Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
The dorm room is neat. A small, stiff cot in the corner with plain, thin sheets, along with a dresser and desk against the walls. It smells of stale mildew. It's the cleanest place Nox has slept in ages besides the medbay. She slept dreamlessly and still until the moon was high in the sky, and soft moonlight poured in between the weak plastic blinds covering the window. A soft buzz filled her head, keeping her thoughts from becoming too loud. She lies motionless, letting her muscles ache without the strain of constant movement. For a moment, she simply exists, staring blankly into the darkness.
Her fingers twitch against the bedsheets. Her toes wiggle. A shiver travels down her spine. Though she's physically here, her mind watches her from afar. She can see herself and feels the longing to see again through her own eyes. With a stifled groan, she moves her legs off the bed and sits up. Her legs aren't as shaky anymore when she stands, but a limp remains every time she uses her right leg to walk. Slowly, she walks through the dark room, slips on her shoes, and reaches for the door.
Nox steps outside. The air is crisp and cold and smells faintly of cigarettes. It's refreshing. The single-story dorm building is directly across from the hangars storing vehiclesâjeeps, planes, and helicopters. It would be humorous of her to steal now, even if the thought crosses her mind. It's a pattern she'll have a hard time breaking when she gets home.
She glances to the right and is hardly surprised to see Ghost there, leaning against the wall, with a cigarette pinched between his fingers. His mask is rolled up to just below his nose. His lips are thin and naturally downturned. She forces her eyes up to his.
Ghost breaks the silence first, "How's your side?"
Nox shrugs a shoulder, "Could be worse, I guess."
He chuffs and nods. "Y'want one?" He fishes his pack out of the pocket of his cargo pants.
Fuck, yes, I do. Nox thinks, though a simple, "No, thanks," is all that comes out as she slowly approaches him. She didn't want to take her mask off, even partially, or even if he did too. He notices her slight limp and watches how her left leg does most of the work to stand.
"Something tells me you're not leaving tomorrow." He says, stuffing the cigarettes back in his pocket.
Nox frowns. "What gives you that idea?"
"Y'didn't leave last time you had a chance."
She can't dispute the fact, and it was odd that she didn't feel as eager to get on a plane as before. "That was different." She responds quietly, almost in a defeated tone.
"What was different about it?" He asks as he takes another drag.
She winces as she shifts to lean against the wall next to him. "Bullet was alive," she hesitates, the words tasting bitter in her mouth."I couldn't go back knowing he was."
Ghost knows there's more. He isn't dense; nothing is ever that cut and dry. He also knows it wouldn't be a simple question to ask her to elaborate. His jaw clenches as he remembers her limp in his lap, her blood staining his clothes.
"It almost got you killed, Nox," He grumbles. "You should've gone."
Hearing him say her name triggers a memoryâhis yell for her, his arms around her as she was dragged away from the turmoil. Her eyes are locked onto his. Even if he hadn't necessarily meant to, he had extended multiple olive branches, and she couldn't understand why.
His breathing deepened the longer she stared.
"Why didn't you just leave me?" She blurts out.
Ghost stiffens. He hesitates before he says in a rumbling tone, "You were one of us. No one fights alone."
She breaks their prolonged eye contact and stares down at her shoes. She couldn't digest it. Part of her wanted that sense of camaraderie, a spark of hope in her chest whenever she wasn't alone. But when it's right in front of her, she's afraid.
"I'm not one of you." She mumbles.
"You could be." He says.
"No, I can't." She sternly proclaims. Her tone quiets down, "I already had a team. I don't need another one."
Ghost's eyes haven't moved from her. He observes her, her wet eyes that glimmer in the moonlight. He wonders what she looks like beneath the maskâor how she smiles. Before he even asks, he knows the answer, "What happened to them?"
Nox chews on her cheek, "They died." Speaking it out loud makes it feel even more real, cemented in reality. "In Kotim." She adds with an unsteady shudder.
It pieces together in his mindâher bloodlust, her hatred towards Bullet.
"Al-Qatala?" He says.
"Barkov's loyalists, before Al-Qatala took over."
He hums in acknowledgment. He doesn't speak, acting as just a vessel to pour into, because God knows he could've needed it at one point, too.
"I never thought I'd ever be on that side of the war. I was sent here to help people, for fuck's sake." She says, unable to stifle the unrelenting desire to be heard any longer. The only understanding she'd receive would come from a man as broken as she is.
"You didn't know." He says, a hint of gentleness beneath the rough and gravelly exterior.
"Yeah," She exhales. "But I should've."
Ghost takes his final drag and throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground, letting it extinguish itself. He tugs his mask back down over his jaw. "What's done is done. You proved yourself right, and now you can go back to the States."
She pictures her home. The rotting rose bushes lining the walkwayâthe broken porch light. She can remember which floorboards creaked beneath her feet and her mother sitting at the withering kitchen table with her head in her hands. It was nothing glamorous to return to, but it was what she had.
"Where is home for you?" She asks, picking her head back up to look at him.
Ghost is quiet for a moment. He didn't have a home, so to speak. He didn't need one when he was constantly moving, always working, always chasing something. But he did have one a long time ago. It guts him to think about. So he's reluctant to say, "Manchester."
"Do you ever go back?"
"Never."
Without having to question it, she knows he has nothing to return to. The struggle of building something you once had, or perhaps never had, was greater than denying yourself of it altogether. What was there to mourn?
"Do you miss it?"
He looks at her, sees the melancholy in her eyes, and responds in almost a whisper, "All the time."
Nox swears hours pass in that moment as they stood still next to each other, shoulders barely touching as they were locked in eye contact. Slowly, her body stopped feeling the cold. Instead, her cheeks warmed beneath her mask, and the fabric felt suffocating. She heard her pulse in her ears in rhythm with her growing heartbeat.
Ghost's brain seemed to short-circuit. He couldn't form a single thought. He traced her features covered by the black fabric, hardly able to see the outline of her mouth. Curiosity was going to kill him at this rate. He wanted to see who she was under 'Nox', and though he couldn't even muster the thought, deep down, he wanted her to see him as well. Instinctually, he leaned, his back slightly hunching to meet her at her height. He kept his hands stationary; he didn't dare to hold her. When he was merely an inch away, her eyelids fell closed, and not even a moment later, she felt something brush against her mouth. It was soft. Hesitant, even. A test. She could smell the lingering smoke clinging to him, mixed with something earthy. Then, it was there again. A little more intentional.
Nox drew back, her eyes now open and wide. Ghost did too. Both of them were shocked as if some invisible force had overcome them. He wanted to speak, apologize, say anything, but nothing came out.
"I'm sorry," Nox says instead with a slight shake of her head. "I don't know what⌠that was." Her heart was still pounding in her chest. Although their masks blocked them from actual physical contact, her body was responding as if there was nothing in between them. Her hands were shaky, knees wobbly. She was melting, and she hated it. She took a step back. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach out, yet he remained as still as a statue and watched as she moved away.
"Night." She mutters as she spins on her heel and practically jogs back to the dorm room. The door slams behind her a little harder than she intended. Her blood has been replaced with adrenaline, causing her hands to shake as they raise to hold her cheeks. Her fingers brush against her lips, feeling the cotton fabric instead.
Her legs nearly give out as she slides down the door, her side prickling with pain the entire way. She sits on the floor in a trance as she replays the feeling of him, his scent, the warmth he radiates, and she's left with a craving that makes her feel greedy.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Nox's biggest risk was blood loss. When Ghost set her down on the rear bench of the van, his shoulder was dark and wet. He did his best to support her head as Price drove. The trees were so thick that there was no chance of the helicopter reaching them from here. Soap kneeled on the cold metal floor of the van in front of her, med kit in hand. He worked to tug her jacket up, then her undershirt, to reveal the angry wound against her pale skin, all while fighting to maintain his balance. The edges around the bullet hole were drying and caking with blood, but the center was still raw and leaking.
Soap frowns, plants his hands on her lower back, and lifts her onto her side. He grimaces and swears under his breath. "It went through."
The exit hole looked worse. Red, inflamed, larger than the entrance. Merely two inches from the curve of her waist. He digs through the med kit and grabs clean towels, placing one on each side of her, and pressing as hard as he can. Her blood dyes them red instantly.
There wasn't much they could do in the small, confined space while their captain drove wildly. Ghost didn't like the churning he felt in his stomach, especially because he didn't have a reason for it. He didn't like holding her while the life drained from her, every moment feeling like an eternity. He didn't believe himself equipped to hold someone in their last moments; his hands weren't gentle enough. So, holding Nox felt like she was burning him.
