the way it was.

His voice is even when he speaks again.

"Ah told ye not to try anything stupid."

Your skin goes cold and you just stare down at the cup, hands trembling despite your effort to suppress the tremor.

But when he turns back to you, something in his face has changed. 

His head tips slightly and his voice lowers just a little more.

" 'm not angry." he says "Ah just need ye to understand."

You finally meet his gaze, if only for a split second.

"Understand what?" you question, a hint of fear now swaying in your voice—realizing there is no need denying that you searched for a way out because he knows you did and so do you.

"That no matter how clever ye are..." he steps forward again, stops just shy of you "...ye won't leave unless Ah let ye."

The way he says it sends a ripple down your spine—bot cruel, just inevitable, just the truth.

And that is the worst way he could've said it.

You nod once, slow.

But inside, the fire hasn't gone out.

You'll try again, you have to, but next time you'll be quieter—smarter, faster and next time...he won't see it coming.

Ghost takes another step towards you, close enough to reach out and touch you if he wanted to.

You fight the urge to step away from him, not wanting to possibly make your situation worse by doing so—as if any sudden movement might trigger something in him.

But his hands stay by his sides, the tension between the two of you not gone yet.

"Finish the soup." he says and this time it's not a suggestion, not a request—it's a command that allows no room for discussion.

You nod once more, your throat feeling too tight to speak.

He takes a step back then another, allowing you room to walk back into the living area from the opening of the U-shaped counters without towering over you.

You try to walk slow, act calm—but when you hear him starting to move and follow right behind you, your pace quickens ever so slightly nonetheless.

You sit down on the chair again, grabbing the bowl with the now lukewarm soup carefully after setting down the cup and having almost tipped it over on accident.

Ghost sits down as well, eyes trained on you like you could dissapear if he didn't keep you in his gaze.

His sharp eyes watch you.

You dig around in the cloudy liquid with the spoon for a moment before you raise the utensil to your mouth.

Ghost watches you eat this time, silent and observant—taking note of each and every of your movements.

While you are still tense, he isn't.

He's just sitting in the chair calmly, eyes on you and you don't know how to feel about it.

He said he isn't angry with you or what you did, but you're not sure if that's really the truth.

You don't feel real as you force bite after bite into your mouth and down your throat, the cold soup tasting like nothing.

You think you must be dreaming, having a nightmare, but the pain on your wrists and in your throat are too real to pass off as a dream.

And still, a part of you is convinced that you'll wake up soon—that you'll wake up from a terrible dream and nothing has ever changed in your boring life.

You're still a secretary, you still live in the old apartment complex in your tiny apartment and perhaps it's the morning after Ghosts arrest when you open your eyes.

With a bit of luck, you think, you would already be staying at your parents house for a while and be far away from your apartment—from the third floor you shared with him.

"How-" you start as you put the empty bowl back on the small table but stop yourself from talking as you consider your words.

You don't want to push him, not after trying to find a way out and him noticing and unsure just how much you can still stretch the string before it snaps.

But Ghost looks at you expectingly as he obviously waits for you to continue, his eyes almost shimmering in anticipation under the golden glow of the dusty overhead lamp.

You take a deep breath, grounding yourself.

"How did you break out..?" you ask carefully.

"Inside help 'nd a orchestrated riot." he states simply, not even taking a moment to think before he answers.

You remember the news anchor saying that the police suspected he had inside help and even an investigation of the prison staff starting, but a riot was never mentioned.

"A riot?" you repeat his words to him, eyebrows knitting together as you risk a glance at him.

Ghost doesn't respond, doesn't even react to your question and just keeps watching you.

His piercing gaze makes you uncomfortable.

It makes you feel vulnerable, naked, as if he could see through your flesh right to your spine and read every of your thoughts before they are fully formed inside your own head.

"Did your...companions..help you?" you continue carefully and he nods once.

You look away, blink a few times before locking your gaze back on the empty bowl.

His jacket around your shoulders suddenly feels heavier, making you feel trapped under its weight—or perhaps it's Ghost's stare keeping you locked in place.

You can still feel him watching you, your skin crawling and the hair at the back of your neck standing up.

"Ask." he suddenly says, his deep voice booming through the cabin and making you flinch.

"What..?" you question quiet and confused, raising your gaze to meet his again.

