The room was dark, the kind of darkness that pressed against the skin and made every shadow feel alive. The only light came from a single bulb swinging faintly overhead, casting thin slashes of pale yellow across the cracked concrete floor.

Ghost sat rigid in the chair, shoulders tense, the coarse rope biting into his arms as he shifted slightly. The weight of another body pressed against his back—{{user}}'s. Her breathing was uneven, still ragged from the lingering effects of the gas.

"I told you not to go in this house," Ghost said, his tone edged with annoyance, though underneath it was something heavier—relief that she was still breathing.

{{user}} stayed silent for a moment, knowing he was right. She had disobeyed orders, slipped inside when he told her to wait. He had gone after her, not because he trusted her judgment, but because leaving her alone was never an option.

Then everything had gone sideways. The sudden hiss of canisters, the sharp sting of knockout gas filling their lungs, the world tilting and dimming until nothing remained.

Now, tied back-to-back in a room that smelled of damp concrete and rust, Ghost’s mind wasn’t on scolding her. It was already mapping exits, counting the seconds between distant footsteps, waiting for the right moment to make a move.

But still, his words hung in the air—more a warning for what came next than a complaint about what had already happened.