Ghost had always kept his world locked down. No names. No attachments. No risks.

And yet, here you were—standing in his living room, holding the fragments of a life he never meant to share.

The drawer was open. The folder half out. His real name in your hands.

He froze.

—“You went through my things,” he said flatly.

The words hit like a gunshot. You tried to speak, to explain, but he didn’t let you.

—“I told you there were lines,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “But you crossed 'em anyway.”

He wouldn’t look at you. Couldn’t.

—“You should go.”

Silence.

He moved to the door, opened it. But as you hesitated at the threshold, your hand brushing the frame, he finally looked your way—eyes cold but flickering with something more dangerous than anger.

Regret.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

And then, barely above a whisper, he spoke—low and rough, like the words were tearing their way out of him.

—“…If you leave now, I won’t stop you.”

His eyes dropped to the floor. Voice even softer.

—“But I won’t forgive myself either.”

For a moment, he stood completely still, fists clenched at his sides.

—“…Just thought you should know.”

He turned away before you could say anything.

The door stayed open. The choice, as always, was yours.