"There are more questions on yer mind." he states "Ask."

You're taken aback for a moment.

Not because of the harsh tone in his voice, the demand for you to ask but because he knows that there are questions you decided to leave unspoken. 

You take a deep breath, your heart resuming to pound in your chest before you speak.

"You said I'm easy to watch..." you start, taking all your courage to hold his gaze—you want to see if and when something in them shifts, when you're better off stopping than to keep going.

"Y' are." Ghost interrupts, not even letting you finish.

He probably know where you were trying to go with your sentence.

"Left yer window open, let me stand so close behind ye in the subway. Ye were a little more aware for a few weeks after Ah was arrested before ye dropped it all again, 's what my friend told me." he say's, returning your gaze.

His tone is almost...accusing, like he's disappointed you let yourself feel safe again.

The man in the subway you didn't pay any mind to, the tall one with the broad shoulders, the muscular build and in the dark hoodie that only allowed you to catch a glimpse of his jawline—it was him.

The realization sends a shiver down your spine and the friend of his he mentions that watched you, stalked you, makes you feel nauseous and somehow filthy.

He was so close to you without you even noticing.

"Ye don't notice the things that matter." Ghost adds, his voice still calm, still too steady.

You're not sure what he means at first. 

You're still thinking about the small, almost hatch like, door in the kitchen in the back of your mind like background noise—think about the riot no news mentioned, his friend that watched you.

You're still trying to piece together what exactly he's capable of and all the things he's done.

"What things?" you ask, quiet and cautious.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you the way he always seems to do—like he's solving a puzzle only he understands.

"People."

"People?" you blink.

He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees now, fingers loosely laced together once more.

"Ye didn't hear the guy in 6B follow ye once, late at night. Didn't see the guy from the complex down the street who stood at the corner every Thursday, same time ye came home from work. Ye didn't clock the kid from a few blocks over taking photos across the street."

You stare at him, a chill creeping up the back of your neck.

You want to say he's lying, trying to manipulate you...but there's something in the way he says it—flat and unbothered—that makes your blood run cold.

"Ye made it easy to watch ye, Ah knew ye were still there." Ghost shrugs lightly and that feels like an accusation—again.

You shift in the chair, spine drawn taut, eyes burning.

"I wasn't-"

"Payin' attention?" he cuts in "Exactly."

He doesn't sound cruel, and that hurts more than his words.

He sounds like someone stating a weather report.

You look away, guilt sinking into your ribs like cold water. 

"I just-" you start again after a moment, not even sure what you want to say yourself so you stop.

"Ye just didn't think it would be you, huh?" Ghost interrupts once more—his words cut deep, a little too close.

You thought you were cautious, aware—turns out you were completely oblivious.

"You said you knew I was still there...how?" you murmur, trying to reroute and rearrange your thoughts, trying to regain some kind of balance.

He doesn't answer right away but when he does, his tone is casual.

"The envelope."

Your eyebrows draw together. 

"What envelope?"

"In yer mailbox." he clarifies "Empty."

You blink once, then again before the memory slowly resurfaces.

"That was...you?"

"Wasn't me that put it there, obviously couldn't." he nods.

You sit back a little, the memory surfacing slowly.

The half-crumpled envelope shoved halfway in—no stamp, no sender, nothing inside.

"I thought it was...nothing..." you say quietly, gaze fixed on your hands in your lap. 

"I thought it was a prank or something. I threw it out."

"Didn't matter what ye did with it." Ghost replies "Only mattered that ye took it."

The doom of realization lands in your chest like a stone, heavy and absolute—meant to drag you down, to crush and drown you.

"It was a test..." you say, looking up again—eyes widened slightly.

He leans a little closer, bis brown eyes staring into yours.

"To see if ye were still in that apartment." he confirms.

You look at him, stunned.

"Who put it there? Your friend?"

"A friend." he confirms with a nod and shrug, like it's unimportant and not worth mentioning at all.

It takes you a moment to find your voice again. 

"A...friend? You mean one of the people who escaped the heist?"

He doesn't answer directly, just says "Ye were being checked on."

You can't breathe for a second, your throat tightening again.

It feels like you're about to pass out with how hard your brain is trying to process everything he is saying.

" 'nd the lock, the water heater..." he then suddenly start casually, not allowing you a break.

His voice is low and quiet, almost a whisper—almost a taunting tone in his voice.

