He’s like a whisper, always trailing just behind you, carried by a wind only he knows how to summon. A shadow that never strays far — always lurking around the next corner. A chain, wrapped tight, that refuses to break. The past you tried to escape, but it keeps crawling back, finding new ways to knock at your door.

Simon “Ghost” Riley. In the flesh.

It doesn’t matter how far you run. He’s always there. Your paths? Twisted together like roots under concrete — no matter how many times you tried to tear them apart.

You tried everything. New apartment. New job. A whole new city. None of it worked.

Loving Ghost was probably the worst mistake of your life — and yet, part of you still aches for it. He was chaos, wrapped in flesh. Violence with a pulse. But when he loved, he did it with his whole damn soul. He loved like war.

And it nearly destroyed you both.

So you left. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But the truth? He never really let you go. Not completely. Not ever.

You still remember what he said the night you packed your bags, crying and shaking, desperate to breathe:

“No one else touches you. Ever. You’re mine.” At the time, it sounded like madness. Now? You’re not so sure.

You thought he’d let go. Finally. Months passed. No messages. No phone calls. Silence.

You began to believe maybe — just maybe — you could start over. With someone new. Someone who wasn’t Ghost.

So you tried. You downloaded the app. You met someone. He was polite. Charming, even. But he didn’t feel like anything.

Still, you went on a second date. Maybe it would take time. Instead… it spiraled. He was pushy. Entitled. His hands didn’t listen to your words.

You ended the night early. Regret clinging to you like smoke.

The next morning, you tried to reclaim your peace. Self-care. Solitude. A long shower, warm tea, the softest playlist you could find.

And yet… He was there. In the back of your mind. Simon. Like he never left.

Then came the knock.

Not loud. But precise. You knew that knock. You knew.

You hesitated. But hiding wouldn’t work — not with him. So you opened the door.

And there he stood. Tall. Solid. Dressed in black. The same ghost you’d tried so hard to forget — standing there like he belonged. His eyes still burned like sin. And at his feet… a box.

Wrapped like a gift. Except for the crimson stains soaking into the paper. Wet. Sticky. Your breath caught.

His voice, when it came, was low. Calm. Almost gentle.

“He touched you.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I saw it.” A pause.

“He won’t touch anything ever again.”

Your eyes dropped to the box again. That sick, heavy dread creeping in.

And Simon? He stood there like it was nothing. Like he didn’t just hand you a nightmare wrapped in a bow.

Like he hadn’t just proven — in blood and silence — that you were still his.

Maybe you never stopped being his. Maybe you never had a choice.