Although not a medical helicopter, it was better supplied. Medics were on board with the proper equipment to stabilize her until they reached base. They surrounded her as she lay on a transfer sheet, limp and hardly breathing. They talked urgently among themselves and worked to stop the bleeding as they flew through the air.
When they landed on base, Ghost's instinct was to follow her into the medbay as she was rushed inside on a stretcher. He didn't. Something like a brick wall stopped him. He stood with his boots cemented to the ground, watching as she disappeared into the building. She would be fine. Then, she can finally leave as she said she would, and he can focus on destroying Al-Qatala.
The team didn't have to verbally agree on not seeing her, mostly because no matter what happened, they would carry on with their mission, but also because the medics had to remove her mask to supply her oxygen. It wouldn't be right for them to see her bare face while she was senseless, considering how hard she had fought to keep it on.
It took her a day to wake up.
She slowly blinked awake, the fluorescent lights hurting her eyes. Her right side throbs with pain. She lies still for a while, slowing her shallow breathing to minimize the ache as much as possible. Dizziness clouds her brain, leaving her with the whirlpool of memoriesâthe sound of a gunshot, the smell of blood, and steady hands supporting her weight. The sterile room is quiet, other than a monotone beep that tracks her heartbeat. An IV bag drips steadily through a tube into her vein.
Oddly, she doesn't feel relieved. That should have been it for her. Her struggle, her perseverance, and her burdens should have died along with her body. When she imagines she's experienced true pain, another kind rears its ugly head.
As a tree stops receiving water, it does its best to conserve the remaining moisture inside. The soil around it dries. One by one, the leaves fall. The roots wither, and once they are brittle and beyond repair, it is only a matter of moments before the tree follows. It will stand in the rotting soil as a corpse.
Nox inhales unevenly, wincing from the pulse of her wound, wishing her roots would die.
Her eyes drift downwards. A thin blanket covers her lower half. Her gear has been switched to a hospital gown. She slowly reaches her left hand up and tenderly strokes her bare cheek. It feels raw and human.
The nurses are kind. They checked on her soon after she woke up. The bullet didn't hit any vital organs and passed right through her body. They were administering her heavy pain medications through the IV. One nurse said she was brave. Another said she was lucky. Nox didn't believe either of them. She was up and walking later that day. Unsteady and wincing when her skin stretched and wound stung, but walking nonetheless. The nurses wanted to keep her one more day to continue another dose of the IV, and she didn't argue. Time felt less urgent in her hospital room. Instead of a racing panic that seemed to stretch on forever, it had slowed to a crawl. She kept replaying the look on Bullet's face as he died, imagining how outraged Zakhaev was.
The next day, a nurse came and placed fresh clothes on her bed by her feet, with her mask lying on top of the pile. "You've been cleared." She says in a soothing voice. "Take care."
Putting on the clothes was harder than she thought it would be. She could hardly move the right side of her body without pain shooting through her limbs. Her teeth clench as she pulls her black long-sleeve shirt on, and she groans as she tugs the black leggings over her hips. She gathers her hair in a messy ponytail and shoves the length of it into the collar of her shirt before slipping her mask over her head.
She walks with a slight limp through the medical bay. As she rounds a corner towards the exit, she stops in her tracks when she sees Price sitting in the waiting area, a frown on his face, and his thick arms crossed in front of his vest. He notices her and stands with a rough grunt, then saunters towards her. He seems awkward and unsure. His lips press together in a tight line before he grumbles, "How're you?"
Her head tilts slightly. "Alive."
He hums. "We appreciate your help."
Nox's eyebrows raise a little, surprised. She never imagined she'd be thanked. Not to mention, thanked by her own previous captors.
"Was the right thing to do." She says softly.
Price nods, digesting her words. "We have room for you, if you're willing."
Her eyes lock onto his.
An official spot on the team. A real place fighting in the war. Somewhere she belongs in a place that isn't home. But home has been calling her for a long time, always in the back of her mind. It's always been her reason whyâa promised land.
She sighs deeply, her shoulders sagging. "I can't."
Price nods, disappointed by her rejection. "Why's that?"
"I have personal business elsewhere."
He doesn't know the extent of it, but has faith it's the truth.
"Right," he mumbles. "There's a dorm unoccupied. Stay there for the night and take off in the morning."
She smiles weakly under her mask and nods, "Yes, sir."
The thin baby hairs that have found their way out of the eye hole of her balaclava whip in front of her face. Nox squints in irritation and tucks them back beneath the fabric. The view of the sunrise is breathtaking from the helicopter. The rays of light casting over the earth make her feel like she's been bathed in a bucket of gold paint.
She didn't go back to sleep after she went inside last night, but that was to be expected. She also hasn't heard anything from Ghost, much to her anxiety. She muttered, "Heading West," as quietly as she could, hoping he could pick up on it.
The cabin of the helicopter is mostly empty. Besides her, three men are sitting apart from each other, still weaponless. Sometimes they eye her, but not with fascination or concupiscence, rather unease and disapproval. It didn't rattle her; it meant they were threatened. She'd seen those looks in men's eyes all across the world. She saw it in her captain's when she was promoted to sergeant, the men who would hire her for whatever dirty work they didn't care to do themselves, her father. None of them wanted her in the position she was in, not because they were concerned for her well-being, but because she had a chance to take what they valued. Power. Influence. Control.
If there was one thing that mankind as a whole hated, it was that something they believed was their God-given right was leaving their vicious grasp.
The helicopter slows to a hover and begins to descend. Nox's heart is thumping in her ribs, rattling her body. Every muscle feels tightly coiled, and it takes every ounce of control to stay still. There's a thud when the landing skid touches the ground. A moment later, the cabin door slides open, and a shiny bald head catches her attention.
Fucking Bullet.
He sees her first, a smug and knowing smile under the thick hair covering his lower face.
"Everybody out." He barks. She and the men jump out of the helicopter. It's a rush of commotion. Her eyes don't know where to look. This warehouse is bigger than the one in Verdansk in every sense. Soldiers roam the perimeter, some guiding large cargo trucks to park in the large open garage door, others surveying the surrounding trees with guns in their hands. In between the trucks, she can hardly see into the warehouse. The most she can see are tall silver tubes planted into the ground with smaller interconnecting tubes on the tops of them. There must be hundreds.
Bullet heaves a heavy chest out of the storage compartment near the cockpit. Inside is a plethora of handguns, assault rifles, and magazines. "One of each," He says. "Your post is the front side of the building. Do not go inside. You do, we will kill you."
While the others begin to pick their guns out of the chest, she watches a cargo truck, the same as the one she guarded, arrive. It slowly backs into the warehouse, and a soldier wastes no time in yanking the doors open. There's banging and rustling for a moment. Workers shout orders at each other in Russian. Then, she sees large bright yellow barrels with radiation symbols being moved in between the trucks to go deeper into the building. Her stomach drops.
"Nox." Bullet's voice pulls her attention. She saunters towards the chest and takes the guns, holstering the handgun on her thigh. The cold metal of the rifle feels good in her hands. It feels like security. "You wanna go in there?" He taunts.
Her gaze hardens, "I'm better with guns."
"That's what I thought. Get to your post."
She straightens her spine and marches towards the right of the building, an empty area in terms of patrolling soldiers. Her eyes scan them, counting them in her brain, to find a discreet way to check her coordinates on the DAGR. She glances over her shoulder once, twice, but no one looks at her. Just when her hand begins to reach down to her pocket, a voice stops her.
"ĐОвонŃкиК. ĐŃĐž ŃŃ ŃакОК?"
She turns her head towards it and sees a mid-height and thin man standing there. His face is gaunt with deep bags curling around his eyes. His bulletproof vest seems to hang off him, everything seeming just a little too big.
"I don't speak Russian." She says coldly, trying to convey her disdain for conversation. Unfortunately, he doesn't pick up on it.
"Ah. You are American." He says.
Her eyebrows furrow. He notices the scrunch between her eyes and elaborates, "Your accent."
Forgot about that, she thinks, and shrugs a shoulder casually. She is still preoccupied with finding a way to check her DAGR.
"Where in America?" He continues to talk. It irritates her.
"States." She replies with a groan. Men who just want to hear themselves talk can never take a hint. He doesn't really care where she's from or how she's here. She just wants to get him off her back.
"You are far from home."