Your eyes snap to his masked face.

"That wasn't you." you say quickly but his expression tells you otherwise.

"No." you deny his statement once more, shaking your head. 

"It was the landlord. The guys who came said it was a building-wide upgrade-"

"Levington?" Ghost says the name like a joke, a deep chuckle passing his lips.

"That man hasn't set foot in that building in three fucking years. He doesn't upgrade shit, he probably doesn't even know Ah changed my own lock two years ago."

You sit frozen.

Your hands clench tighter in your lap without you realizing and your fingernails press into your palms, but you barely feel it.

"That can't be right." you say but your voice is thinner than it should be, weaker.

You want to argue, you want to dismiss it but part of you already knows he's telling the truth.

Ghost doesn't lean forward again, doesn't press, he just watches.

"The heater, the lock..." you whisper, trying to piece together yourself just how he did it or the fact that he even did it at all.

"Yeah."

"That makes no sense." you say, shaking your head while keeping it lowered.

He doesn't flinch.

"I didn't even tell anyone about the heater....just the landlord, just a few emails-" you try to defend, panic in your voice.

"And he ignored 'em." Ghost says flatly, interrupting you once again.

"Like he always does. Ye think that man would've sent three contractors to fix one unit when half the building's got mold under the floorboards?"

"You...listened? You heard it break?" you blink, carefully lifting your gaze again.

He shakes his head.

"Didn't need to, already knew it was busted."

"How?" you question, stare at him with furrowed eyebrows.

"Ah toured that apartment before ye ever moved in. Thought about renting it." he explains, staring forward into the fireplace.

"Ah wanted the whole floor. More space, fewer eyes." he continues, tone casual.

You can't speak, mind blank.

"Place was falling apart. Leaking pipes, cracked tile. Water heater rattled like it was 'bout to explode. Wasn't worth the extra money, even for privacy."

You sit back slightly in your chair, breath shallow.

"So when ye moved in, Ah already knew what ye were walking into."

You swallow hard as the pieces slot into place but you wish they wouldn't.

"And the lock?" you ask after a moment, voice small and hoarse "That was you too?"

Ghost shrugs one shoulder, straightens on the other end of the couch.

"Didn't like that ye were still using the old one. Shitty deadbolt, metal plate loose. If someone really wanted in, two kicks would've done it for the lock if the door wouldn't give in first."

"So you just...replaced it?" you question though you already know the answer.

"Had a copy of yer key because my old lock became yours, did that before ye moved in just in case my new neighbor would be too nosy. Let myself in to upgrade ye lock, did the work—took maybe twenty minutes."

You don't speak—can't.

You remember the shiny new lock that looked completely out of place on your old, warped door. 

You remember thinking it was a bit strange but you didn't look too hard, didn't ask questions to not cause problems.

"Ah made it safer." Ghost says again, like he's trying to remind you, like he's trying to justify what you're too shaken to process.

"But it wasn't your place to do that." you finally say, the words scraping their way out. 

"It wasn't your right." you add bitterly, face twisting into a mixture of several emotions you can't quiet name at the moment.

He leans further back on the couch, slow and calm as if this whole conversation is still just a formality.

"Ah never waited for permission, not when it came to keepin' ye alive 'nd safe." he says.

You shake your head because it's all you can do before your find your voice again anf forcing the nausea down just enough so you won't gag—anger and distraught carrying each of your words.

"You changed the lock, you entered my apartment while I was at work. You had someone drop off that envelope. You-"

"Because nobody else was watching." he cuts in. 

"Nobody else gave a fuck."

The words hit harder than they should, knocking the breath out of your lungs...because he's right.

After moving to Manchester, you made acquaintances but not friends—you left everything behind, left friends and family at home.

You stare at him and there's a roaring in your ears now—like wind through a crack, howling low and constant. 

The room feels off-kilter, crooked like the floor's shifted without you moving.

Your mouth opens, then shuts again—your lips unable to keep up with your thoughts. 

They're already tripping over each other in your head, crashing before they reach your tongue.

"You broke into my apartment.." you finally say after a forced deep breath and your voice cracks slightly "...and you think that's kindness?"

"Ah didn't break in." he replies almost amused "Had a key."

You let out a sound that's half a breath, half a laugh—it dies in your throat.

"That's not the comfort you think it is."

