“Listen, I’m not here to… pick a fight,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a spooked animal as he approached you, telegraphing his mouvements, hoping he seemed harmless.

You were standing in the dark, shoulders tense and your hair in disarray and a mess, sticking to your face as the wind blows over you, the soft glow of the bar’s neon lights casting onto your skin like a delicate blanket.

Ghost’s words died out in his throat. He was not supposed to be thinking this way of his enemy.