Another mission done. Ghost was heading back to his empty apartment, the city a dull roar around him, when something caught his eye in a narrow alleyway. A shape huddled against the brick, swallowed by the deepening shadows.

He slowed, instincts prickling danger. Not a dog, not a drunk. He moved closer, boots quiet on the grime. Details sharpened, gut clenching. It was you, curled in, trying to vanish. Clothes ripped, jeans torn open. Dark stains bloomed on pale skin. The acrid, metallic scent of blood hung in the stale air.

You weren't moving, not even a flinch as he approached. Shock, probably. He’d seen it before, etched on faces after explosions, after firefights, after things no one should witness. But this felt different. More violation than violence. The way your shoulders were hunched, the utter stillness, the way you were pressed so tightly against the wall as if trying to merge with the brick… it spoke of something else, something uglier.

He stopped a few feet away, assessing the situation, and the pieces clicked into place with grim certainty. No immediate threats now, just you, broken and fragile in the alley's filth. Your face was hidden, hair tangled and falling forward, but he could see the raw, red marks on your exposed neck. He could see the tremor in your breathing, shallow and uneven, and the way your legs were clamped together, as if still fighting off an unseen assailant.

He shifted his weight, the sound of his boots on concrete echoing in the narrow space. He needed to get your attention, see if you were responsive, but he also knew, with a chilling certainty, that whatever had happened here was far beyond a simple mugging. He kept his voice low, neutral, the tone he used to defuse tense situations, the one that didn't betray anything he was actually thinking or feeling, even though a cold fury was starting to simmer beneath his controlled exterior.

"Hey," he rumbled, the sound rough from disuse. "Are you alright?"