"I have to shit, where's the bathroom?" She abruptly says. Her attempt to disturb him is successful. He grimaces, instantly put off.
"Outhouse is that way. Hurry up and get back to your post." He snarls, pointing out into the forest before he stomps towards the rear of the building. It's comical how fast they are to retreat when women act like them.
Nox smirks to herself and doesn't hesitate to stride into the trees and brush. The foliage crunches under her boots, the bushes scratch at her thighs. Birds call from above but can't be seen. She wanders deep enough that the sounds from the warehouse are muffled by the dense wall of nature.
"Ghost, are you there?" She mutters quietly. Her eyes constantly scan her surroundings, and her ears strain for any footsteps. She reaches into her pocket and takes her DAGR. While she presses the buttons to find her coordinates, she kneels to cover herself more.
"What's your status?" He responds.
"At the warehouse. Not far from the estate. Where are you?"
"Nearby on wheels." He says. Soap had saved the coordinates from Bullet when he looked them up, ensuring the 141 had options for themselves. Nox relays the string of random numbers she sees on the small screen. Her precise location.
"40 miles." He says. She curses under her breath. It'll take them at least an hour to get through the forest.
"Copy. It's a factory." She stands up and slowly makes her way back to the warehouse, assuming she's at her limit for a reasonable amount of time to be gone.
"Bombs." He says.
She hums with confirmation, "Watched them unload a shipment. Yellow barrels."
"D'you find out what the target is?"
"No. I'm not allowed inside, so I doubt I will."
"Right. Keep your head down. Be there shortly."
Nox emerges from the trees and walks back to her post. Just from glancing around, she can tell no one paid attention to her being gone. She saunters back and forth, focusing on the sound of her footsteps.
Ghost's foot is heavy on the gas pedal. He jerks the van around the strong tree trunks wildly, earning occasional grunts from the rest of his team. They don't complain, though. They are all eager to reach the warehouse and put a halt, at least temporarily, to Zakhaev's production of weaponry.
None of them has rested in the past day. Ghost and Soap were successful in rescuing the hostages. With nowhere else to go, they were on their way out of Russia, fleeing on planes to neighboring countries until the war was over. Verdansk was not safe yet. Price and Gaz abandoned their positions to follow this lead, which spared dozens of Al-Qatala loyalists. There were more pressing matters now.
They're closing in on Nox's coordinates. Ghost's grip on the wheel tightens. Even if he doesn't want to admit it, he's intrigued to see her again. This time, as an ally. He stops the van nearly half a mile back. The four of them climb out of the van, gas masks in place on their faces, and packs stocked with grenades. Without wasting any time, they take off running.
"Nox, we're closing in on your location." He says, voice uneven with heavy breaths.
"Roger." She says quietly.
Through the trees, they see a wall and passing figures. They slow to a stop before pressing on in a low crouch, guns trained just beyond the trees. Ghost peers around a tree trunk, his heart skipping a beat when he sees her standing at the corner of the warehouse. At the rear end of it, he sees multiple soldiers.
Price comes to his side, his gaze trained on her. He whistles sharply, imitating a bird call, and she locks her gaze on the source of the sound. The sheer relief of seeing Price, of all people, takes her breath away.
She tilts her head towards the front side and speaks lowly, assuming they were all connected through her earpiece. "Keep going. You have a better chance of attacking from the front. I'll cover you from here."
She watches Price wave in that direction, and three of the figures move through the trees like shadows. Her eyes squint, knowing there should be four. When she looks back, she sees it. The white skull mask and the deep brown eyes in its sockets. Everything goes still for a moment. Quiet, even. They stand there, locked in eye contact for a second too long to be just observing.
His hulking form rises enough for his legs to move, his head remaining low as he follows his team. His eyes don't leave her until he moves behind a tree and is out of sight. Nox shakes her head and curses the cloud hovering over her.
Focus.
She takes the safety off her gun and stalks to the front of the warehouse. She waits. Watches. Checks the treeline once, twice. Her hands are clammy, anxious with the urge to pull the trigger. This feels right.
This is what it means to right a wrong.
Her attention is drawn upward. A grenade is flying through the air and hits the ground, rolling beneath one of the cargo trucks a few dozen feet from her. She gasps and bolts away from the building, the explosion bursting behind her. A wave of heat slices along her back as the truck is engulfed in flames, crashing into the others next to it. She slides onto her knees but quickly jumps back to her feet. The soldiers erupt into scrambling and yelling. They grapple with their weapons, pointing them in every direction. The few who also noticed the grenade ran towards the treeline across from the main garage door. She aims her gun at one of them, her lungs tight, and pulls the trigger.
The bullet shoots straight through his temple. His body stiffens mid-fall, and he crashes to the ground, a blood splattering around him. Before the other two right by him have a chance to notice, she fires two more shots, and they crumble as well. Nox pumps her legs, focused on making it out of the open area.
"ĐŃŃĐžŃОМнО!" She hears the men shout from behind her just before another deafening explosion.
Ghost rushes out of the brush, the other three close behind. He shoves something into her chest and continues to gun down the soldiers. When she looks down, she sees it's a spare gas mask. She runs behind one of the trees, straps it in place over her mask, and returns to the open space. Gaz and Soap follow with bags strapped to their chests. They both pull grenades out, yank the pin, and throw them over the roaring fires of the trucks and into the warehouse.
"Nox, you're with me." Price orders her as he shoots one of the men in the shoulder. He's knocked to the ground, his gun sliding away from him, and wails as his uninjured hand grips his bleeding arm.
Price sweeps along the trees with Nox close behind, both of them clearing a path for the others. In the corner of her eye, she sees Ghost taking cover behind the helicopter, shooting at the truck's engines until they blow up. The irksome soldier from before ran from his post at a detrimental time. He is caught in the explosion, the fire leeching onto him and setting him ablaze. His screams are raw and painful as his flesh is seared off his bones. One by one, they drop like flies. Something close to triumph floods Nox, along with a sickening nostalgia.
Price runs farther ahead to catch a man aiming at Gaz. She doesn't get a chance to catch up, and a poorly aimed gunshot hits the tree directly next to her. It's loud and sharp, like the crack of a whip. Splinters sprinkle around the forest floor. She yells out and flinches, roughly falling to her knees.
"ТŃ, ĐżŃОкНŃŃŃĐš ĐżŃодаŃоНŃ!" Bullet roars, followed by the cocking of a shotgun. "ĐŻ ŃĐľĐąŃ ĐˇĐ° ŃŃĐž ŃĐąŃŃ, ŃŃка."
Nox throws the rifle to the ground upon seeing the empty magazine and rips the handgun from her thigh holster. With a snarl, she crawls forward in search of an opening through the grass. She couldn't risk standing while Bullet was ready for her to.
"Come out, you rat." He thunders.
Dirt and mud cakes her chest and stomach. Sweat clings to her forehead and neck. The air is suffocating with the smell of blood, gun powder, smoke, and something sharply metallic. She finds a clearing and can see only his foot from beneath a truck. She stretches her arms out, gun in hand, and takes the shot.
It's accurate, slicing through the heel of his foot. He chokes and falls onto his behind, grabbing his foot with blood seeping through his fingers. Nox stands, her breathing ragged and eyes wide. She takes heavy steps towards the truck. The ringing in her ears drowns out the surrounding chaos.
The sight of Bullet lying in the dirt like a defenseless pig makes her smile. He looks at her with rage, his entire body shaking. It's justice, she thinks, for using her as a pawn in a war that stripped everything she knew from her. She points her pistol at his fat gut steadily, and her finger pulls the trigger. He freezes; the hatred on his face is replaced with fear. His mouth hangs open as if he were gasping, blood trickling off his teeth. She shoots him one, two, three, more times, each one leaving another gruesome hole in his torso. A weak gurgle escapes his lungs as he falls onto his side and the life leaves his eyes.
Slowly, her sense of sound comes back. She looks over her shoulder to see Soap chucking another grenade into the warehouse. It explodes, rattling the warehouse's frame. The fire from the trucks has begun to spread. It eats at the metal hungrily. "I'm out!" He yells.
"Fall back!" Price barks. He runs past Nox, aiming his gun and taking down the soldiers in their way. She looks over to the helicopter. Ghost emerges from the other side and runs after his team. Just as she moves her legs to follow, there is a sharp, white-hot pain in her right side. Her jaw falls open to scream, but what comes out is a rasping hiss. She drops her handgun, cradling her side, as she crumbles to the ground.
"Fuck." She forces through her gritted teeth. It's a debilitating pain that reaches from her upper ribs down to her hip.
