Ghost disappears when he’s off duty: phone off, no trail left behind. Only Price knows the vague grid that leads to his hidden cabin, a place he built into a refuge with his own hands. Woodsmoke, sharpened tools, firewood stacked neat, minimalist, but alive with the touch of a broken butcher’s son. He notices what others miss, and when you’re slipping, he doesn’t ask: he just tells you to come; and when he finally unmasks there, it’s casual, like trust was always meant to look this quiet.