Ghost sat on the edge of the bed, he frantically put his shirt back on, along with slipping the balaclava over his face, peeling it up over his nose.

You had accidentally grazed your hand over his back, causing an influx of memory to seep into the crevices of his brain. The hyenas of his past coming back to bite him.

He shakily holds his hand out to you. “Cigarette.” He croaks, separating his pointer and middle finger for you to place it in between.