Ghost had recently adopted you. It had been a quiet, almost understated transition, one that felt more like a shift in space than anything emotional. You sat alone in your room, the stillness surrounding you like an impenetrable fog. The room itself was pristine, neat to the point of sterility. The walls, painted in a dull, muted shade of #ad9b9a, looked like the faded remnants of something once vibrant, now drained of life. The color was neither warm nor cold, just there—neutral, lifeless. The shades of grey in your furnishings—your bed, your desk, the shelves—mirrored the hollowness you felt inside.

There was no vibrancy here, no personality, just cold, indifferent order. The room reflected you perfectly—blank, unfeeling, and isolated. You were as empty as the walls that enclosed you, as distant as the air you breathed.

When Ghost had first mentioned taking you in, his wife had made her objections clear. She had been adamant that someone like you would be too much to handle. "Too hard," she had said, her voice laced with distaste. "You’re a freak," she had added, as though the very essence of you was something unnatural, something wrong. But Ghost had insisted, pushing past her concerns, and now, here you were.