Ghost doesn't flinch, doesn't blink.

"That apartment was a sieve." he says. 

"Cheap locks, neighbors too nosy, too many people with most of 'em wantin' what's in yer bag 'nd not giving a single shit 'bout anythin' but themselves. Ye weren't safe."

"That doesn't mean it was your job to fix it!" you almost cry out in frustration.

"No one else would."

"That doesn't make it okay!" you argue, voice rising.

"Never said it was." he replies, still calm even in the face of your emotional distress "Said it was necessary."

That shuts you up for a second.

There's something final about the way he says it—not defensive, just resolute.

Like he truly believes it, like he had to do it.

You look away, jaw clenched so hard your teeth ache.

You're trying not to cry. 

Not from fear, not really at least, but from the overwhelming weight of it all—from how much he's done without you knowing.

You were never alone, not for a second...which didn't make you safe either.

"You don't get to decide what's necessary for me." you whisper in defeat with your head hanging low and staring down, still fighting against the tears that threaten to fill your eyes.

You can feel them trying to make their way into your eyes and down your face, your throat feeling hollow and stuff at the same time.

"Ah already did." Ghost says, pauses for just a moment.

"And 'm not sorry."

You finally look at him again, finding him watching you intently as if he's determined to see just how you react.

His face is unreadable under the mask, but his eyes are steady and grounded—not crazed or wide, but sure.

"You think what you did was protection...but it's not. It's control." you say again quietly, hoarse—exhaustion settling even though you technically just woke up.

"Could've been worse." Ghost replies and it sounds almost like a warning—but not to you.

"To most people, ye were nothing more but an object they could get somethin' valuable out of." he adds, voice lower now. 

"Even if ye would've screamed, do ye really think anyone would've come to see what's going on? Or even stepped in to help ye?"

You know what he's implying and flinch at it—he sees it but doesn't press.

He's talking about him in your apartment last night, if it even has been last night because it might as well have been longer since then.

Would anyone have stepped in?

You're not sure, don't think anyone could've done anything even if they wanted to.

The air between you sours, thick with things you don't name for him.

"You're not a hero for noticing me." you say, taking a deep breath through your nose in an effort to keep your composure.

"You're not some savior."

"Never said Ah was." Ghost shoots back immediately, his eyes narrowing for a brief moment.

Another silence stretches out, long and tight.

You sit there, trembling slightly, still wrapped in his jacket—the one you draped over your shoulders when you were shivering.

You want to throw it off, want to keep it on.

It might keep you warm but it's his and the warming effect is almost crushed by that fact.

"You don't get to decide who's safe and who's not." you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

But Ghost hears it, of course he does.

And when he answers, it's in that same even tone—like concrete settling, heavy and sure.

"Then it's a good thing no one's askin' ye."

You stare at him like you're waiting for the rest of the sentence.

Like maybe he'll apologize, laugh it off like this is all some strange misunderstanding—that you ended up in some messed up reality show and some host and a cameraman will jump into the cabin through the front door to lift the prank any moment.

But nothing happens, Ghost just watches you.

His elbows rest on his knees again, like they did before—a posture you're starting to understand means he's settling in. 

Means he's thinking, judging, waiting, calculating.

"Yer not goin' back there." he says, like it's already done.

You blink.

"To that apartment. That job. That fuckin' neighborhood." he clarifies.

Your stomach turns "You can't decide that."

"Ah already have."

The words land like stone against glass but they don't shatter the fragility—they press, tighten, weigh down and pin in place.

"Ye don't need that life anymore." he continues, as if he's talking about old shoes ir a bad haircut "It didn't fit."

Your mouth feels dry again as the anger simmers under your skin, begging to burst out of you in screams and maybe violence...but you don't let it.

"I had a life..!" you bite out, shaking your head once in disbelief at how easily he dismisses that fact.

Ghost tilts his head again, slow.

"Ye had a routine." he corrects. 

"Nothin' 'bout it was safe. Nothin' 'bout it was yours."

"Because you were watching me-!" you start angrily.

" 'nd if Ah hadn't, ye wouldn't be here right now." he interrupts, his voice doesn't rise but it sharpens.

"Ye'd be dead, buried or worse."

You go quiet, your lips smacking shut.

You want to argue, to actually scream maybe, but you can't force your lips apart.

