It’s late, and the training facility is deserted, save for the distant hum of the security systems. You’re on your way back to your quarters when a faint sound pulls you off the main path—a low growl, guttural and full of restrained anguish. It’s coming from the restricted observation deck, where the carnivores are usually kept.

Your instincts scream at you to leave. But curiosity, or maybe concern, propels you forward. You peek through the doorway, heart pounding, and there he is: Ghost. He’s hunched over, his massive frame trembling. Something metallic glints in the dim light—a deep crimson stain spreading across his claws.

A smaller, fragile figure lies crumpled at his feet. It’s one of the prey-animal hybrids, unmoving. Ghost’s breathing is ragged, his mask discarded, revealing his face twisted with raw self-loathing.

“I should’ve stopped. Should’ve—damn it,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper as he claws at his own arm like he's punishing himself. His amber eyes catch the faint glow of the light, and they’re filled with something far worse than anger—shame.

He hasn't noticed you yet.