"Nox!" She hears Ghost. He slides to a stop next to her and crouches down, hooking his arms under hers to drag her to her feet. He lifts her effortlessly. Her toes barely scrape along the dirt as he hauls her to the trees. Gunfire continues to rain around them. Clouds of dust bloom as the bullet hits the earth. Her breathing grows uncontrollably shallow. Her head hangs limply.
"Come on." He growls, jerking her forward as they duck into the thin safety of the trees. Once he gets her far enough to be shielded from the bullets, he throws her over his shoulder and picks his pace up to a run.
"She's hit. Call the helicopter, she won't makeâŚ"
She slips into darkness before she could hear, her head swimming with the faintest prick of longing in the deepest part of her heart.
The safehouse looks like a prison. Feels like one, too. Placed in the far corner of Zakhaev's property is a grey single-story building meant for the full-time guards. The energy is sinister as soon as she steps inside. Every person has their own room with a cot and a closet. But what Nox was terrified of reveals itself as she passes by the door in the hallwayâa communal bathroom. A line of shower heads on the wall, stalls crammed next to each other.
She'd rather piss in a corner than ever step foot in there.
The same guard shows her to an empty room and leaves quickly after without saying much. She shuts the door behind her and clicks the lock into place, breathing a sigh of sheer relief that he decided not to stick around. The room is depressing, similar to the one Price kept her in. One small shitty mattress. She sits down on the edge and stares at her scuffed boots, her head resting in her palms. Her fingertips scratch at the fabric of her maskâitching to take it off but too paranoid to risk it. It made her feel safer knowing they couldn't see her face.
Doubt clouds the corners of her mind. It whispers to her.
You will fail. Again, and again, and again. It'll kill you this time. You can't save them.
She shakes her head, clenches her jaw. Sometimes she doesn't feel real. She could just be watching a movie; her real body is somewhere far away, safe, cuddled in her childhood bedroom with her angry father down the hall. Nothing felt like it belonged to her. No matter how many times she stared at her hands, telling herself over and over that it was real, her brain never quite accepted it as truth.
Nox falls back onto the bed and lands with a huff, her weight hardly supported. She lets her eyes unfocus as they drift toward the bland ceiling, lulled into a zoned-out state by the hum of the lights. After a while, she drifts to sleep.
"Serg, you think we can get cake when we get back?" Gonzalez asks with a cheeky smile on his young face. Poor kid, she thinks. They shouldn't have sent him, hardly twenty years old.
"You want cake?" She asks with a quirked brow. She glances in the rear-view mirror to see the rest of her squad sharing the same look, hopeful sparks in their eyes.
"Yeah, to celebrate." Collins chimes in. She was a mother, forced to leave her four-year-old son at home with his grandparents. She never lost her drive, determined to make it home to him.
She stops herself from shutting them down, instead indulging them with the comforting sense of normal conversation. "As long as it's chocolate."
Some of them groan while others cheer. The van is a mixture of protest and agreement. They all laugh and tease each other, debating which cake flavor is best, while she drives them towards their assignment. It sounds like children on their way to a soccer game. Subjects that don't really matter but mean everything to them right now. It makes her smile.
The laughter settles down. The weight is pressing into everyone's chests again. They remember where they are, what they're sent to do. Once they landed in Russia, it seemed like no one wanted to acknowledge it. Of course, they wanted to help the people of Kotim. On a surface level, anyone did. But they were scared of Al-Qatala, Roman Barakov, and even the weapons they held in their hands. It didn't seem fair. They didn't feel prepared, and they were right to feel that way. There was no way to be.
"Everyone hold onto your partners when we get there. No one runs off alone. Stay in communication." She lectures with an even tone.
"Yes, ma'am." They all respond harmoniously.
"Be smart, and before you know it, we'll be back in time for chow."
She jolts awake, her chest inflating with her gasping breath. She could tell she hadn't been asleep for long, just enough time to skim the surface of deep slumber. The dreams are disorienting because they feel so real. They torment her. She remembers their eyes the most, but the rest of their faces are beginning to blur.
Nox sits up with a groan. The tiredness seeps into her bones. There was no point in falling back asleep; she'd likely have an even worse dream. She craved a cigarette, needing the small stick between her lips as she sucked in the smoke to slowly poison her. To find her jeep, she slowly stood and opened her door as carefully as she could. The hinges creaked and echoed down the hallway, and she winced, scared the noise would alert any of the men nearby. Even with her boots on, she moved quickly and stealthily down the corridor.
It was still night. The sun was not even close to peaking over the eastern horizon. She looks in that direction as she walks around the building, reminiscing on the dreadful drive and wondering if Ghost was successful with his orders. Her jeep sits parked among trucks and other jeeps. Left unlocked, she opens the passenger door to see all of the compartments left open. Her spare knives, guns, and ammo are missing. Though surprisingly, her DAGR remains in the glove compartment. She scoffs to herself. She digs through it and sighs in ease among finding her pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
She lifts her balaclava over her nose, places one in her mouth, and ignites the lighter. The initial inhale is her favorite. It's a rush of comfort from the momental shift of focus. It distracts her mind from everything that screams at her for just a moment. The smoke leaves a burnt taste on her tongue and swirls between her teeth. She exhales, watching it dance in the air. Crickets sing somewhere in the brush. It isn't peaceful. It never is, but here it is hostile. She keeps her eyes sharp, scanning for threats stalking from the darkness. There must be a pair of eyes or a camera on her from the way her nerves burn. It's a reminder that although she isn't by herself, she is utterly alone, and she is the one who placed her here. Ghost fills her mind again. How he helped her, the tension in his eyes when he saw her again, and his offer.
We have a safehouse nearby.
Nox winces. She bends down, searching for something. She checks under the seat and lifts the mat. The earpiece. With the half-burned cigarette hanging from her lips, she grabs it and tucks it in place under her balaclava. She hears a dull beep and then a muted hum, as if she were on a phone call and no one was speaking.
Her heart is beating in her chest, and she isn't sure why. Perhaps it's the fear of asking for help, or accepting it if it's still an offer. Her fingers pinch the cigarette and remove it from her lips. "Ghost, do you copy?" She says, voice slightly breaking. The silence stretches uncomfortably, the hope sitting weirdly in her chest. Just when she suspects they've disconnected her, she hears him.
"Copy. D'you make it?" He grumbles in her ear.
She lets her eyes fall closed as she leans back into the seat. "Affirmative. Can the sergeant hear me?"
Ghost chuckles, "Do you not want him to?"
She takes a deep drag, "Doesn't matter much," she blows out the smoke. "Just wanted to know if I needed to watch my language."
"Hm." He hums amusedly. "He's asleep."
The words are on the tip of her tongueâI need your help. I can't do this alone. When she opens her mouth to say them, nothing comes out, as if there were a brick wall blocking them from leaving her throat.
"Been tryin' to reach you." Ghost speaks instead.
Nox lets out a defeated breath. "Took out the earpiece."
"Figured. Have you changed your mind?"
She takes the final drag of her cigarette and flicks the butt, still curling with smoke, onto the dirt to snuff itself out. "Might've gotten ahead of myself." She mutters, the words bruising. He chuffs, and it annoys her.
"What's happened, then?"
"I'm at Zakhaev's estate," she looks back towards the house and all its disgusting glory. "Fuckin' massive thing. Must've found a way to keep it off maps."
"Fuckin' hell." He groans. "Did you see him?"
"I did. He offered me another job at a different location. I'm certain he's planning another attack."
"Where?"
"I don't know yet. He's putting me on a chopper in the morning, dunno where to."
He curses. She braces herself, busies her hands with lighting another cigarette to distract herself as she speaks. "Can I count on you to follow me there?"
The pause is too long for her liking. She wouldn't blame him if he rejected her; she anticipated it. He already helped her, and she threw it away for a game of chase. She couldn't ignore the screaming in the back of her mind that followed her. What would she have done if she had been back home and it hadn't stopped? Nothing. And nothing drove her to insanity.
"Thought we weren't gettin' any help from you. Now you want ours?"
"I know," She grits, taking the cigarette from her mouth. Her hand shakes, the ash from the butt sprinkling onto the floor mat of her jeep. "I know you already helped me, but now neither of us can get very far without each other. We can dismantle one of his assembly locations."
"I have distinct orders." He argues.
Blinding hot anger flashes through her. "Fuck your orders." She snarls. "You can save people before whatever weapons he has now are ready. This will put him on pause long enough to get ahead."
