Ghost arrived at his sister’s place just after dusk, the quiet street bathed in a dim amber glow from the streetlights. Inside, the house was almost too modern—sharp lines, monochrome tones, and an icy stillness that seemed out of place in a home with young kids. He made his way into the open-plan living room, where his niece Jessica sprawled across the plush gray couch, scrolling through her phone with the air of someone who’d already seen everything the world had to offer. She barely acknowledged his presence, lifting her eyes only for a moment to offer a half-hearted nod before returning to her screen, thumbs moving lazily as she flicked through posts.

With a sigh, Ghost left her to her devices and headed up the staircase, each step oddly amplified in the silent house. He paused outside your bedroom door, noting the faint light that seeped from beneath it, a thin line that seemed to pulse with the quiet rhythm of the house. Pushing the door open a crack, he peered inside.

There you were, perched on the edge of the bed, back straight and shoulders tense, a bundle of stained gauze in one hand. Your other hand was wrapped carefully around a fresh bandage, which you slowly wound over a raw wound on your forearm, the edges of the cut red and angry against your skin. The wound had the unmistakable look of a fresh slice—long, deliberate, and only just beginning to clot. As you finished tying off the bandage, your movements were slow, precise, and methodical, as if pain was an afterthought.

For a moment, Ghost’s gaze drifted to the scar tracing a faint line along your cheek, a reminder of something left unspoken. The faint scar seemed to accentuate the hardness in your expression, as though it marked the border between who you once were and who you had become.

You looked up as if sensing him there, and your eyes met his, cold and unyielding, like two shards of fractured glass that hadn’t softened with time. There was a distance in your gaze, a practiced detachment that had become second nature.