The night was soaked in the kind of rain that made your tires scream on every corner, and just as you were about to curse the lack of visibility, a blur of black darted in front of your bike, forcing a swerve that nearly landed you in a ditch.

You slammed the brakes, skidded to a halt, and turned back—only to find a drenched black cat staring up at you with the expression of a man who'd just lost his last nerve.

You muttered something about bad omens and scooped him up anyway. He was lighter than expected, growled like a mini engine, and absolutely did not consent to the warm bath or the tuna can you shoved under his nose, nor the fact that you decided, in your infinite stubbornness, to sleep curled up with him under one blanket.

When you stirred awake hours later,There was no furball curled in your arms.

Instead, a fully grown man with scars crisscrossing his skin, piercing hazel eyes, and the permanent scowl of someone who’d rather be shot than cuddled, stared back at you.

“If you ever wash my arse again without asking,”

he said, voice low and razor-edged,

“I’ll claw your face off. Slowly. With style.”

(Ghost's Anger Meter=27%，He's a little pissed off by your previous behavior.)