He sighs. She knows he's wrestling with himself, weighing the options. He's already disregarded his team once, and he doesn't know if Price would be so forgiving in this circumstance. Nox has advantages, he knows, ones that the team could never have on their own.
She should've just fucking left, like she was supposed to, he thinks. It would've been easier in some ways. He wouldn't have to make the tough decisions to go against his teammatesâhis brothers, for an unruly and uncoordinated mercenary. He wouldn't have to attempt to dissect why he was wondering where she was for the past day. He wouldn't have to shake off the feeling of understanding he had towards her. He could keep his head low and gaze focused, like he always had.
"Give your location as soon as you touch ground. Reinforcements will be close behind. Over and out." He says sharply. There's a clicking noise in the earpiece.
She releases a long breath through her nose, the tension in her shoulders relaxing. For a few minutes, she just sits there, absorbing the consolation of not facing the breeding ground of destruction entirely on her own. She lets the cigarette in her fingers burn itself out.
Before she leaves her jeep to go back to the safehouse, she takes the DAGR and slips it into the pocket on her outer thigh.
Soap is staring at Ghost with a mixture of resignation and disappointment. He doesn't say anything in response, just looks at the sergeant sternly, almost daring him to argue.
"After the way she spoke to me?" He grumbles.
"What, did she hurt your feelings?" Ghost's brows knot together.
"She cannae make up her damn mind."
The lieutenant shrugs, adjusting his hold on his rifle as the two of them slip into the shadows between buildings. "She doesn't know what she's doing."
Ghost's entire body aches. He and Soap wasted an entire day trying to even get through the rubble and lingering hostiles. The hospital is in view from the alleyway, where they stay pressed against the walls. Their eyes track the Al-Qatala guards patrolling the streets lazily, oozing confidence from their success in overrunning the city.
"Better make this quick, then." Soap says in a shushed voice.
Nox almost turned around once during her drive. The endless stretch of the highway had her mind working in circles. She was nearly convinced she couldn't do anything, and it was right to leave it in Price's and his team's hands. They had a plan, proper weapons, and experience with war. But she had a lead. If Zakhaev ordered the attack on Verdansk, she had no doubt he wouldn't stop there. A man that power hungry had an insatiable appetite. He'd conquer village after village, city after city, until Russia was under his control.
If she could find out what was next, maybe she could stop it. She could save lives and be free of the sorrow for failing to save others. She'd be proud of herself, tell her mother what happened without fear of a judging scowl. She'd be understood, accept the things she had to do. It brings her comfort to think of this as a gateway to justification.
She thought about putting the earpiece back in and talking to Ghost. He would be reasonable, she's sure. He was steady and calculated, weighing risks and priorities all at once. She decided not to after remembering Soap would likely hear her as well and, just as before, insist that she was nothing but trouble.
She's exhausted. The sun rose and fell, and she didn't stop to rest. The only time she did, it was for a bathroom break or for gas. She purchased a few snacks and bottles of water, but nothing was filling. It was hard to stomach any food at all; she felt twisted into knots from the anticipation. She spent many nights awake from jobs, but most of the time, it was due to insomnia. The tossing and turning bothered her so much she gave up on trying, opting for a cigarette instead.
The DAGR says she's close. Her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose and rub the fatigue from her eyes. Her back and ass ache from sitting. When she expects the road to become rough and disappear into shrubs and trees, it remains paved. Her eyes scan the treeline diligently.
Then, she sees a gate. Black iron welded to be at least nine feet high, a "Z" displayed on each side. A tall fence stretches as far as she can see in either direction. It was too pristine, too residential to be some sort of base. Three men dressed in black, all of them tall, built, and scarred, guard the front of it. They lock their eyes on her jeep, stanced with their guns like statues as she slows to a stop and cuts the engine several feet back.
Is this his fucking house? She thinks to herself.
She leaves her gun behind, already predicting them to take it. After she shuts the door, she holds her hands in the air in surrender. One of the men approaches her with blunt steps.
"ŃŃĐž ŃŃ Ń ĐžŃĐľŃŃ?" He says in a gravelly Russian accent.
She doesn't understand him. She shakes her head, trying to communicate without words. Already impatient, the guard lifts his gun and points it at her forehead. She shudders and holds her hands a little higher.
"ŃŃ ĐˇĐ°ĐąĐťŃдиНŃŃ. Ńойо СдоŃŃ Đ˝Đľ ПоŃŃĐž." He growls as he juts the barrel against her. It's cold even through her mask.
"Nox," she says quickly, hoping they were expecting her. "Bullet sent me."
At the mention of Bullet, the man lowers his gun. He glares at her, his eyes devoid of any light, and it rattles her. She's seen that look before. "ŃĐľŃŃОв аПоŃиканоŃ. Empty your pockets."
She immediately reaches into the pockets of her cargo pants. She tosses a knife, a lighter, and an extra magazine onto the dirt between them. He moves around her, circles her as if he meant to devour her. She feels his gaze drag along her figure, and it sends a wave of disgust through her. "ĐĐľĐżĐťĐžŃ Đž. ĐĐľŃаŃŃĐž ŃвидиŃŃ ĐśĐľĐ˝Ńин-наоПниŃ, ĐżŃавда?" He laughs at the other two guards watching.<
The way they smile tells her exactly what they're talking about. The familiar condescending grin that looks triumphant, like they know they've already won before anything has begun. Her heartbeat feels uncomfortable in her chest. It's fast and violent. Her nerves are alive with adrenaline.
"Spread your legs." The man says as he moves behind her. Her lip quivers. Reluctantly, she shuffles her feet further apart.
One of the other guards chortles, "ĐŃĐž ĐąŃНО НогкО. ĐŃПаоŃŃ, Она ĐąŃ Ńак пОŃŃŃпиНа ŃĐž ПнОК?"
"ĐŃ Đ˝Đľ СнаоŃĐľ, гдо Она ĐąŃНа. ĐонŃина в ПаŃко, дОНМнО ĐąŃŃŃ, поŃĐľŃпаНа ŃĐž ПнОгиПи ĐźŃĐśŃинаПи." The other one says as he bumps his comrade's shoulder. It's frustrating, knowing they're talking about her, her body. It leaves her feeling slimy.
Then, she feels a hand on her torso. She stiffens as it travels along her stomach, roughly groping along her breasts. It's hardly a searchâit's him taking advantage. She squeezes her eyes shut, breath hitching as the hand skims downward and brushes her behind. Her hands twitch with the desire to throw her fist into his face and punch until his nose is embedded in his brain, or scratch her nails into his throat. But it wouldn't be worth it. She'd be dead before she even got one good hit in.
"ĐĽĐžŃĐžŃиК." The man behind her says. He finally removes his sickening hand and walks towards the gate. "Come." He says to her over his shoulder. She swallows thickly and follows him despite her legs feeling numb. The other guard waves a hand up to the watch tower, and slowly, the large gate doors swing open inwardly. She expected them to rip the mask from her head, force her to bare her face, but they didn't try. She passes by them with stiff shoulders, and they look at her like they can see how daunted she is.
The yard is perfectly manicured. The grass is green and flat, the trees are trimmed, the bushes are shaped, and the driveway is cleared of debris. It's unsettling. But the mansion sitting at the end of the driveway made her mouth go dry. There was no denying its elegance. It was embellished with pillars and balconies, far more than anyone could ever need. The windows were grand. The front door was imposing with its solid oak wood and curved iron handles. Anyone who simply visited wouldn't guess this all belonged to a terroristâa man tearing villages down until there's nothing but crumbling buildings and bodies littering the streetâone who didn't care about right or wrong, only authority.
The guard leads her up the front steps of the house. With each step, she feels a growing sense of rage. There was nothing she could do now. Stripped of her weapons, she had no offensive or defensive choices but to use her bare hands, which was not a new skill, but in this case, she'd be easily overpowered.
The men standing at attention on either side of the double doors look her up and down, exchange nods with the man leading her, then push the doors open. The hinges groan from the weight. The inside is no less exquisite than the outside. The foyer is dripping in wealth; reflective marble floors, a tall ceiling with a chandelier overflowing with crystals, and linen drapes on every window. It's obscene.
"Wait here." The man tells her, his tone low and authoritative. She folds her hands together behind her back and swallows the rising bile. He disappears through an arched doorway. His footsteps echo through the house and slowly fade as he walks.
