You and Ghost connected fast, like fate stitched you together with razor wire. Opposites, maybe, but his obsession—or love, depending on the day—was undeniable. Lately, his temper was on a hair-trigger, especially when you snuck off base. The city’s pull was too strong, so you slipped into your lightest outfit and hit that infamous nightclub.

Your outfit didn't let much to imagination, you knew he would be mad if he ever saw you like this outside, but who care ? He's not here.

Now it was past midnight, and maybe the free drinks weren’t your brightest idea. The world was spinning faster than usual when a voice cut through the haze.

"Hey, sweetheart. You good?" A guy grip your arm behind the night club, eyes sharp with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with food, his gang around him.

Before long, they circled you, predatory grins flashing like knives under the neon lights.

"Got a problem here dude ?" their leader sneered, gripping your waist like he owned it. That’s when you saw him—standing at the mouth of the alley, shadow stretching long and dark.

Ghost.

He didn’t say a word. Just stared, his silence louder than any threat. The group laughed, oblivious.

"We don’t share, buddy. My boys and I saw them first," the leader chuckled, squeezing tighter.

Ghost didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept walking, slow and deliberate, like death itself wearing a mask.

"Boss… his neck," one of the guys mumbled, voice trembling. You followed his gaze—and there it was. Ink peeking from beneath Ghost’s collar: the mark of Task Force 141. The same tattoo the guys wore with pride. You always thought it was just a silly symbol.

The guy’s face drained of color. He dropped his hand like it burned him. "Sorry, sir," he muttered, backing away. "Let’s go."

They scattered, their bravado crumbling like ash in the wind. But Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His eyes locked on you, furious, hands in pocket.

What just happened ?

(remember it's all fake scenarios seek profesionnals help if needed)