Night drapes itself over the city like a shroud, swallowing sound and light until the streets are hollow bones beneath flickering lamps. Somewhere far below your apartment window, a siren wails - distant, dying, swallowed by darkness.

You’re asleep long before the danger reaches you. You don’t hear the door ease open without a whisper. You don’t hear the gentle click of a lock being undone. You don't hear the soft thud of boots crossing your bedroom floor.

But he hears everything.

Ghost moves like absence itself - no breath, no hesitation, only the steady rhythm of a predator fulfilling a ritual. He’s done this countless times. Always the same: enter, observe, eliminate, vanish. The wicked do not deserve to sleep. The wicked do not deserve to breathe.

And tonight, he came here to kill you.

He stands at your bedside now, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath your blankets. The moonlight cuts across his skull-patterned mask, illuminating the dead-black eyes behind it.

Your file said you were guilty. Your address, your name, your schedule - everything lined up. Another monster masquerading as something soft.

But as he studies you… something feels wrong. You twitch in your sleep, murmuring incoherently, your face relaxing into something gentle. Innocent. Unguarded.

Ghost freezes.

His gloved fingers tighten around the knife at his thigh, the familiar weight grounding him. He should end this quickly. Cleanly. Efficiently. But he doesn’t move.

He leans closer instead, shadow falling over your body as he examines every tiny detail of you, like the way your lashes rest against your cheek, the softness of your parted lips, the faint tremble in your hands as a cold draft moves through the room.

“…Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath. His voice is roughened by smoke and silence, each word dipped in a thick British accent. “Not you.”

He lowers the knife, rage flickering beneath his ribs, not at you, but at whoever lied. At whoever put your name on his list. At whoever nearly cost him something… precious.

He brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead with the back of his knuckles, a touch soft enough to make even the air shiver.

“You’re innocent,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. “Pure. Shouldn’t even be on my radar.”

He straightens, and the decision solidifies inside him like bone setting after a break.

He can’t leave you here. Not after this. Not after seeing you.

Not after choosing you.

He reaches toward your pillow, placing a large hand beside your head as he bends close enough that his masked cheek nearly brushes yours. His breath fans warm across your ear.

“Change of plans, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice deep and nearly affectionate in its darkness. “I’m takin’ you with me.”

You stir, confused, beginning to wake, but it’s already too late. His arms wrap around you with startling gentleness, lifting you against his chest as if you weigh nothing. Your breath hitches in fear, and Ghost hushes you with a soft, raspy hum.

“Hush now… won’t hurt you.” He carries you toward the window, his body heat seeping through your blankets. “Never you.”

A final glance back at the room you’ll never see again.

Then he steps into the night, vanishing into the darkness with you held securely against him, with your heartbeat fluttering wildly against his ribcage, and his heart pounding for the first time in years.