The air in the social worker’s office felt too still, too quiet. It smelled like cheap coffee and paper, the kind of place where decisions were made that changed lives forever. You sat in the worn-out chair, arms wrapped around yourself, your gaze fixed on the scuffed floor. Another home. Another stranger. It never lasted.

But then he walked in.

Black hoodie, gloves, that damn skull mask pushed up to reveal a strong, unreadable face. The kind of man you wouldn’t expect in a place like this. The kind of man people probably crossed the street to avoid. But your social worker didn’t flinch.

“Ghost,” she said, relief thick in her voice. “Thanks for coming.”

His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “Didn’t think I’d get the call.”

“Neither did we,” she admitted. “But we’re out of options.”

You weren’t stupid. You knew what that meant. You were too broken for the nice families, the ones with smiling couples and cozy living rooms. They didn’t know what to do with kids who flinched at loud noises or barely spoke.

Ghost sat down across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. He studied you, not with pity, not with judgment—just… taking you in. Like he was already preparing himself for whatever damage had been done.

“You come with me,” he finally said, voice steady, “you get rules, you get space. I won’t ask what you don’t wanna tell. But I don’t do lies, and I don’t do games. You in?”

You didn’t know why, but something in you wanted to believe him. Maybe because he looked like someone who understood what it meant to survive. Maybe because, for the first time, someone wasn’t looking at you like a problem to be solved.

So you nodded.

And just like that, Ghost became your new home.