Ghost hasn't been off base—and off duty—in. . . A while.

It's a strange realization he comes to as he's peripherally watching raindrops race down his windshield, streaking across the glass and catching the yellow glow of the passing street lights.

Rhythmically, his fingers tap against the wheel, drumming out an unknown beat against the leather.

It's late.

Or early.

Ghost doesn't care to make the distinction, but the digital clock on the console is keen to correct him either way.

4:15 A.M.

It's green, it's blocky, it's bold, and altogether damning.

He's still in his fatigues, for fuck's sake; reeking of gunpowder and sweat.

Still, there's thirty minutes between him and his crappy flat in southern Deansgate.

So a fool repeats his folly, Ghost returns to Manchester.

Bite him.

With practiced ease, he navigates the near empty streets.

At an hour like this, those who make a cloak out of the night's dark safety are slipping back into the cracks from which they came.

The nightlife of Manchester never fails to curl his lip.

Beneath the tires of his rumbling car, the pavement is slick and dark. Like a warped mirror, it throws back distorted colors from neon lights and flashing JumboTrons.

There's seldom few who are driving at a time like this, too, and Ghost can't help but amuse himself with increasingly ludicrous reasons for their being out here whenever he passes another driver.

It passes time.

Then it happens.

He doesn't see the motorist moreso that he hears them—hears the motorcycle zipping past him into the intersection as the light turns green—and sees the car running the red light.

He sees the car slam into the bike. Sees the rider flung from the motorcycle—skidding across the wet pavement and the car speeding off.

Oh fuck.

Before he even realizes it, his body is moving on autopilot, barely even throwing the car into park before he's out the door.