Nox looks around, surveying every corner. Plush velvet loveseats sit against the wall, and a large mirror with an intricate gold frame hangs above them. Her gaze moves upwardsâa grand staircase on the opposite side of her. Same marble as the floor, but a long velvet runner, the color of blood lies along it. Then, she sees the cameras. One facing towards the door, one facing the stairs. She sighs through her nose.
Minutes pass before she hears footsteps approaching. Except that instead of one pair, there are two. She braces herself. First, the same guard emerges from the doorway. Behind him, Victor Zakhaev. He walks with unnerving ease. His eyes are dark. Soulless. His mouth is lifted in a small, smug grin. A shiver slithers down her spine.
"Nox. Victor." He holds a hand out towards her. She accepts it and shakes his hand firmly. He holds on for a beat too long before letting go. "Bullet told me about the mask, but I should know myself. Is there a particular reason for it?"
"Just prefer it. Is that a problem?" She can't tamp out all of the apprehension from her tone, and he notices. His shoulders shake from his rough laugh.
"Noâwell," he pauses, thinking for a moment. "It won't be if you don't cause any." It's a thinly veiled threat disguised as a deal. She bites her tongue and nods.
"I wanted to speak to you personally after you assisted me. I was worried you'd be angered after putting the pieces together." He speaks like a teacher, leaving little crumbs until she reaches the answer, and she despises it.
"No, sir. I don't have allegiances. I was just doing my job."
He smiles wider at that. "How would you like another one? Pay is better than last time."
"What is it?"
"I know it goes against the 'mercenary' code, but I could always use an extra pair of hands. There's a location preparing more equipment."
Her hands tighten into fists behind her back, and she forcibly relaxes them. He's planning another attack. This is her chance for redemption. "Where do you need me?" She says with determination.
Zakhaev foolishly takes it as loyalty. "A chopper will collect you in the morning. For now, you're welcome to stay in the safehouse."
"Sir, I couldn't-" She begins to politely protest, but he interjects.
"I insist." There's a hint of irritation in his tone. Clearly, it wasn't an offer. It was an order. A sureway to guarantee she couldn't run to tell anyone if she changed her mind. He couldn't leave too many doors open.
She presses her lips into a tight line beneath her mask and nods, "Yes, sir."
omg where did i go??? hit a writerâs block and completely stopped interacting with everything??? 13 yr old me would be so disappointed. the freak lives on tho!! back to writing :P
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Fanfiction is supposed to be cringy. You're allowed to write bad. You're allowed to be cringe. Fanfiction is supposed to be self indulgent. You're allowed to be cringe. Let yourself be cringe. Fanfiction is supposed to be fun. Stop putting arbitrary rules on yourself and be free.
Previous ⢠Current ⢠Next All parts list my masterlist
This story has a spotify playlist, check it out!
Synopsis: Your neighbor, Mr. Riley, is cold, quiet and impossible to read. He helps out a few timesâcarrying heavy boxes, fixing thingsâbut never sticks around long enough for a 'thank you' that he doesn't even seem to want. Every conversation ends in silence, every interaction feels wrong.
Then his face appears on the news. He's not just unfriendly âhe's a wanted fugitive, linked to multiple murders and armed robberies for which he wore a skull mask to hide his identity.
Shaken but relieved he's gone, you try to move on...until the news break that he has escaped.
!MDNI!
cw: SLOW BURN, reader lives alone and is kinda lonely, reader lives in a shitty neighborhood with a high crime rate, Simon seems like a dick (he kinda is, but also not really), mention and slight description of strangulation, criminal! TF141, kidnapping, captivity, restraining, mention of self-harm/suicide (not descriptive), description of a panic attack, criminal! Simons backstory (altered to fit the story), AU, heavy focus on reader interacting with Simon
Tags will be added as the story continues.
wc: 10,9k
Ëââ§âşââą see the end for author's notes Ëââ§âşââą
You don't remember when your eyes slipped shut again.
One moment, you're still watching the road blur past through your blurred vision trying to count the streetlightsâor their absenceâand the next everything fades to black.
No sound, no sensation, just...nothing.
When you wake, it's not gentle.
You suck in a sharp breath that rattles in your chest like a broken hinge, ripping painfully through your throat.
The air stale and cold.
It smells like dust, like old wood and wet earth.
Your throat burns, your wrists throb.
Your body screams as if it's been shoved back into existence too fast.
Whatever you lay on is softer than a floor could be.Â
You shift slightlyâno 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 secondâthe room tilts and spins around you.
A wave of nausea rises like bile in your throat.Â
Your body remembers more than your mind does.Â
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 nightstandâno 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 roomâsoft, 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.Â
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 uprightâto 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 heavyâthey're coming toward the door.
Your heart lurches, panic flaring up again in your chest but you don't hideâwouldn'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 youâmaking 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.Â
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 throughâGhost.
No mask this time, just shadows draped over the sharpness of his face, a hood pulled low.Â
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 faceâyou 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 animalâcalculating, 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.Â
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.Â
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.Â
You try to speak but you can't even form wordsâonly 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.Â
He crosses the space to the table in the corner of the room and sets something down.Â
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.Â
You see it now, how the window is boarded from the insideâthick slats of wood nailed in, not just covered but barricaded.Â
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'tâhe 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 deadânot restrained anymore either.Â
You're just...here.
If he wanted to hurt you, he had every chanceâyou're sure of that.Â
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 eitherâthat'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.Â
"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 faceânot 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.Â
You need to take a breath before you manage to speak more.
"You didn't give me a choice."
He nods once, slowly.Â
"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 bayâyou 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 certaintyâquiet, absolute certainty.
You take another breath, shaky now, gathering your courage.
"That's not your decision."
He studies you for a long secondânot blinking, not speaking.
Then he inhales long slow, like that breath carries something weighty with it.
He gestures toward the table behind you.Â
"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 threatenâjust 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 outâdisappearing into the hallway, his boots echoing on wood until they fade.
You stay standing for a while.Â
Maybe only a minute, maybe longer.
Eventually, your body pulls you toward the table slow and carefulâthe thirst you didn't want to acknowledge is dull and deep.
The bread is stale, torn unevenlyâyou 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 yetâyou 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 hallâthen the hallway opens into a wider room.Â
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.Â
He doesn't even lift his head fully, just glances toward you like he's waiting for you to bolt or breatheâmaybe 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 bloomsâthick, 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 promiseâlike 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 shoutâbut instead he exhales.Â
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 smokeâthin, 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.Â
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 uprightâor 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 himâthe 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, barelyâa 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'tâhis 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 moreâyou 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 insulationâtoo 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 lampâsteady, dull.
" 'm not here to hurt ye." he says calm and low.
Your jaw sets.Â
"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 firmnessâlike 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.Â
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 downâmaybe 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 thingânot 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.Â
The flame clicks a few times before it catches, casting a soft, uneven glow across the small kitchen.
You watch him moveânot like a brute, not like the creature from your nightmares, but with an unsettling sort of ease.Â
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.Â
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 somethingâperhaps it's sarcasm or just curiosity disguised as defiance.
He doesn't turn to look at you.Â
"Ye think Ah survive off rage?"
A surprised huff escapes your nose before you can stop itâit'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.Â
You saw another door down that hallâmaybe 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.Â
"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.Â
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.Â
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 makesâkeeping 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.Â
You're surprised by how...human it all is.Â
There are worn things here, quiet thingsâthings 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 nowâhis 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 onâgiving 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 warmâheavy, 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.Â
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 fearâfrom uncertainty.
You dip the utensil in, test the warmthâit's not poisoned, you don't think.
Ghost doesn't watch you eat, just walks around the couch and lowers himself back into itâone 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 laughâalmost.
You eat a few bites, eyes flicking to the hallway behind him.Â
"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 factâstill, it makes your spine tighten.
You push a little harder.Â
"You sleep with one eye open, then?"
Ghost chuckles lowly.Â
"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 nightsânot 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, subtlyâlike 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.Â
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 youâpauses 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 litâknowing 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?Â
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 soundâno 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 feetâhis coat still draped around your shoulders.Â
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 beâyou 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.Â
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 coveredânot hidden exactly but tucked away under just enough clutter to avoid attention unless you're looking for it.Â
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 lockedânot locked.
Your breath catches in your throat.
You glance past the U-shaped counters that frame the kitchenâthe 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 inchâslowly, quietly and a faint breath of cold air drifts into your face.Â
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 unmistakableâa 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 softlyânot loud, but still enough to make you flinch.
You straighten too quickly, making your head swim.Â
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 waterâacting 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.Â
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 awayânot too close but not too far either, just watching.
