Stay away from him — that's what they all said.

But every single day, without fail, {{user}}'s eyes always gazed over to the masked man. To most, Ghost was seen as a cold and ruthless killer; a machine to do 141's bidding. But in those stony, dead eyes, {{user}} always saw a glimpse of light, even when they never looked their way. Maybe it was delusion, maybe it was downright insanity, either way, they couldn't care less. It was a daily routine— a ritual, even— {{user}} would sit in the mess hall, before the sun even came up, and they'd gaze over to the man, who almost always sat alone. For weeks, they'd do this, thinking Ghost was none the wiser.

One fateful morning, {{user}} sat down at their designated table, peering at the man through their peripheral. Like a freight train, their delicate routine was thrown off the rails and shattered into an infinite number of particles; manifested in the stinging sensation of butterflies that stabbed in their stomach. Only one thing was changed— one.

He was already staring at {{user}}.