He watches the way you fall silent, reads it.

You're still afraid—not in the way you were when he first brought you here, not the same pure fear. 

This one's deeper, heavier.

You're no longer guessing the line, you're walking on it.

"You said I'm not a prisoner." you rasp out, almost whisper as you advert your gaze from him for a moment so you can blink the moisture in your eyes away.

Ghost nods "Yer not."

"But I can't leave."

"Not yet."

You grip the arms of the chair. 

"Then what am I?"

His answer is quiet, controlled but delayed.

"Something I intend to keep safe."

It takes you a moment to breathe through the weight of that—the fact that he called you 'something' and not 'someone' not passing you by unnoticed.

"Why?" you ask.

Another beat of silence.

You see it, the flicker, the thought behind his eyes—the thing he's not saying.

"Does it matter?" he ask in return, his voice wiped of all emotions.

"It does to me."

His jaw shifts slightly at that, a muscle ticking once beneath the edge of the mask.

Not anger or annoyance, something else—something you can't put your finger on.

He doesn't answer you but his eyes narrow and his eyebrows knit together making your heart skip a beat.

'You took it too far.' you think.

He sees it, watches the panic bloom and doesn't move to soften it.

"Get some sleep." Ghost then finally says after a few painfully long moments, his tone sharper again.

It's not a request or suggestion, it's a command.

He doesn't ask you to go to sleep, he wants you to.

Ghost looks away from you, his eyes relaxing again.

"What happens tomorrow?" you ask quietly, scared your voice might break if you speak too loud.

He doesn't look back at you.

"Depends on ye." he states, leaning back into the backrest of the couch.

You stay seated for a few more seconds, not moving and not sure what to make of his word.

You stay in the chair across from him, staring at the burned-out wood in the cold fireplace, at the floor, at anything but him.

"Go to sleep." he presses once more, final like it's an order that shouldn't need repeating.

But you don't move, don't obey.

Instead, your voice comes out—tight, raw. 

"I deserve to know what's going on." you say, lifting your gaze again to meet his.

Ghost doesn't shift, doesn't blink. 

He stays exactly where he is—legs spread, one arm loosely resting over the back of the couch while the other rests next to him.

"Ye know enough."

"No." you push once again, trying to see how deep you can go into the water before you loose your footing and get swept away by the current i to something truly inevitable "I don't."

You lift your chin a little and his eyes track the movement.

"I don't know why I'm here. I don't know what happens tomorrow. I don't know what you want."

He doesn't respond.

"You said I'm not a prisoner." you repeat again.

"But I can't leave, I can't ask questions. You give me orders like...like this is normal. Like you haven't-" You stop yourself, swallow the words with a quiet but frustrated and angry groan. 

He speaks, flat and even.

"Yer alive."

The way he says it is light, and yet the words feel heavier than they should.

"You want me to be grateful?" you ask with a scoff.

"Ah want ye quiet and to listen to what Ah tell ye to do." he responds immediately like the words burned on his tongue for a while.

Your lips part but you can't find a response to his words, too shocked by them—he wants you to be a puppet.

He watches your silence and it seems to satisfy him more than your questions.

"Ah told ye what matters." he continues.

"Yer safe 'nd not some unidentified dead body in a canal or on the side of a road. 's more than most get."

You stand, not because you want to challenge him but because your chest is too tight and your hands are starting to shake again.

"I want the truth."

He tilts his head slightly, like he's weighing how much leash he's willing to give you.

"Yer not ready for it." his jaw clenched, you can hear it in his voice and it makes a chill run through you.

You want to argue but his posture hasn't changed once. 

He hasn't raised his voice, hasn't even moved.

There's something worse about that than yelling, it's something more permanent.

"You just expect me to sleep?" you ask, voice cracking around the edge.

"Yes."

"While you're sitting out here?"

"Yes. Told ye Ah don't sleep much."

Your voice dips, low and bitter. 

"How do I know you won't come in?"

His eyes flash but it's not anger, it's something colder and tighter.

"If Ah wanted in, Ah wouldn't wait for ye to sleep."

You go still, your breath catching at the brutal reminder of all the things he's capable of.

You step back, slow and small, until you're past the doorway that leads into the hall.

His eyes follow but he doesn't turn, doesn't shift.

You only turn your back to him when you feel like the darkness of the hallway conceals you just enough to not expose you fully.