You force a nod.Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
"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.Â
"I was...trying to see if there was a towel, I spilled.."
A beat, then two, before he nods.Â
"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 doorâthen 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.Â
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 voiceârealizing 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 spineâbot 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 quieterâsmarter, 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 soâas 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 requestâit'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 calmâbut 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 observantâtaking 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 soonâthat 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 apartmentâfrom 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 weightâor 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.Â
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 gazeâyou 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 jawlineâit 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.Â
You're still thinking about the small, almost hatch like, door in the kitchen in the back of your mind like background noiseâthink 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 doâlike 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 itâflat and unbotheredâthat 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 accusationâagain.
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.Â
"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 moreâhis words cut deep, a little too close.
You thought you were cautious, awareâturns 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.Â
"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 inâno stamp, no sender, nothing inside.
"I thought it was...nothing..." you say quietly, gaze fixed on your hands in your lap.Â
"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 absoluteâmeant to drag you down, to crush and drown you.
"It was a test..." you say, looking up againâeyes 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.Â
"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 whisperâalmost 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.Â
"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 workâtook maybe twenty minutes."
You don't speakâcan't.
You remember the shiny new lock that looked completely out of place on your old, warped door.Â
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.Â
"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 gagâanger 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.Â
"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 friendsâyou left everything behind, left friends and family at home.
You stare at him and there's a roaring in your ears nowâlike wind through a crack, howling low and constant.Â
The room feels off-kilter, crooked like the floor's shifted without you moving.
Your mouth opens, then shuts againâyour lips unable to keep up with your thoughts.Â
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 laughâit 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.Â
"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 itânot 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.Â
Not from fear, not really at least, but from the overwhelming weight of it allâfrom 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 groundedânot crazed or wide, but sure.
"You think what you did was protection...but it's not. It's control." you say again quietly, hoarseâexhaustion settling even though you technically just woke up.
"Could've been worse." Ghost replies and it sounds almost like a warningâbut 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.Â
"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 itâhe 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 jacketâthe 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 toneâlike 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 misunderstandingâthat 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 beforeâa posture you're starting to understand means he's settling in.Â
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 fragilityâthey 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.Â
"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 afraidânot in the way you were when he first brought you here, not the same pure fear.Â
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.Â
"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 thatâthe 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 eyesâthe 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 elseâsomething 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 outâtight, raw.Â
"I deserve to know what's going on." you say, lifting your gaze again to meet his.
Ghost doesn't shift, doesn't blink.Â
He stays exactly where he isâlegs 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.Â
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 themâhe 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.Â
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.Â
"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 unmovingâyou 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 itâyour 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.Â
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 heardânot anymore.
The tears push up.
You cry because you're scared, because everything happened too fast to processâthe 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 wristâbut 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 waterâslow 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
âWait for him to give you an opportunity. If, for whatever reason, heâs just there to have a chat, keep him occupied.â Ghostâs voice says into her ear.Â
Nox drives along the outskirts east of the city towards the same place she initially met Bullet, earpiece in place under her balaclava. Sheâs got a tight hold on her own leash. Itâll be difficult not to shoot him in the head as soon as she sees him and be done with it.
âWhat about you?â She asks.Â
âWeâll be close.âÂ
She chews on the inside of her cheek until she tastes iron, counts to twenty over and over to get a grip and focus. She tries to recall all of her training and experience that she was forced to abandon. None of it mattered previously, when rules and protocol were extinct. The cycle swallowed people, and just when they thought they were on top, it spat them out into a cold grave.Â
The familiar buildingâan abandoned pharmacy now crumbling and charredâcomes into view as she rounds a corner. Thereâs a pickup truck parked there and a tall, bulky figure leaning against the side of it. She slows the jeep to a stop next to it.Â
âHeâs already here.â She says. Her fingers brush against the gun on her hip as she swings the door open.Â
âStay relaxed. Powerâs in your hands.â Ghost says through the comms.Â
She huffs. Doesn't feel like it.
âYouâre late.â Bulletâs voice rumbles, his Russian accent thick like tar.Â
âLong drive,â Nox responds indifferently. She takes slow, measured steps around her jeep until she can see his full figure. Heâs massive. A thick layer of fat cushions every part of his body. His long beard compensates for his balding head. âI see what youâve done with the place.â She adds, glancing towards the city. The glow of fire expands from somewhere deep between the buildings.Â
Bullet chuckles darkly, gazing at the wreckage proudly as if it were his lifeâs work. âSorry I had to keep you in the dark. Youâre not too angry, right?â His evil sneer glows in the moonlight, and Nox wants to force his teeth down his throat.Â
âMoneyâs money.â She shrugs, the words tasting awful in her mouth.
His smile widens, pleased with the indifference he received. âThatâs what I thought. I have something for you.âÂ
Her jaw clenches. Thereâs a chance Bullet somehow knows about Ghost and Soap. How, she isnât sure. The wariness clings to her guts anyway. She fights her hands from shaking and balling into fists.
âMy boss wants you for another job.âÂ
âAnother delivery?â She asks.Â
âNot quite. He wants to talk to you personally.â Her blood runs cold. It feels as though she was punched in the stomach and all the air was knocked from her lungs. Itâs a grueling effort to keep her breaths even.Â
âWhy isnât he here himself?â Her voice is clipped, strained from the hostility she keeps at bay.Â
Bullet shrugs a large shoulder, âItâs a little more complicated than that. Heâs not exactly favored.âÂ
Nox hums flatly, âThen why am I here?âÂ
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card. She takes it from him and inspects it. Itâs white, empty apart from the strings of random numbers lazily written in black ink. Coordinates.Â
âShouldnât keep him waiting.â He remarks, voice rough like sandpaper.Â
She eyes him, suspicion buried beneath the look of intrigue. She watches him somehow squeeze into the cabin of his pickup truck and take off, leaving a cloud of dust behind him, all before she can press for more. Sheâs left standing there, dumbfounded, trying to wrap her head around it. The lack of information for such a heavy expectation has her spinning in circles.
Victor Zakhaev waits for her. Thereâs an urge to rip the card and run away. Sheâs terrifiedâchilled to the bone that he, and God knows what else, is waiting for her at this unknown location. Perhaps this truly is a trap; they know how she brought the enemy to one of their warehouses, and she canât be trusted. They know she canât be a liability anymore, and they plan on erradicating her.Â
âNox.â Ghostâs voice snaps her from her trance. She glances around for him, then remembers the earpiece. Her feet shuffle against the dirt as she walks back to the driverâs side of her jeep.Â
âWhat?â The confidence has drained from her tone, now unbalanced.Â
âIs he gone?âÂ
Bulletâs rear lights are in the distance now, driving into the city. The red glow of them fades with every second.Â
âAffirmative.â She mumbles.Â
âEn route.âÂ
She leans against her jeep with a harsh exhale. Her arms cross over her chest defensively, and the card is gripped tightly in her hand. She wants Bullet dead even more now, ironically, for actually giving her an advantage. It wouldâve been betterâeasierâfor him to just waste her time so she could kill him and get the fleeting sense of satisfaction that would've been enough for her to leave. But no. Itâs never that easy, and sheâs wondering when sheâll learn.Â
Headlights appear in the other direction, large and way too bright. She squints her eyes against the blinding lights and hears the rumble of the cargo truckâs engine. The brakes squeal as it comes to a stop. She sees Soap jump down from the passenger before the truck is shut off. He doesnât speak to her. He hardly even looks at her, too focused on the crumbling city in the near distance. Ghost approaches from the other side with a purposeful walk. She holds the card out to him before a word is exchanged. He takes it, flipping it over and examining the numbers.Â
âThat's it?â He grumbles, seemingly just as disappointed and frustrated as she is.
She opens her arms in exasperation, "There you go. Didn't kill him, he gave me a fucking card. What an advantage."
"Its coordinates, that's a big advantage." He argues and holds the card towards Soap for him to inspect as well. "See where this is."
Soap takes the card, glances at it, before sauntering over to the cargo truck and climbing back into the cabin.
"Y'going?" Ghost asks, picking up on her increasingly fickle demeanor.
"So he can kill me himself? Fat chance." Nox frowns.
"Could use you." He nods his head slightly. She doesn't respond right awayâlets the offer hang between them for a moment to digest it. He won't press her more than this. It wouldn't be worth it. He'd let her go and run away in cowardice if she wanted. She knows if she were half of who she thought herself to be, she'd stick to her guns.
She sighs quietly. "Yeah, I'm going."
