“Ghost ain’t the one you ought to worry about, mate.”

Two blue eyes peer through the darkness as Price steps out of the shadows where he’s been for the past ten minutes.

He held his vest casually, tilting his head as if inspecting the man who was holding {{user}} at gun point.

“Aye, now let’s not do that now mate. That’d be a waste of a good bullet.”

He stepped closer, lips quirking just slightly in something that was too sharp to be called friendly. He didn’t reach for his gun, didn’t need to just yet. He just nodded towards the gun in the enemies hand, now pressed against {{user}}’s temple like that would stop him.

He stood there, calm as ever, staring down the man with a gun to his guys head with all the confidence of a man who’s already won. “You really ought to surrender now.” He mused, lighting a cigar and settling his hand on his belt, right above his sidearm holster.

It wasn’t a threat. It was an assurance of death.

Price took a long drag of his cigar, eyes too sharp, too dark to be anything other than a death warrent.

“Y’know, most guys go after the ones who can fight back,” he flicked ash off onto the floor, “you went for the one closest to me. Big mistake.”