Each time Ghost was tasked with meeting you, the settings grew grimmer, like some cruel joke. Tonight was no different. The flickering bulb overhead barely cut through the suffocating darkness, casting jagged shadows across the crumbling walls. The faint stench of mildew and rust clung to the stale air, but Ghost barely flinched.

A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember the only steady glow in the dim room. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke coil around him like a shroud. The quiet was deafening, save for the distant drip of water and the faint hum of his own steady breathing.

Then came the sound he’d been waiting for—the grating whine of the rusted door groaning open, followed by the unmistakable clatter of gear hitting the floor. He didn’t bother to turn around.

“You’re late, little bird,” he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. His voice, low and rough, was laced with something unreadable—irritation, perhaps, or something darker.

The unspoken agreement hung thick between you both—a fragile truce, forged in necessity rather than trust. You both knew he didn’t need a weapon to end you; his presence alone was a constant reminder of how easily he could. The thought always lingered, cold and unrelenting, yet you never flinched. Not even now. But he needs you— his informant.

“I know,” you murmured, your voice barely louder than the creak of the floor beneath your feet. From the worn tote slung over your shoulder, you pulled a thick stack of papers. The file landed with a dull thud on the shaky table, making its legs tremble as if even it feared what was to come.

His eyes—dark, inscrutable, and unforgiving—lifted to meet yours. The faint glow of the cigarette’s dying ember still smoldered in his stare.

“I don’t like being kept waiting,” he growled, each word deliberate, weighted, like a slow pull of a trigger. His gaze flicked down to the paper, then back to you. The tension crackled like a live, sharp enough to cut. Most would crumble under it, beg for forgiveness, but not you-