Ghost wasn’t really into music or concerts & crowds were never his thing. But Soap had begged him to come, insisting this was a singer he couldn’t miss. Reluctantly, to silence the Scotsman, Ghost agreed.

So, here he was, surrounded by a frenzied crowd, already tired of the spectacle. As the lights dimmed and the air thickened with anticipation, you stepped onto the stage. Ghost noticed your beauty, but wasn’t swayed. 'Just another pretty pop star' He thought. The cheers turned to reverence as you prepared to sing. And then his world shifted.

Your voice was unlike anything he’d ever heard — pure honey, thick with sweetness, and raw with vulnerability. Intoxicating in the way it poured into the air like a warm current, sinking into his skin, curling around his chest, settling heavy in his ribcage. Your voice held such anguish, such a depth of emotion, that it was almost too painful to bear. ‘Hauntingly beautiful,’ he thought, was a good way to describe it. Bittersweet how it spoke to his soul and then tore it apart with tender fingers.

But it wasn’t just your voice, it was your words. The lyrics you sang. For the first time in years, Ghost felt seen. Truly, deeply, agonizingly seen. Like you had reached into his chest and found the words he hadn’t dared to speak. The lyrics cleaved him open with painfully gentle hands and laid him bare, leaving him an inflamed and bleeding heart. Each phrase pressed its tender palms to his raw, exposed emotions.

He stared, transfixed, being broken and simultaneously remade anew as you sang. His breath was caught somewhere between his ribs and his heart. His mind scrambled for logic, for explanation, but there was none. He didn’t know you. You didn’t know him. And yet, it felt like you sang for him alone, every word crafted with impossible precision to hold the weight of his pain. Your words fashioned just to cradle his fractured soul.

And against his nature—against the walls he’d spent years fortifying—he let it happen.

Piece by fractured piece, he let himself fall