"It's in Moscow," Soap says gruffly as he approaches them. He holds the card back out to her, pinching the corner of it with his fingertips as if he were sickened at the thought of accidentally brushing fingers. She snatches it from his hold, pettiness too tempting to squash.
"Nothing's showing up. No buildings, just forest." He continues as he ignores her.
Nox chuffs. Of course. Moscow's a day's drive away. She's had to travel far in her little jeep since she started collecting jobs for money. Roadtrips used to be fun until the destination was to kill or kidnap. There was no music, no hot summer air, and no passenger to ponder life with.
"We have a safehouse close by. You can wait till morning." Ghost says.
Soap snaps his head towards his lieutenant, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Ghost. She's not coming back with us."
"She gave us valuable intel."
"Price gave us specific orders that don't have anything to do with her. That's enough, she's on her own." Soap disputes. His voice is dripping with contempt. Ghost recognizes his sergeant had a point. There were innocent people trapped, waiting for rescue, and their window was only getting smaller.
Nox had been watching them go back and forth with little amusement. It was satisfying to see Soap become worked up until it clicked what he expected her to do. "You want me to go alone?" She accuses sharply. It was another slap in the faceâanother rejection. She was exhausted, strung into situations she could only untangle herself.
"Aye. Y'heard Bullet. He wants you."
"Soap-" Ghost tries to interject, but is swiftly interrupted.
"God, fuck you!" Nox raises her voice. She points an accusatory finger at the sergeant's chest and drops to a low, malicious tone. "You just fucked yourself out of getting any help from me."
She spins on her heel and throws the door of her jeep open, the hinges creaking from the force.
"Good. We don't need ye." Soap grumbles as she gets inside. She turns the engine on and doesn't waste another moment to throw it in drive and slam her boot on the gas. Ghost and Soap watch her disappear down the road at record speed.
Her muscles are taught with annoyance. After handing over information directly from Zakhaev's soldier, she'd think she'd receive more trust, more support. This was their entire mission, afterall. Soap must've thought it was her execution and wasn't about to risk being next for the guillotine.
The most frustrating thing had to be Ghost. She saw he knew the importance of following her to Zakhaev, but couldn't abandon his teammate for a mercenary. Her gloved hand reaches under her balaclava and tugs the earpiece from her ear before chucking it onto the floor of the passenger seat.
She punches the coordinates from the card into the DAGR.
tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, murder of animals eventually, eventual smut, religious guilt, infidelity, darker than most concepts I write
ch. 1 | masterlist | ao3
ââââââââââââââ
You hate him.
Right down to the way he drinks his coffee, too many sugars, and likes his eggs, scrambled, in the morning. Even the way he does his hair, black combover like heâs some gentleman. Pretending to be a man of integrity.
Though you suppose thatâs 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 wasnât.
You stay, thereâs 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 thatâs 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.
Youâre luckyâ he tells you. Lucky that he married someone so tainted. Youâve heard it so many times that you donât know whatâs true anymore, the edges of your beliefs smeared and faded somewhere.
You donât 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 shouldâve believed.
Perhaps this would all make sense if you did.
Though, the doubt isnât from lack of trying. Youâve 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. Itâs all blurry now. You hope you did. Maybe then youâd have a valid excuse for staying other than a religion you donât believe in.
Itâs all you know at this point, all youâve ever known watching your parents. Maybe this is how itâs supposed to be, how this God intended. Tight lip smiles, ducking heads, and shaking fingers out of fear.
Youâve stopped crying long ago, dried up all sorrow and buried it somewhere else completely. Youâve learned to deal with itâ 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 âdealing with it.â
Youâre used to it, despite how draining it is.
You wonât divorce. Thatâs not an option. Not like this. You werenât raised that way.
You donât know how to leave, canât 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 hasnât torn down yet. He will, in a stupor rage, and youâll have to save up for a new one again. Or the bunny thatâs 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 bunnyâs 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 friendâs 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 heâs 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.
âWhatâs for dinner?â
Itâs 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. âChicken Gnocchi.â
His ties out of place, white shirt you pressed this morning wrinkled, hair disheveled. You ignore it. Pretend you donât notice any of it.
He scoffs. âDonât want it.â
Your smile falters, brows meeting in the middle. âSweetheart, Iâve already made it. You told me you wanted it before you left this morning.â
âDonât care. I want rib-eye steak.â He cuts you off, dismissing your words with a wave of your hand.
âWe dontâthereâs no steak in the freezer.â
He looks at you like youâre dumb. âThen go to the butcher?â
You pause, inhaling deep, fingers tight around the rag. Youâve learned not to fight it. Your response is weak, meager, putting on the same forced smile.
âOkay.â
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.
ââââââââââââââ
Itâs dark by the time you arrive, cheeks and fingers numb from the winter air. Sighing under your breath when you see the long line.
Youâve never been this late, your husband expects dinner to be made before he gets home, so you donât recognize the person behind the glass.
Heâs big. Awfully big.
Thereâs blood smeared on his apron, red splattered up his blue gloves. Itâs a sight you donât normally see with the morning shift. A bit sickening, filthy, but you watch him anyways.
Eyeâs trained on his brows, squished together with stress, or maybe itâs 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.
Heâs brooding, intimidating. In a far different way than your husband.
You canât 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.
Itâs 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 didnât realize you had.
The tag on his apron reads âSimon.â
It takes you two seconds to realize itâs the owner of the shop when he stares at you expectantly.
starting to hear more and more people say they "wouldn't know what to do without chatgpt", and in my head I tell them without chatgpt, they would probably be using their own brains as god intended
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
thinking about simon riley coming home after being away for months.
word count: >700
it was the unknown that drove you crazy. not knowing where he was, what he was doing, or when youâd see him again felt worse than facing the ugly truth.
but he insisted on keeping you separate from that. he was terrified at the thought of his military life and you bleeding together. you had no place in that world, which is why he didnât carry as much as a picture of you with him. when he was out in the middle of a foreign country hunkered in some dingy motel with blood splattered across his skull mask, all he had was the memory of you kissing his scars.
you are calm and kindâeverything he thought was unreachable. sometimes you hurt him with how much you love him. he couldnât quite swallow the affection. he often shied away from your touch or muttered a âlove you tooâ that sounded insincere. it would hurt even more that you understood, a patient smile on your pretty face.
he never got scared during missions until you. it used to be methodical to him; the hunt, the mask, the cold rifle in his gloved hands. then he pictured how you would react if you discovered he wasnât coming home, and that gutted him more than the chance of actually dying.
you spent your time working, meeting friends, watching mind-numbing tv shows. anything too quiet reminds you of the void he leaves behind. you sit in the closet and smell his clothes when itâs particularly hard, though sometimes heâs gone for so long the scent goes stale.
this time, itâs been five months, not the longest heâs been gone before but long enough to feel like an eternity. you havenât heard from him in weeks. it was normally a good sign, meant he was moving.
itâs raining heavily outside. the raindrops pelt against the house violently. you were prepared for another lonely night of feeling for his warm body in your cold bed and only finding the sheets. you have a pot of coffee brewing. the caffeine doesnât affect you anymore, itâs merely for comfort. you find yourself enjoying a hot cup of coffee at night more often than the morning. it reminds you of him; strong and bitter.
just when youâre reaching for a mug out of your cabinet, you hear a car door slam shut. you freeze, your heart dropping to your stomach. in a flash, you race to the kitchen window and lean as much as you can to get a view of who is in your driveway.
you see him. maskless, tired, dressed in all black, with a heavy bag slung over his shoulder.
he doesnât have a chance to put his key in the deadbolt. youâve already ran and opened the door, launching yourself into him.
âsimon.â you breathe in relief as your eyes well with tears. he doesnât so much as stumble when you throw your arms around his neck. he meets you with the same enthusiasm, immediately dropping his bag which lands on the wooden porch with a heavy thud, and wraps his thick arms around you. his hand tangles in your hair as he cradles your head. heâs slightly damp from the rain and itâs cold against your skin but you donât care.
âlove.â he murmurs in a gravelly voice. his nose is pressed into the crook of your neck and he inhales your scent. warm, comforting, safe.
âiâm so happy youâre here.â your voice is uneven, breaking beneath the solace. he pulls back to look at you, your wide and watery eyes, your flushed cheeks. youâre the most beautiful thing heâs seen.
âmissed you.â he says before placing a kiss on your hairline.
is it obvious i listened to:
iris - the googoo dolls
please please please let me get what i want - deftones