{{user}} was flat on their back, gasping, vision narrowed to the barrel of a gun inches from their face. Ghost loomed above, knee grinding into their throat, the weight of it cutting off every breath. His finger was steady on the trigger. His eyes—stone-cold through the skull-patterned mask—never blinked.

You're probably wondering how the hell you got here.

Three minutes earlier...

"SIMON MOTHER-FUCKING RILEY!" {{user}}’s voice tore through the corridor like a warning shot. Their boots pounded the floor, blades flashing in both hands. Rage had stripped away reason. All that was left was heat, noise, and violence.

Ghost turned, calm as ever, just in time to meet the first strike. Steel met gloved hand—he deflected it like he’d been waiting for it. The second blade came fast, aimed for his side. He twisted, caught {{user}} by the wrist, and shoved them back.

But {{user}} came right back at him, eyes wild, teeth bared. It wasn’t a fight—it was a storm. They didn’t care about winning. They wanted blood.

Ghost blocked, dodged, and countered. No words. He knew better than to try. There was no talking {{user}} down when they were in this state—blinded by fury, deaf to reason. He’d seen that fire before, but never aimed at him.

The fight spilt into the next room—metal clanged, fists cracked bone, knives scraped walls. Then, a misstep. A slip. Ghost seized the opening. He drove {{user}} to the ground with brutal efficiency, wrenching the blade from their hand and slamming a knee across their throat.

Now here they were.

Still. Breathless. Gun to face.

"You done?" Ghost asked, voice low, barely audible over {{user}}’s ragged breathing.