When you get to the room you woke up in, you close the door behind you.

It closes with a soft click that feels far too loud in the silence.

You stand there for a few seconds with your hand still on the handle as if he might change his mind, as if this wasn't already real.

Your knees feel unsteady, the floor colder than before on your bare feet.

The air bites through your clothes and your skin, every part of you is drawn tight and muscles still braced for something that hasn't come yet.

You make yourself walk to the bed.

The light from the hall seeps in through the gap under the door, faint and unmoving—you don't take off the jacket.

You sit on the edge slowly, carefully, like the whole cabin might tilt if you move too fast before you sit so far against the wall that it presses into your back.

You draw your knees up to your chest, the fabric of the blanket rough against your skin and Ghost's jacket still wrapped around you like some cheap, borrowed shield.

You stare at the wall across from you in the darkness.

Your throat burns.

It happens before you even realize it—your body catching up to your brain, your chest clenching hard around something it doesn't have words for.

It's not one big sob, not at first.

Just the slow, cracking build-up of pressure.

The kind that crawls into your lungs and makes your ribs feel too tight and then the first sound slips out, quiet and shaky. 

Almost like a breath caught wrong and once it starts, it won't stop.

Your hands come up to your face, fingers cold as they cover your mouth.

You don't want to be loud, you don't want him to hear, you don't want to be heard—not anymore.

The tears push up.

You cry because you're scared, because everything happened too fast to process—the arrest, the silence in the building, the police, the hallway, the knock, the moment his hands were around your throat and your body going numb.

You cry because you don't know what he wants.

Not really, not completely and that's the part that hurts the worst.

He didn't kill you but he didn't free you either, didn't leave you unharmed.

And now you're here, in this room, in this cold and you don't know for how long.

Is he demanding a ransom for you right now from your parents?

Is he telling them to give him money so he lets you go?

Are they able to even pay the amount he demands? Would he even let you free once he received the money?

You curl in tighter around yourself, knuckles white in the fabric of the jacket you grabbed with your free hand.

The tears slow eventually, dragged out of you like something physical and when they finally stop they leave you hollow.

You wipe your face with your sleeve, the salty tears burning on the injured flesh of your wrist—but it doesn't help.

Your eyes still sting, your chest still hurts.

You lie down anyway, limbs feeling like they are made of stone as you do.

You're too tired not to lie down so you wrap yourself in the thin blanket and Ghost's jacket, still warm with the last of your body heat.

As your eyes finally close, your last thought is the same one you've had when you realize it was him in your bedroom.

'What does he want from me?'

And out there, on that couch, you know he's still sitting.

Probably watching the hallway to see if you'll come out again, waiting.

Sleep takes you like cold water—slow at first, then all at once.

a/n: TITLE DROP (i love them so you just know I had to do it)

Also, writing dialogue is my arch nemesis and shoutout to the person on wattpad who said that they think Ghost speaks like a pirate, I am now forever cursed with it

You guys have been so incredibly supportive, tysm<3

Thanks again to my beta/proof-reader @donttm1ndm3 <3

Though you suppose that’s what happens when the man takes his anger out on you. Expects you to treat him like a king when he treats you as much less. Maybe the look fooled you at first. Pristine suits and smooth skin, charming smile and glimmering white teeth. An image that portrayed something he wasn’t.

You stay, there’s no other option. Not when the word divorce makes your mother turn her back to you. Not when she endured far worse and stayed longer.

You should be grateful, atleast that’s what he tells you, and some awful twisted part of you believes him. That this is all you deserve. That this is karma for kissing your girl best friend on the playground in primary school. Or for losing your virginity out of wed lock when you graduated.

You’re lucky— he tells you. Lucky that he married someone so tainted. You’ve heard it so many times that you don’t know what’s true anymore, the edges of your beliefs smeared and faded somewhere.

You don’t believe in a God. Never did. Even when your mother pushed it on you, forced her fears into your mind, and made you second guess all your actions. Maybe your lack of faith caused this. Maybe your marriage is punishment for the doubt in a higher power.

Maybe you should’ve believed.

Perhaps this would all make sense if you did.

Though, the doubt isn’t from lack of trying. You’ve prayed on your knees, seeking questions that have gone unanswered. Even wear the cross on your neck, a silver thing that you play with when his words become too harsh and voice too loud.

