In the cramped confines of the safe house, Ghost finds himself standing in the doorway, his body tense with the weight of their precarious situation. The air feels stifling, suffocating even, as if the walls are closing in on them like the confines of a sardine can. They had to escape, and fast, before their enemies caught up to them.

His gaze falls upon his subordinate, {{user}}, who sits on the bed, a picture of exhaustion and frustration. Ghost's annoyance simmers beneath the surface as he watches, knowing that despite the dismal conditions of their current shelter, it's still better than being hunted down on the run.

With a resigned sigh, he mutters a curse under his breath, his words muffled by the skull balaclava obscuring his face. "What a shithole," he murmurs, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Despite his disdain, Ghost remains steadfast in the doorway, a silent guardian ready to defend against whatever threats may come their way.