You think you loved him at one point. It’s all blurry now. You hope you did. Maybe then you’d have a valid excuse for staying other than a religion you don’t believe in.

It’s all you know at this point, all you’ve ever known watching your parents. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, how this God intended. Tight lip smiles, ducking heads, and shaking fingers out of fear.

You’ve stopped crying long ago, dried up all sorrow and buried it somewhere else completely. You’ve learned to deal with it— you think, if wrapping up all the emotions that threaten to spill from your throat tightly wound with a pretty bow on top to mask your true thoughts counts as ‘dealing with it.’

You’re used to it, despite how draining it is.

You won’t divorce. That’s not an option. Not like this. You weren’t raised that way.

You don’t know how to leave, can’t leave, so you find escape in the small things. The way the sun shines through your kitchen window, casting beams from the sun catcher your husband hasn’t torn down yet. He will, in a stupor rage, and you’ll have to save up for a new one again. Or the bunny that’s found sanctuary in your backyard, a white innocent thing, covered in dirt. Even visiting the small flower shop on the way to the butcher, the same one you get your sun catchers from, is better than any of this.

The bunny’s there now, creeping out of the bush its made its home, branches dented where it crawls. Slowly, hesitantly, it approaches the lettuce you had tucked away for it, nose twitching as it inspects the contents. It draws a smile, the first in a while thats not forced at your new little friend’s bravery.

The smile falls fast, torn from your lips when the front door slams shut loudly. It makes you jump, makes the bunny run from the noise, lettuce falling from its grasp and back on to the ground. You swallow thick at the sight, the man finds a way to ruin everything that happens to bring you joy.

The clock on the stove reads 4:30. An hour early.

The tension in the rooms already shifted before he’s even entered, wooden house creaking under him. You feel it in your spine, an anxiety that only he manages to claw out of you, curled around your back firmly.

“What’s for dinner?”

It’s the first words he speaks. Not even a hello. Grunting them out like it was a chore.

You turn to face him, drying your hands with a rag, tight lipped smile on your face, feigning a warm welcome. “Chicken Gnocchi.”

His ties out of place, white shirt you pressed this morning wrinkled, hair disheveled. You ignore it. Pretend you don’t notice any of it.

He scoffs. “Don’t want it.”

Your smile falters, brows meeting in the middle. “Sweetheart, I’ve already made it. You told me you wanted it before you left this morning.”

“Don’t care. I want rib-eye steak.” He cuts you off, dismissing your words with a wave of your hand.

“We dont—there’s no steak in the freezer.”

He looks at you like you’re dumb. “Then go to the butcher?”

You pause, inhaling deep, fingers tight around the rag. You’ve learned not to fight it. Your response is weak, meager, putting on the same forced smile.

“Okay.”

You take a final look through the window. You wish you could join the bunny, hide away in the bush until the big bad man leaves for work the next morning and you both can enjoy the sun again.

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It’s dark by the time you arrive, cheeks and fingers numb from the winter air. Sighing under your breath when you see the long line.

You’ve never been this late, your husband expects dinner to be made before he gets home, so you don’t recognize the person behind the glass.

He’s big. Awfully big.

There’s blood smeared on his apron, red splattered up his blue gloves. It’s a sight you don’t normally see with the morning shift. A bit sickening, filthy, but you watch him anyways.

Eye’s trained on his brows, squished together with stress, or maybe it’s annoyance. Wrinkles deep on his forehead, scars gashed along his lip and down his arms like he was cutting practice for apprentices.

His shoulders are broad, pulling the white t-shirt he wears under his apron taut. Head shaved, crooked teeth. The tattoos curled along his arm flex with every shift, veins prominent each time he slices a new slab of meat.

He’s brooding, intimidating. In a far different way than your husband.

You can’t look away from his hands. Swallowing thick as you watch him slice slab after slab. A weird part of you, somewhere deep, warms your skin. Licking your lips instinctively because you can tell how thick his fingers are even under the gloves.

It’s like a moth to a flame, the way your eyes zero in on his movements. Inhaling between your teeth, breathing deep like some animal, unlocking something you didn’t realize you had.

The tag on his apron reads ‘Simon.’

It takes you two seconds to realize it’s the owner of the shop when he stares at you expectantly.

“The hell ya want?”

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